This is a WhoAvenger story so far, but I'm considering throwing in Supernatural in the later chapters. Maybe even Sherlock. This is also my fist fanfic, so I'm sure there are a few mistakes. Feel free to send me some creative criticism, or mention if I made any spelling errors. The next chapter shall be longer.
No matter how much water the man drank, the metallic taste of blood refused to wash out of his mouth. The small cut that had split open the blond man's hair was healing, but every now and then it open back up when he spoke. And if you where to ask any one of his fellow S.H.E.I.L.D members, they would probably tell you he talked far too much. Sarcasm is just too complex for all the hard-asses in this joint.
The walk to his small room felt like a hike through a metal jungle as he hung down another long corridor. Vines of metal hung across the ceiling, turning and scattering in all directions, pumping god knows what through the quite hallways. Everything seemed to be made of the same polished steel, making the headquarters seem more like a spaceship than a home. We're really just like the Brady Bunch, expect clad in leather and trained to kill.
"Barton!" A familiar voice called out from somewhere behind him. Clint walked faster.
"Baron, don't make me chase you!" He could here the other man's pace speed up, sighing, he stopped to wait for Coulson to catch up. "Wow, they really got you good. Have you seen the medic yet? Your lip's bleeding-"
"I'm not in the mood to have my booboo's kissed. I just want to get some sleep, so just lay on whatever you want to tell me sir." Barton had a hard time keeping his agitation out of his voice, but the pain arching through his body was starting to make it hard for him to see straight.
Coulson didn't seem to pick up on his harsh tone, or perhaps he was ignoring it. "We have a new mission for you-"
"I just got back from a mission, I need sleep." Turing on his heels, the younger man began to walk away, dismissing the idea before it could be pinned to him. He was tired, not just physically strained, but also mentally. He had just spent a week tracking down a foreign overlord in South America, navigating the twisted streets of a broken little town, killing the man in his sleep before he could blink awake. Clint needed a sometime to just sleep on a bed, eat some American food, and hit a punching bag.
"This is big Barton. National security level big. I'm not sending you on a dinky mission to the corner store, this requires serious expertise. You are going and you will be accompanied by Agent Romanoff. I am not asking you. I'm telling you." Coulson called after him, slowing Clint to a stop.
The blond man's mind went spiraling in a hundred different directions. Phil wanted him on working on a high priority mission. They were moving him up in the ranks. Or testing him. Plus they were adding Romanoff into the mix, the firecracker that had almost cost him his job. And his life, though he would never admit it. It all stunk of Fury.
"When do I leave?" Clint asked, peering over his shoulder at the well dressed man. There was an odd look on Coulson's face. He couldn't tell if it was pity or worry. Maybe it was both.
"Tomorrow morning, O'five hundred. Hanger eight. You'll be debriefed on the plane." Coulson replied, face once again becoming a smooth work of stone. Nodding, the older man turned and walked back in the direction from which he had come.
"Plane? Where the hell are we going?" Barton yelled after him, wondering where Fury was shipping him off to this time.
"Budapest."
Slipping into the dim hanger, the woman approached the small group of men soundlessly, moving as swiftly and silently as a winter breeze. Hair the colour of an open flame tumbled down her shoulders, framing her expressionless face. Only the deep irises of green eyes seemed to hold a spark of life.
Falling into place next to Barton, she nodded in greeting. Couslon returned the gesture and ushered them onto a small jet. It was a standard stealth aircraft used for long distance flights, completely black and beautifully constructed. Taking a seat on one of the benches lining the side of the small room inside the plane, she waited in silence.
"What's the buzz, tell me what's a happenin?" Clint asked in a sing songy voice, thick with sleep, as he slumped into the seat across from her. Her full lips twitched ever so slightly upward at the reference, but the redhead remained silent.
"Come on Coulson, that was funny. You don't like Jesus Christ Superstar? That is a damn good musical." Looking at the unamused expression on the other man's face, the blond let out a sigh. "Clearly this is going to be a fun trip."
"Here's what's happening," Coulson said, producing a smile out of Clint, "there has been a recent outbreak of disappearances in Budapest. I'm talking big names, politicians, world leaders even. It seems as though they're off for a stroll one minute, then off the face of the planet the next. You're mission is intelligence. We want to know what's going on."
"Why are you sending two of your best agents on a simple intelligence mission. Wouldn't it make more sense to send someone like Mark from level 2 or Kat-"
"We did. They're missing too." Coulson's frown deepened, silencing Barton. "We have sent multiple agents, informers, some of our best. They don't come back. That's why we are sending you two. You both have proved successful in the face of adversity, so we figure you might have a change-"
"To end up floating around in a void somewhere? We're not your top agents; we're your last choice. We're all you've got left-" The blond's voice raised an octave in anger.
"Yes." Coulson finished, giving a thumbs up to the pilot before exiting. A low rumble filled the heavy silence as the jet took off, shipping them off their likely doom. It was a somber moment, but it was only the beginning.