Chapter One – London
As the plane banked sharply to the left, it finally dipped through the high layer of typical, British cloud that had been with them since leaving the Atlantic. For a few minutes all they could see were grey tendrils sweeping past the windows, and the plane went quiet in anticipation.
Although this was Clint's second Olympics, the time difference and long flight meant that he, like most of the team, had fallen asleep four years ago when they had circled over Beijing. He had chastised himself later for being foolish enough to miss seeing the capital from the air.
The archer had made sure not to make the same mistake this year by having three consecutive coffees. This was after he had fallen asleep for a short period once they had taken off from LA.
It was odd because he had once again found himself dreaming about the same thing that had visited him in sleep the past few nights. A woman. She had a slim build and was wearing a pale blue dress that hugged her slender curves. Being a contrasting colour, it ignited her fiery red hair which curled down her back. She seemed very beautiful, but always had her back to him. He called out to her, and in each dream she turned a little more, but he still hadn't fully seen her face.
In the most recent version, he had seen the curve of her cheekbone, an emerald earring and the beginning of dark lashes, before Bruce nudged him awake.
Clint was both grateful and disappointed for the interruption. She seemed far too vivid to be a figment of his subconscious. But he had never met her in his life. How could you dream about someone you didn't know? Who was she?
He was snapped back to the present by several audible gasps from other athletes, and Bruce's surprised 'Wow' as the plane broke down through the cloud, and London was revealed.
At eight o'clock it was mid-morning, and the capital was already more than alive. Tiny cars glided down tiny lanes like multi-coloured creatures. Miniscule dots, that began to reveal themselves as people the lower the plane dropped, glided in all different directions.
More gasps could be heard as the breath-taking landmarks of Big Ben, and the London Eye, revealed themselves in rays of gold sunlight that were filtering through the clouds.
Gold. That's all anyone had been talking about in the American team for weeks. Some of the coaches and trainers were adamant that this was the best team they had had for years. A few had said the same thing four years ago and then they had been pipped for first place by China.
Of course the Chinese had the home court advantage, which would be Britain's this year. While a much smaller country, they had certainly done well at the Commonwealth and World Championships, and were not to be underestimated.
Clint had overheard many discussions about how talented their up-and-coming athletes were. The pressure on team USA seemed greater than ever. But he had never been the sort to let that bother him. Instead he leaned across Bruce to look out the window again and enjoy their descent.
After landing and being whisked through customs, Clint, along with the rest of the USA team, was swiftly shown to his home for the next two weeks. Each apartment was spacious and well-furnished, and, having been built within the last two years specifically for the games, exquisitely modern.
As Clint set down his over-sized suitcase and archery bag in his new room his eyebrows rose slightly in uncharacteristic surprise. He was rarely taken aback, but he definitely hadn't been expecting this.
To his left an open-plan breakfast bar and kitchenette sat gleaming with brand new furnishings. The main living space spread out straight in front of him, with a double bed, followed by a large wardrobe on one side, and a sofa in front of a flat screen television on the other.
Clint took a moment to look out of the windows, which stretched from floor to ceiling, and admire the view of the Olympic park close by, before beginning to unpack.
A short while later there was a timid knock at the door. The archer knew instantly that it was Bruce. He could tell simply by the knock. Opening the door, he let the other man in with a brief smile.
"Nice place they've built here. Used reinforced steel so they could add an extra few floors in. Your room's pretty much the same as mine – just reversed."
Clint nodded and offered him a drink. He liked Bruce; the man had a mellow, well-meaning nature. Also a bit of a scientist by all accounts. The guy was always trying to help other people – more so than himself sometimes.
But he seemed to completely transform when he stepped onto the mat to lift weights. Clint had watched him quite a few times and the change in his demeanour was almost palpable. He became furious, and utilised that anger to lift even more kilos. It was quite something.
The two men chatted for a few more moments before there was another knock at the door. This one loud and impatient. Tony.
The archer opened the door again and confirmed his suspicions. The boxer opposite him affected his usual confident-bordering-on-cocky stance. Behind him stood a sheepish looking Steve Rogers. He was their youngest decathlete at twenty two, and a relatively new addition to the team.
"Hey target practice." Tony greeted, adopting one of several nicknames he had for Clint and strolling into the room.
The archer had known Tony for quite a while, hence the latter's over-familiarity. They had met about five years ago in training for the last Olympics; six months after he had met Bruce.
Steve, on the other hand, he had only known for a few months since their different training hadn't brought them together too often. That of course explained why the blonde man was still hovering on the threshold
"Hey Clint." Steve smiled.
"Hey Steve, come on in."
Clint didn't always warm to people straight away, and it took even longer for him to trust them. But with Steve he had instantly been able to tell he was a good man. If Clint had to, he'd chalk it up to two things. The decathlete's open, honest nature. And the fact that his smiles were always genuine.
The four men congregated by the tall windows.
"Wow, quite the view." Tony uttered. "Steve and I are down the hall. These rooms aren't bad. Remind me of when I was at MIT. They could do with a skylight though."
"Of course you would be re-designing the architecture of the place before we've even finished unpacking." Steve chuckled.
"Just adding my two cents."
"Yeah, but Tony Stark's two cents is actually ten dollars." Steve said shaking his head.
"Well people are getting more for less then. Hey do you guys know we're the first team here? Apart from Russia, that is, who elected to get here before anyone, probably to take over the gym. Speaking of, should go and check it out."
"What?" Steve asked.
"The training gym of course. Apparently it's huge, got all the state of the art equipment too. It's only ten minutes from here. We should go, let's go right now."
"Well I'm done unpacking." Clint said.
"Same here." Bruce added.
"We might as well scope the place out." Tony said, the glint in his eye suggesting he knew he was winning.
"Ok, sure," Steve concluded, not feeling like he had the authority, with being one of the newest members of the team, to stop the others, "might as well keep our legs moving after an eleven hour flight."
"Precisely." Tony all but exclaimed, pointing a finger at Steve as though the man had just affirmed one of his theories.
Tony had studied engineering at MIT, and, at some point, had taken up boxing while he was there. He had never confided in Steve his specific reason for joining the boxing society, just that it interested him.
While he was now a professional boxer, Steve could tell that engineering still owned a piece of Tony's heart, as he was constantly inventing new theories and technical gadgets. The guy had actually brought along a cardiovascular unit, that he was working on, which was the size of an iPod and also doubled up as a radio. He had proclaimed that he was trying to fit it with an AI system. This seemed to be bordering on crazy to Steve, but according to Tony it was perfectly possible.
The decathlete's thoughts drifted back to the present conversation as they neared the gym. Tony was making witty remarks about the Russian team, and joking about the Brits wanting to make a dramatic entrance as they arrived at the security-guarded doors.
Flashing IDs and access passes, in what seemed to Clint a celebrity-like manner, they entered the building.
Steve seemed to instinctually know where they were going, so they followed him down a few pristine corridors, stopping only once so Tony could sign an autograph for a star-struck young member of staff.
Reaching the large double doors that were clearly their destination, Steve swiped both his cards and let them in.
Clint whistled as they entered. Huge didn't quite cover it. The training gym was rectangular in shape and held almost every piece of equipment needed for indoor sports. It was an organisational triumph. Everything had its own station, some of which were occupied by Russian athletes.
Steve was announcing how great the room was, and Tony was making a sarcastic joke about understanding now why the Russians had arrived so early, but Clint wasn't listening to either of them.
Half way across the room was a slender Russian gymnast with fiery red hair curling down her back.
It was her.
He didn't know how, but it was the woman he had been dreaming about. Clint had been haunted by the question of whether she was real or not. And here she was, completing perfectly balanced somersaults on a beam not ten metres from him.
He still couldn't see her face though. She had her back to him. Clint mentally pleaded with her to turn around.
The archer then wondered if some part of her subconscious had heard him, as a few tenuous heartbeats later, after finishing a backwards walkover, she turned to look right at him.
The coldest ice blue eyes met his own, and the red curls framed a heart-shaped face and fair skin. A soft blush decorated gentle cheekbones, but it was more from the workout than from noticing an admirer.
He had been right in his assumption. She was beautiful. Their eyes locked for a critical moment and then the connection was gone as she looked away.
The conversation of his three teammates drifted slowly back into focus. Clint felt irrepressibly torn between his desire to find out who she was, and the need to keep it to himself.
How could he explain that he had seen her in his dreams without sounding like he'd lost focus on the games?
He threw a few thoughts into the conversation so that the others wouldn't realise how far away his mind truly was, then suddenly spied Maria coming towards them.
Maria Hill was friendly, but you could always count on her to be direct. This was her first Olympics and she seemed pleased to see a familiar face. She was one of four American athletes competing in the shooting, and had been taught by her uncle Coulson. He was another of the four competing, and this would be his fourth Olympic games. At 41 he was one of the more senior members of the team, and treated everyone like a member of the family. Tony had nicknamed him 'agent' because of his work ethic and precision.
Maria stopped to chat with Clint for a few moments, praising the gym and village in general. As she was about to move off to speak to the others, who were now setting their things down on a bench, Clint swiftly asked her his question.
"Hey Maria, who is that?" he motioned to the red-haired woman he now had a view of in profile; she was talking to her coach.
"The gymnast?" Maria replied. "She's a rising star of the Russian team. Apparently she specialises on the beam. I'm surprised you haven't heard of her; she's become known as 'The Phoenix' because of her hair and poise. That's Natasha Romanov."