Author's Notes: Hey everyone! This is my first story posted on , though I've posted elsewhere, and I'm not really sure this is the correct way to do notes and such, so I apologize. The song lyrics are from "Comes and Goes" by Greg Laswell; the M rating is for generous swearing and mentions of sexual stuff; and I do not own any of the Avengers, not even the movies, so just be aware. Reviews are always welcome!
This one's for the lonely
The ones that seek and find
Only to be let down
Time after time
"Incoming!"
Agent Rebecca Nelson looked up just in time to catch the bottle of Gatorade hurtling towards her head. Seconds later, Clint Barton plopped into the seat across the table, his tray heavily laden with the dining hall's rubbery pasta and suspiciously pale meatballs.
"Thanks for the warning, Hawkeye. Next time, you could just hand it to me."
Barton snorted, which was probably a bad idea with his mouth full of spaghetti. Swallowing, he rolled his eyes and complained, "At least I remembered to grab a blue one this time. You love blue Gatorade! You should be thanking me."
Nelson sighed. "I like the purple Gatorade. But you're getting closer." Rebecca could never understand what qualifications Coulson had seen in Barton – why he decided the 20-year-old criminal would make an excellent new recruit. Sure, he could shoot straight (with a bow and arrow, no less), but then, so could 99% of the agents here. Barton was loud, irreverent, scatter-brained, and rebellious.
Which was probably why Rebecca liked him so much as person, but not at all as a team member. Sure, Strike Team Gamma had the highest success rate of any S.H.I.E.L.D team to date, and sure, Barton's sniper skills had a lot to do with that. She still didn't really see him as government spy material.
Case in point: Barton had given up trying to eat what passed as food in the S.H.I.E.L.D. dining hall and was instead seeing how many meatballs he could stack on top of one another. So far, his record was an impressive 8 (and how did he get so many meatballs anyway, the cafeteria workers were not that generous with anyone), but whenever the tower of meat fell, both Agent Nelson and the tabletop were splattered with sauce.
"Will you act your age and not your shoe size for once, Barton?" Nelson grumbled. She wasn't all that concerned with the red speckles on her white jacket – after years spent getting stubborn blood stains out of clothing, washing out little things like juice or spaghetti sauce posed no problem. Still, her nerves were stretched tight today, making her lash out at everyone. Barton, as perceptive as he was, didn't fail to notice.
"What's with you today? Hell, what's with everyone today? I haven't seen a single person smile in the last 12 hours."
Rebecca leaned towards Barton, subtly checking for eavesdroppers in her peripheral vision. Barton mimicked her actions, scooting forward in his chair, his meatball masterpiece forgotten.
"Something's happening with the higher-ups. Something big. Everyone and anyone with a level 10 clearance has been in and out of Fury's office all day. Normally, that wouldn't mean anything, except they've gone totally mute. Won't talk about anything – not even the weather."
Barton's eyes widened excitedly, then narrowed slightly. "Dammit. A few more months and I could've been in there too. I mean, I've given the last 10 years of my life to these people and I still miss out on the fun stuff. Remember when they caught Bin Laden? I was like, the last person to know. Muriel found out before me, and she's still in training."
"That's because Muriel watches the news. You should try it too, sometime."
Clint waved away her comment irritably. "That's not the point. The point is, young, passionate people like us joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to make a difference in the world. But whenever a huge, earth-shattering, save-the-world moment comes along, who gets to be the heroes? People like Dragon Lady Hill and Rules 'R' Us Sitwell."
"Rules 'R' Us, really, Barton? You can do better than that."
"Stick-Up-His-Ass Sitwell? I'm trying to rant here, Becks, not run a comedy club." Clint's eyes glittered mischievously, and he raised his voice slightly. "You should hear some of the names I've got for Coulson, though."
"I'd like to hear some of those myself, Barton."
Rebecca jumped slightly when Agent Coulson appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Clint hadn't even flinched, and Rebecca suspected Clint had sensed his approach – the two had been fast friends ever since Clint joined S.H.I.E.L.D., their relationship more brotherly than handler-and-agent. Rebecca envied that easy friendship; she would never dare taunt Coulson like that. He was a higher-up, a Suit – a former field agent turned handler – and, furthermore, was the head agent of Strike Team Gamma. He had a perfect poker face, and Rebecca wouldn't lie: he scared the bejeebees out of her.
"If you're done with your gossip, agents, Director Fury would like to speak with Agent Barton. Immediately."
Clint grinned easily up at Coulson and patted the chair next to him. "C'mon Phil, take a breather. The pasta is delic- well, edible today. And while you eat, you can catch us up on the dirty little secrets the Level 10s have been keeping from us."
Coulson didn't even blink. Rebecca wasn't even sure he had to succumb to little human weaknesses like blinking. "As…appealing… as that sounds, this takes precedence. Barton, this is Code Red."
Clint's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "There's a Code Red? I thought we tried to avoid clichés like that. Did you know we had a Code Red?" Rebecca shook her head.
Coulson laid a firm hand on Barton's shoulder. Something in the man's face must have convinced Clint to be serious, because Clint stood instantly, his expression focused – the look of a sniper prepping for a kill.
"Tell you all about it later, Becks."
"You better, Barton!"
As the two men exited the dining hall, Rebecca could hear Coulson say quietly, "Not a word of this to anyone, Clint. This is strictly Level 10 clearance. Welcome to the Big Leagues, kid."
Clint Barton was having a weird day. He'd slept in until 10 o'clock without a single person bothering him, he'd talked Gretchen into sneaking him extra meatballs at lunch (though why he wanted them, he wasn't sure. Not to eat, certainly. He'd had some half formed plan involving the rafters of the gym, the new recruits, and a slingshot…) and now, to top it all off, he'd just been promoted to the highest clearance level in S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence. Sure, being at a Level 9 clearance was still pretty damn impressive – it was higher than most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ever achieved, and he'd paid for the standing in blood and bullets. A Level 10, though…that was, as Phil correctly noted, the Big Leagues.
By the time Clint and Coulson reached Fury's office, Clint was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Yeah, snipers had to be patient, and he could sit and stare at empty, burned-out crack houses until the cows came home, but when he was off the job, he had the mentality of a spoiled child. He blamed Phil for being much nicer than any handler had a right to be.
Phil opened the door to Fury's office, and Clint didn't need the encouraging nod to rush into the room. He wasn't sure what he expected: an alien race making contact? An enemy spy bound and gagged in the corner? At the very least, he was anticipating raised voices, scattered files, and glowing monitors.
Instead, only one pathetically thin folder lay in the dead center of the conference table. A single monitor was on, showing a frozen scene of grainy black-and-white footage. From a security camera, Clint assumed. The other five or six agents (including, as he'd predicted earlier, Agents Hill and Sitwell) were sitting silently in their chairs, avoiding eye contact with Fury and each other. No one looked up when Clint entered; he was pretty sure Sitwell was covertly playing Words with Friends on his cell phone.
"Have a seat, Agent Barton. We're glad you could join us." Judging by the glances the other agents shared, Clint guessed only Fury was actually pleased to see him. Then again, Clint didn't think the Director was especially happy either. His face was grim and frustrated, emotions that looked doubly intimidating when paired with the man's eye patch.
"I want you to take a look at this clip from a security camera in Berlin" – nailed it, Clint thought – "and tell us what you see."
The video started playing. It showed a monochromatic crowd in a monochromatic marketplace, jostling around each other and chattering too loudly for specific words to be distinguished. As Clint watched, unsure of what he was watching for, one of the shoppers suddenly stumbled into a fruit stand, knocking apples to the ground. The shopkeeper ran over, as though to yell at him, before jumping back and letting out a piercing scream. It was then that Clint noticed the man's collar was black with blood, and the front of his shirt was steadily darkening as the stain spread. Within seconds, the man died.
The clip stopped.
Clint wasn't really sure what to say to that, but everyone was looking at him – including Hill, with a sanctimonious little smirk on her face – so he took a stab at it. "Well, sir, it appears to be footage of a murder scene."
Hill snorted softly at that, but Fury nodded, as though he had expected the answer. "Can you identify the murderer, Agent Barton?"
Clint focused on the victim, frozen in time, bleeding out on the ground. He noticed a faint gleam from his neck: the point of a throwing star, embedded in the throat. So the man had been hit from behind…
"Play it again," ordered Clint, before correcting himself hastily. "Please. Sir."
The film played again, and Clint started counting. He knew how long the video was (about 48 seconds) and how far into the clip the murder had to occur (about 27 seconds or so), and he figured he'd be able to pinpoint anyone who made a sudden movement at that time. As it was, he only noticed a hand jerking just into the frame, hiding the rest of the murderer. "There! Freeze it!" Clint commanded, and the video stopped instantly. Keeping his eyes glued to the hand, he said, "Back it up at 25% normal speed." The scene sluggishly reversed, and for a brief second, the murderer became visible.
"There! That's her, right there." It still wasn't stellar quality – the woman had her back to the camera and was wearing a scarf over her hair – but her profile was recognizable enough.
"Holy shit. Please tell me you guys aren't tracking down the Black Widow."
Fury smiled thinly. "Oh no, Barton. We're not doing anything. That's your next assignment."
Name: Romanova, Natalia A.
Codename: Black Widow
Place of Birth: Moscow, Russia
Date of Birth: Unknown
Skill Set: Covert intelligence gathering, undercover reconnaissance and infiltration/seduction, short-range assassinations, interrogation/torture techniques, hand-to-hand combat
Affiliations: KGB, Red Room, Freelance (present)
Known Associates: None
Current Location: Unknown
Two pages. That was all the information S.H.I.E.L.D. had compiled regarding the Black Widow. Two measly pages – general information and a victims list – and a few blurry photographs.
"This is a monumental breakthrough in the Widow's case," said Fury, as Clint poured over the scant information in the file. "Usually, by the time the Widow is confirmed as the killer, the trail is cold and the Widow is long gone. This hit, however, occurred only 4 hours ago. Our operatives in Berlin will track her movements until you, Agent Barton, can join the hunt yourself."
"And why, exactly, can't the Berlin agents take her out themselves?" demanded Clint. "Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered and a little nauseous to think you want to send me after the most notorious contract assassin in history, who's killed more people than I've ever met in my life, and has never been caught on video before, and is named after a deadly spider that eats its mate, and…where was I going with that? Oh, right. Why me?"
"Because, Agent Barton," interjected Phil smoothly, a comforting hand moving to Clint's shoulder, "your long-distance capabilities as a sniper give you both the highest chance of success and the lowest risk of injury. You're the best agent for this job. We truly believe you're the most qualified to finally end this menace." Hill made a disparaging noise at that, but Coulson ignored her. "All you have to do is track her down and kill her the second you have a clear shot. You don't need to approach her. Just shoot first and ask questions later."
Clint stared at the picture of Natalia Romanova in his hands. There was no denying that she was as beautiful as she was deadly: rich, fiery red hair, flashing emerald eyes, luminescent white skin, and an angel's face paired with full, ruby sinner's lips. She was short – only 5'4", about half a foot shorter than himself – and slender, with tempting curves. She might have been the most gorgeous woman Clint had ever seen, if there had been any warmth or humanity in her expression. Instead, her face was cold and empty and dead. A monster.
His eyes drifted to the victims list on the table, printed single spaced and covering the front and back of the paper in tiny, cramped letters. One name on the list caught his eye. Yasmin Drakoff, age 7. A child, barely older than Clint had been when his parents died and he ran off to join the circus with Barney. Her life had ended when Clint's had just begun. And that decided him. He looked up, meeting Fury's eyes. "When do I leave?"
There was a glimmer of triumph in the man's face as he replied, "As soon as you're done packing."
A/N And that's Chapter 1! Hopefully the next chapter will be up within a few days. Hope you like it, and thanks for reading!