THREE DAYS GRACE ~ BROKEN GLASS

Natalia Romanova.

According to her file, she'd been trained as an asset to an underground Russian organization called Red Room. There were no specifics what their objectives or methods were, though, judging by what S.H.I.E.L.D. did have, Romanova had been a favorite of Red Room's.

But she'd disappeared a couple years ago. Even her handlers didn't know where she was. U.S. Intel assumed her last mission had gone badly and she'd been killed.

Then a year ago, certain intelligence agencies had linked the name "Black Widow" to her photo when they intercepted an underground request for an assassin. Romanova had reappeared, and apparently, she was free-lancing.

This hadn't been something to be worried about at first. But Romanova had proved to be very masterful, very resourceful, and very hard to keep track of. Plus, she didn't seem to have any kind of code… at all. No rule she wouldn't break, no place she wouldn't infiltrate, and no person she wouldn't kill. Sometimes, she didn't even ask for payment.

She was a loose canon and she made Hawkeye's superiors nervous.

So now, 2 a.m. Rome, Clint soundlessly ran across the slanting rooftops, keeping his eye on the street. He caught sight of a couple climbing into a car, but the female was clearly too tall to be Romanova.

Fighting to keep quiet, he hurried along.

At first, he'd been a little annoyed that S.H.I.E.L.D had sent him to do the busy work, but now he realized that it was a form of flattery. No one could run across rooftops quite like him. Clint smiled to himself as he leapt over a particularly wide alleyway and hit the roofing tiles running.

He almost didn't see the black shadow slip around the back of a three-story house across the street. Clint skidded to a stop and knelt in the shadows of a chimney. He allowed himself a quick glance down the street to double-check, but then he was as motionless as the wall beside him, watching the house. Most of the windows were uncovered, but there were rooms out of sight, with windows around back or on the side. Clint wished, not for the first time, for x-ray vision. That would be truly invaluable.

A redheaded shadow appeared on the second floor, climbing in through a window. "I have visual." He slowly notched an armor-piercing arrow and aimed.

Maranico, the 'leading operative' for the mission, came on the radio, "Take her out."

Clint's mouth twitched. No shit. He relaxed his fingers around the bow, touching the corner of his mouth with the arrow. She was moving slowly, but he'd have to aim carefully to avoid snagging on curtains or other such objects. Her pale neck was illuminated by the dim streetlights, a perfect target...

She disappeared through a door, moving deeper into the house.

"Damn it," Clint murmured and put the arrow back in his quiver. "She was too quick. I'll have to go in."

"No." It was still Maranico. "You've done what you can. We're sending in the Black Ops."

Clint grimaced and pulled his bow over his head, across his chest. "Negative. She'll be gone by then and your boys aren't equipped for a chase."

"Barton, she's dangerous..."

"I'm fully aware of that, sir." Clint dropped down from the rooftop, landing neatly on a shed then rebounding onto the alley floor silently.

"Don't be a smart-ass, Barton. This is our best chance to overwhelm..."

"I'll take care of it, sir." Clint glanced up and down the street for civilians.

"Now is not the time to get cocky. Stand down, Barton, that's an order..."

Clint yanked the earpiece out of his ear, tucked it in a pocket, and then stealthily ran across the road.

In the past, he'd just followed commands and let the 'big guys' decide, but Maranico was a moron. He'd become overly confident in their brute force, the heavily armored men straight off the military camps. But Clint was going to take his chances, in order to get this job done without the mess that accompanied the Black Ops.

It didn't hurt that Romanova was another spy, an equal; he'd like to see how well he held up against her. He risked his life too often to get caught up by the very real possibility that she could kill him.

Clint made it across the street and into the shadow of the house in less than six seconds. It took only three seconds to scale the side of the house to the second floor where he'd last seen Romanova. Softening his breathing, he loosened his knife and notched another armor-piercing arrow, then moved forward.

He couldn't hear anything besides his shallow heartbeat. He didn't expect to hear Romanova, but he listened as intently as he watched. He slipped through the door into an empty hallway. He quickly turned in every direction, aiming his bow wherever his eyes went.

The house had been boarded up, all the furniture covered in linen, dusty.

Why the hell would Romanova come here?

Every door in the hall was shut, except one, and a telltale swipe of dust was missing from the floor there.

He relaxed his bow and silently made his way over to it, ready to fire at any moment, breathing slowly through his nose. He didn't waste any time; as soon as he reached the door, he put his back to it and pushed it open while simultaneously barging into the windowless room.

Even as Clint's eyes found her crouched by a large desk, Romanova stood and launched herself toward him. Clint loosed his arrow, but she was close enough to fuck up his deadly aim with a side-sweeping blow. He swung at her head with his heavy bow. She dodged and struck at his chest and he deflected her quick jabs without thought.

She must've realized that he was her equal in hand-to-hand because she ducked and made to slip around him out the door. Clint grabbed the back of her uniform and pulled her toward him, hoping to throw her off balance. It worked, but she used it to her advantage; she leaned into him, forcing his back into the door jam, and then hooked her arm around his leg.

Clint realized what she was planning half a millisecond before she did it. She lifted him slightly and twisted, attempting to throw him down to the floor, but Clint had a hold of her, so she went with him.

They landed on the floor heavily and she didn't pause for an instant. Her kicks and jabs had Clint in full panic mode for a few thorny moments, but instinct took control of his movements and he quickly had the upper-hand; he landed a few punches to her abdomen and face before she rolled away and attempted to flee.

He sat up quickly and grabbed the belt around her waist, yanking her back. She landed on her ass right between his legs, throwing her head back. Clint easily foresaw this, dodged it, and wrapped an arm around her neck, both of his legs on top of hers, and the other arm around her waist.

Romanova's hand was between his forearm and her neck, giving her just enough room to breathe, but not enough to move. Clint began to prepare for a deadlock; the big boys would get here in a…

Pain lanced up his leg, beginning just above his knee.

He yelled and instinctively thrashed, but his grip didn't loosen. He still had one of her hands pinned, the one keeping him from choking her, but her other hand was free from the elbow down...

She twisted the knife in his flesh, making him yell again and shudder in pain. Then she threw his arms from her, rolling away as quickly as she could.

Clint pulled his gun then. "Don't move," he growled, using both hands to aim the gun at her.

Romanova froze on her hands and knees, her head down.

Clint stood, never taking his eyes off of her, and ripped his own knife out of his leg with a small breath of relief. A quick look at the wound told him that he wouldn't die of blood-loss just yet; the stab was targeted for pain, not his demise, which made him wonder.

Clint didn't allow himself to get confident, keeping his distance from her, watching every one of her breaths cautiously. His brain was on a very highly suspicious level, even for a spy of his caliber.

He wasn't accustomed to having expectations, but he'd somehow expected more of her, and that gave him pause. Granted, she'd hit him a few more times than he liked. And she was silent, hadn't made one sound through the whole encounter. She was really tiny too. He hadn't noticed before.

"Look at me," he said, the words sounding softer than an order but too stern to be ignored.

Romanova slowly tilted her head up, her face becoming illuminated to him.

He'd seen her picture in the file, but it was here in person that it really hit him how cruelly young she was. How did someone start this business so young? She couldn't be out of her teens yet, and her file had said she'd been active in the field for years. He didn't want to know how old she was.

Clint's jaw clenched. "Get up," he ordered, gesturing with his gun. "Slowly."

Romanova didn't move at first, her face a stone mask. He wondered what she was thinking, what she expected him to do, what she was planning. He couldn't read her non-expressions.

When Clint purposefully shifted his weight, pretending impatience, she made her decision and made to stand. Her movements were slow, like he'd ordered, and incomparably smooth. Her eyes never left his and she kept her hands out in front of her for him to see. Smart.

"Are you here to kill me?" Romanova asked as she finished standing. She had a slight Russian accent.

Clint's nostrils flared. "Yes."

Romanova's face was still impassive, absolutely blank. She didn't move, seemed to hardly even breath. Unnerving, which was undoubtedly the intention.

Time was ticking. Clint needed to hurry and make the decision.

Clint's eyebrows pulled together as he stared at her. What decision was there to be made? His mission was to take Romanova out, make sure she wasn't a problem...

But she was way too young, so much younger than he'd been when he'd started his own career. Clint didn't consider himself a philosopher, but… something about this was off.

He stared at her, torn. Romanova's wide green eyes were hard and emotionless, and the corners of her sweet, full mouth were pulled down. Her deep-red curls were messy, working in harmony with her face to create the image of a beautiful, furious, caged animal; an animal beaten so much that she didn't even know her life had any worth.

"Fuck," he spat angrily.

He knew that now he'd made the decision, he'd stick to it, even knowing he could be making a fool of himself. Quite possibly a dead fool. Damn him.

"Turn around," he ordered to the Russian, his gun steady.

Finally, Romanova's face cracked and her eyes narrowed minutely. "Why?" she asked.

Clint stepped toward her menacingly, gun still trained on her forehead, and repeated himself, "Turn the fuck around."

She complied slowly. He could guess she was criticizing him. What did she think he was doing?

Clint holstered his gun and pulled out his handcuffs. There was every chance she could fight just as well when cuffed.

He was a goddamn idiot.

He stepped forward and pulled her hands behind her. "I don't carry the keys on me, so don't get any ideas," he said gruffly. "You so much as move the wrong way…"

"What are you doing?" she asked tonelessly as the cuffs closed around her limp wrists.

Clint turned her around to face him, incensed that he still couldn't make heads-or-tales of her emotions. "The people I work for want you dead. They sent me to kill you and I could've done it just now," he said.

He paused to let that sink in, watching her pupils widen minutely at his words. He hoped that meant that she was surprised, maybe even grateful.

"But you're not going to," she said, still without emotion.

This was it. He needed to commit, either way.

"No," he shook his head. "I'm not."

Romanova stared at him silently. He thought he saw her eyebrow twitch.

"If you want to live, you do what I say," Clint said firmly, walking over to where he'd dropped his bow, taking the earpiece out of his pocket and putting it in his ear. Instantly, he knew exactly where the 'big boys' were and how frighteningly close they were to being ready. "Got that?"

Romanova nodded, but Clint wasn't buying.

"I know you've been trained, but you don't stand a chance without me. They want you dead at all costs and I can tell you for a fact that I'm the only that will help you."

Romanova hesitated, and then nodded again, slowly this time.

He still wasn't convinced, but it'd have to do.


The archer had decided not to kill her. There was every possibility that he was lying… but why go through that if he didn't have to? What could he be playing at? What was his plan?

"Come on," he said, grabbing her upper arm, and pulled her towards the door.

Natalia stopped him, leaning back.

The archer looked ready to strangle her and then shoot himself with that ridiculous bow of his. "Look, we have less than 4 minutes before U.S. Black Ops storm-and-torch this place…" he began to say.

Natalia shook her head, and then nodded toward the only other door in the room. "That way."

The archer stared at her for a second but began pulling her towards the door.

How had he ever made it as a spy if he was this trusting?

He put her in the corner before nocking an arrow, kicking the door in, and then he moved into the hallway, checking left and right. Natalia stepped into the doorway expectantly and waited for him. He appeared again and seized her arm, pulling her along next to him to the back staircase.

Did he know how predictably he was acting?

As they slipped silently down the stairs, Natalia's hands were a work behind her, using a special-made instrument to unlock American-styled handcuffs. She had to be careful to not be too distracted with the task that she missed a step… or more importantly, a cue to act.

"Let's get out of here," the archer stated unnecessarily as he sped toward the open back door, tugging her along.

Two shadows on either side of the door came alive as the archer made to walk past them. Natalia watched as they quickly took hold of the archer, removing his bow from his hands and pinning his bare arms behind him. The man struggled, but not nearly as hard as Natalia knew he could've.

Curious.

A third shadow walked to Natalia, turning his face to her with a smile. "Good work, Black Widow," Agent Ventimala said in Portuguese. "I'm sure he will be most useful." He walked over to the archer, pulled the communication device out of their captive's ear, and threw it to ground to crush it with his boot.

Natalia merely stared at the archer. He didn't have the best of poker faces, by far… if Natalia were to believe that his emotions were real. He was looking at Agent Ventimala, his jaw clenched and his eyes intense, his lips turned down… Natalia guessed it was anger directed at himself, which would make sense… but maybe…

"Take him to the car," Ventimala said.

The men began dragging the archer out the door. The archer was making a show of looking defeated, struggling but stumbling when his captors turned him around.

"Wait," Natalia said in Portuguese, so that everyone could understand.

All the men stopped and looked at her.

Natalia had a decision to make in very little time. She didn't have to worry whether she'd live, either way… at least for the immediate future… but it was a decision that involved trust, however minutely, if she chose one way; regret if she chose the other…. What it came down to was what she would want to live with for the rest of her life.

Natalia looked at Ventimala. "He has the keys to the cuffs."

The archer looked at her discreetly through his eyelashes, impressively keeping the emotions on his face angry and defeated. She could see the question in his eyes though.

Ventimala went to the archer, patting down his pockets. When he couldn't find them immediately, the others began looking for the keys as well. They were all completely distracted.

The archer was watching Natalia over Ventimala's shoulder, and she could practically feel his curiosity.

With a flash, Natalia threw a knife into the neck of one of the men holding the archer, who fell with a shout.

Immediately, the archer flew into action. He put Ventimala on his knees before Natalia was even within striking distance and the last man was against the wall, the archer's fist crushing his windpipe.

Natalia wrapped her hand around Ventimala's jaw and twisted firmly so that she heard the telltale crack, just as the archer dropped his bloodied, unmoving victim to the floor.

Natalia made quick work of the handcuffs still dangling from her right wrist and watched the archer hurriedly step over a body to reclaim his bow and quickly look it over. When he looked up at her, his face was business-like as if he'd never doubted her actions.

She felt her eyebrows crick upwards, which only made the archer raise his and then check the watch on his wrist.

"Two minutes. Should we get out of here, or what?" he asked, gesturing to the door behind him.


"What the fuck were you thinking, Barton?" Commander Fury asked, leaning over his desk as he stared at the immobile agent across from him. Fury's voice was in its most dangerous tone; not yelling by any means, but very intense.

Hawkeye had his hands clasped behind his back as a sign of respect to the S.H.I.E.L.D. director, trying to show docility. He really would take any help he could get at the moment. "To be honest, sir, I wasn't thinking beyond the situation at hand," he answered.

"Which was?" the Commander asked, his voice still dangerous.

Clint smiled and twitched his head to the side in amusement, "Keeping the Russian in sight at all times, sir."

Commander Fury sighed resignedly, looking down at his hands. "Not only did you directly disobey your commanding officer, you brought an extremely dangerous individual straight into the heart of this organization. Now I have half a mind to put your sorry ass on probation…"

Fury watched for a reaction, but if he'd expected one, he would be sorely disappointed. Clint didn't even blink at the words, staring at the wall behind Fury.

"But…" Fury continued, straightening, "seeing as how Romanoff has been cooperative and we currently have need of your expertise, I've decided to overlook your damn fuck-up for the time being."

Clint's mouth cricked into a lopsided smile. He nodded, "Thank you, sir."

Fury sat down, saying, "See Agent Hill for your assignment details."

Clint nodded again, "Will do, sir. But uh… if it wouldn't be too much to ask, sir… just how long you do think it will take before the Widow talks?"

Fury just leaned back in his chair and stared at Clint with his one good eye, betraying absolutely no emotion whatsoever.

Clint smirked down at his shoes for a moment; he silently wondered how long Fury would wait until he allowed Clint to talk to her.

Hawkeye saluted the Commander and left the room.