Chapter 4: Bringing Home Strays
Natalia woke to sunlight burning her eyelids and breakfast smells and the noise of German announcers discussing a football match.
It was oddly domestic and almost pleasant, but the effect was ruined by a sinking feeling of dismay as she remembered the mess she'd gotten herself into. She had hoped a fourth option would manifest overnight, but she could still only see three ways out. First, bite the bullet and go back to her handlers, be interrogated and more than likely shipped off for reprogramming, and wait for another agent to be assigned her kill order. That one didn't hold much promise. Alternatively, lose herself somewhere in Europe, go underground, and hope the KGB didn't track her down. They'd track her down. Third option, Barton.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was far enough removed from her handlers to be safe, and they had the resources to undo the Red Room's programming. They would want intel in exchange for their help, but she wasn't bothered at the prospect of switching loyalties. She couldn't think of a single person in the KGB who deserved her protection or allegiance.
Even after his abrupt attitude change of the night before, the idea of following Clint Barton back to S.H.I.E.L.D. still held some appeal. If he wanted her, of course. She suspected he was simply too polite to rescind his offer. As far as she knew, he'd spent the entire night brooding in the chair by the window. He was still at it when she gave in and fell asleep after a long hour of observing him. Despite his declaration that he would take her in, she knew too well how many opportunities a night of keeping watch offered to think and reconsider.
She was mindful that the entire plan could still fall apart. Best to assume she would be on her own, running from the KGB, until she was on a plane to a S.H.I.E.L.D. base.
She rolled over with the intent to sit up and find Barton, but immediately regretted the action. Her entire body ached, joints stiff and injuries far more noticeable than the night before. Her head began to throb again.
She made an unintelligible sound, half frustrated and half pained, and flipped the hood of her pullover up to block the sun and noise.
"You'll have to get up if you want food," Barton called. She was surprised to find his tone perfectly friendly again. "I'm not doing breakfast in bed."
She heard something sizzle and snap as it hit the frying pan and determined that Barton was responsible for breakfast. He was probably responsible for the sunlight streaming into the room and the obnoxious television, too.
She called him an asshole in three different languages and felt a bit better.
"Authentic German sausages," he taunted when she didn't move. "Coffee? I went out and got pastries from the bakery around the corner, still hot."
She had a suspicion that he would, in fact, bring her something if she held out long enough - he hadn't carried her in from the snow and taken care of her injuries to let her starve now - but her stomach rumbled and ached, and she wasn't about to pass up a decent breakfast spread just to make Barton eat his words.
She stretched and methodically flexed sore muscles until moving seemed manageable, then peeked carefully from under her hood and blankets. When the light didn't make her head worse, she pushed the blanket away and sat.
"Morning, sweetheart," Barton teased.
"I'm not your sweetheart," she warned, but couldn't summon the appropriate amount of venom behind her tone. He slid a cup of coffee and a plate piled high with breakfast across the bar. She couldn't really be mad at someone cooking for her. "Natalia's fine," she added grudgingly.
"Morning, Nat," he amended, and offered a lopsided grin.
God, he was insufferable. She narrowed her eyes in annoyance, sure that he was being purposefully irritating.
"Hey, you look like you want to kill me again," Barton pointed out brightly. He turned and began loading a second plate with food. "Must be feeling better?"
"Better than last night, anyway," she agreed coolly, and threw him an accusatory glance.
"Aw, come on, I made breakfast to apologize. And I swear to never shoot you with another arrow. Scout's honor or whatever."
He lifted one hand in a sloppy military salute and gave her what he obviously thought was a winning smile.
"I'm withholding forgiveness until I taste your cooking," she informed him.
She rolled her ankle and winced a little, but pushed up from the couch anyway and took a few tentative steps toward the kitchen. Barton studied her intently for a moment, but when it became clear she wasn't going to collapse he slid up to sit on the counter opposite the bar and speared a sausage with his fork.
His face was an interesting mottle of black and purple bruises, she noticed with a faint twinge of pride, as she hoisted herself up on one of the barstools. He wasn't sitting quite straight, listing to one side instead, and she recalled the two solid kicks she'd landed to his ribs. Weaknesses worth noting in case her recruitment didn't go quite as planned. He may have captured her, but she definitely came off the winner in their fights.
She almost felt guilty for plotting ways to take him out, because he'd done an impressive job with breakfast; scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, a large bowl piled with fresh strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, and the pastries, which were apparently important enough that he'd left her unsupervised to retrieve them.
"So?" he prompted, when she'd had time to sample a bite or two of everything.
"Apology accepted," she relented. "This is good."
"Course it is." he agreed smugly. "So listen, about last night. I don't want you to think-"
"It's fine," she interrupted. She could sense where he was going, and didn't have the slightest inclination to revisit a discussion that had nearly turned him against her. He could have whatever opinion he liked, as long as he got her in with S.H.I.E.L.D.
"No, it isn't. I judged you right after I promised not to, and that's a terrible feeling. When Coulson brought me in, every single Academy-trained agent I was paired with judged me for the things I'd done. I know how it feels, and I'm sorry."
She wasn't entirely sure what to do with his declaration, or what response he expected. In her experience, sincerity was often faked and used to manipulate emotions, but Barton wasn't that type. She knew she could take his statements at face value. She kept her head down and focused on her food.
"I think you told me that story because you wanted to prove to yourself that I couldn't understand," he continued after a moment. "I think you're afraid to take a risk and trust someone. I think you wanted me to throw you back out on the street because you don't believe you deserve a second chance."
"I think you should keep your assumptions to yourself," she retorted. She didn't care for being analyzed, especially when his assessments hit a little too close to the truth. He was unnervingly skilled at reading her. Or was it possible that he truly did have a little insight into what her life was like working for her handlers?
"This again, huh? I'm not gonna keep begging you to talk to me."
She snorted a laugh and decided to test that assertion. She gave him approximately three minutes before he opened his mouth again.
It was oddly satisfying to push his buttons, a tiny sense of control in a situation where she had very little. She watched as he refilled his coffee and hopped back up on the counter, stubbornly looking anywhere but at her. Of course a nice quiet breakfast was too much to hope for.
"Y'know, I thought we'd made a little progress last night. You were almost friendly."
"Two and a half minutes," she mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. Barton's eyebrows drew together.
"Excuse me?"
"I'll go with you," she said, voice holding more conviction than she actually felt. Anything to stop him trying to read her. If the sudden topic change threw him, he didn't let on.
"Can't just tag along," he warned. "You have to actually join."
"I'll work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," she assured him.
"I was hoping you'd say that," he said slyly. "I've already called Coulson. He flew out of D.C. last night. We've probably got an hour or two left before he gets here."
She couldn't summon the energy to be angry with him for the deception. Despite Barton's anecdotes about Coulson's character the night before, her stomach still clenched uncomfortably at the idea of meeting a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. official. She laid her fork down and pushed her plate away.
"None of that," Barton scolded. He slid off the counter and pushed her plate back across the bar. "Eat. We won't have anything but protein bars and water on the flight back."
He stared her down until she lifted her fork again, but she only chewed her lip and pushed the food around a bit.
"So your handler's coming to do the interrogation?" she asked, in what she hoped was a casual tone. Taking her chances and going off on her own suddenly seemed like the more appealing choice. MI6, KGB, S.H.I.E.L.D., all the agencies were the same. Her odds of escape were considerably lower once they had her restrained and broken. Fractured bones, internal injuries, head trauma, she knew all the best ways to keep a captive subdued and in one place, and she was certain S.H.I.E.L.D. would use the same techniques.
"You won't be interrogated," Barton said with an eye roll. "Coulson might ask you a couple questions, but nothing worse than I did last night. He'll go over the extraction procedure and tell us exactly when we're getting out of here. He'll probably read me the riot act for blowing my mission. That's it, routine stuff."
Sure, routine. She'd be beaten half-dead and tortured for information before they even made it to the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. A tiny part of her hoped Barton wouldn't be involved.
She forced back the impulse to charge him and make an escape, picking at her breakfast instead.
"You'll like S.H.I.E.L.D.," he said encouragingly. "You've got gyms, shooting ranges, heated pools, free wi-fi. There's a rock climbing wall on the tenth floor. The rooms aren't bad if you want to live on base, and there's a Starbucks in the cafeteria. R&D always has new toys to test if you like that sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?" she asked, curiosity winning out over nerves. He was obviously trying to talk it up, make S.H.I.E.L.D. sound appealing, make her forget about the impending interrogation that was sure to be more than 'a couple questions'. He was doing a good job.
"Blowing stuff up," he said with a boyish grin. "Those exploding arrows are prototypes."
"You just request whatever you want?"
"Within reason. I still can't get Fury to push funding for boomerang arrows."
"Boomerang arrows," she repeated skeptically, and wrinkled her nose. "Why?"
Barton paused, head cocked to the side and confusion drawing his eyebrows together, as if he'd never considered the application of the idea.
"Don't ask stupid questions," he said at last, and jammed another sausage in his mouth.
S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to have a lot of stuff, rewards to keep agents loyal if she had to guess. A reward-based system probably made for weak operatives, but it sure sounded preferable to the KGB method of beating the shit out of agents for a failed mission. And, she had to admit, an R&D department that focused on actual technology piqued her interest.
She worked her way steadily through three sausages, two pastries, and a pile of scrambled eggs while Barton shoveled down second helpings of everything. By the time he dropped his empty plate in the sink and collected hers, the prospect of meeting Coulson didn't seem quite so daunting.
"Anything I should know about Coulson?" she asked, picking at the dish of fruit. It was probably good to have something that wasn't fried or packed with empty calories. Barton poured his fourth cup of coffee and considered.
"Don't do that look. The one where you pretend to focus your telekinetic powers to explode my brain. The I'm-gonna-murder-you-in-your-sleep look."
"I don't do that," she protested, even though she was fairly certain which expression he was referring to.
"Ha! You're doing it right now!" he insisted. "I say something stupid and your eyes go dark and one eyebrow twitches, and your mouth does this tiny little scowl. Fucking terrifying. Don't look at Coulson like that."
"Anything else?" she prompted, and made an effort to arrange her features into a more neutral expression.
"Just give him Natalia. He'll look past your reputation and see what I see."
"Your advice is absolutely useless," she told him. She slid down from the barstool and limped back toward the sofa. "Nobody likes Natalia."
"I like Natalia," he protested, falling into step beside her. She arched an eyebrow. "You need to remember he's doing you a favor. This wouldn't work if it was only me vouching for you. Answer his questions, don't talk in circles, and don't lie. Better?"
"A little," she said, and curled into the corner of the sofa with her coffee. "More useful than 'be yourself'."
"He collects vintage junk and he's got a '62 Corvette named Lola. What do you want me to tell you?"
He sat beside her and leaned over the opposite end of the sofa to retrieve the black duffel bag.
"That's enough," she sighed. What was she supposed to do with the car, threaten to scratch the paint? Maybe Coulson would fall for pouty lips and crocodile tears.
"Stop trying to think of ways to manipulate everyone," Barton admonished. He pulled a laptop from the bag and set it up on the coffee table. He offered her the television controller. "Try something new: spend the next hour until Coulson gets here relaxing. Why don't you see if we made the news last night? That's always fun."
It probably wasn't worth wasting breath to point out that making the news meant the mission was a failure. She took the remote and flipped a few channels while Barton booted up the computer.
"Don't," she warned, as he drew her flash drive out of the bag and made to plug it in.
"This is due diligence," he argued. "I have to make sure you don't have orders or mission parameters saved on this thing. How do I know you're not a sleeper agent trying to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"That's a weak justification for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," she countered. He lifted one shoulder in an offhanded shrug and grinned a little.
"Tell me what's on it, then."
"Private information. Information that doesn't concern you or S.H.I.E.L.D. or anyone except me." Then, because it was the only thing she hadn't tried and she was just desperate enough, "Can't you please just confiscate it and give it back later?"
The please tasted sour on her tongue and came out more sarcastic than sincere. She was fairly certain he didn't have the skills to get in, much less work his way through to the files she'd rather keep hidden. He was annoyingly good at surprising her, however, so she judged it best to play nice, lest she discover he held a hidden talent for hacking.
"Not gonna happen," Barton said, and plugged the drive into the computer.
What an asshole.
"Fine. I warned you," she replied coolly.
She settled the television on a weather report and watched from the corner of her eye as Barton tried to access her files. He typed and clicked until a Cyrillic phrase and a neat row of ten grey boxes popped up on the screen.
"Password protected, huh? Ten characters..." He slid off the sofa to sit on the floor, legs stretched under the coffee table. "Russian or English?" he asked, looking up at her with a hopeful expression.
"Neither," she answered truthfully.
Barton wasn't deterred. He muttered to himself in a surprising array of languages, entering letters and erasing them until at last he seemed satisfied with his first guess. She gave an involuntary flinch a half second before he pushed enter.
An earsplitting klaxon siren wailed from the computer's speakers. Barton jumped and banged his knee on the underside of the coffee table.
"What's that say?" he demanded, voice lifted over the noise of the speakers. He turned the computer to give her a better view. The screen flashed a violent red, with tall black letter spelling a phrase in Russian. She turned her attention back to the television.
"Roughly translated, it means 'fuck you'."
He gave an exasperated huff.
"Come on, how do I fix it?"
"Smash it," she suggested, and bit her lip to hide a smile.
"I'm not smashing it!" he replied, appalled. "This isn't a laptop I can replace at the Apple store. It's a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of sophisticated S.H.I.E.L.D. technology."
"Well, now it's an incredibly expensive paperweight."
"Okay, you win," he ground out. "I should have minded my own business. Now will you fix it?"
"I can't fix it," she lied. "Nobody can fix it, it's dead. If you smash it, it'll shut up."
"You're screwing with me. I'm not smashing it."
"Then we get to listen to its death throes for another fifteen minutes."
"Fine, I'll bite. What happens in fifteen minutes?"
"You're gonna wish you smashed it," she replied smugly, and went back to flipping channels.
Barton hauled himself back up on the sofa and continued to jab his fingers against the keyboard, scowling when the screen flashed stubbornly red and the speakers continued to blare. She watched him control-alt-delete and forcefully bang the escape key. He held down the power button, tore the flash drive out and tossed it on the table, closed the laptop and opened it again, tried to pry the battery out and failed.
As it turned out, sophisticated S.H.I.E.L.D. technology crashed and burned faster than an off-the-shelf notebook.
"That's...not normal," Barton mumbled seven minutes later. Thin, wispy columns of grey smoke began to drift up between the computer's keys.
"Coffee?" she asked innocently. She scooped up her mug and palmed the flash drive on the pretense of taking his cup as well.
"Uh-uh, get back here," Barton called after her, eyes still locked on the computer. "This is your fault!"
Confident that he hadn't noticed anything, she rounded the bar into the kitchen and slipped the drive into the front pocket of her pullover. She took her time pouring more coffee into the mugs, studiously ignoring the acrid scent of burning plastic that permeated the apartment.
"Shit. Shit. Natalia!"
She leaned against the counter and watched flames shoot toward the living room ceiling. She felt the tiniest flicker of remorse on seeing Barton's wide eyes and panicked expression, but the feeling didn't last. He wouldn't bring her in if he read the files on that drive, and the most effective deterrent was to destroy his means of viewing them.
Barton pulled it together and bolted into the kitchen long enough to retrieve a fire extinguisher from the cabinet under the sink. Once he had the flames smothered, he tilted the coffee table up and let the remains of the computer slide to the carpet, where he gave it one final blast with the extinguisher for good measure. Natalia went to investigate.
"Should've smashed it," she told him smugly.
"I oughta smash you," he growled, but the threat didn't carry any real weight. He nudged the melted hunk of plastic casing and charred circuit boards with the toe of his boot. "Was that necessary?"
"I told you, the things on that drive don't concern you. I think you've got the point."
"Coulson won't be happy," he warned.
"Tell him the battery overheated," she shrugged, and stepped around the table toward the sofa.
She caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye, too late to counter as Barton hooked an arm around her chest, pinned her arms, and forced her back against him. She twisted in his grasp and he surprisingly released her, giving her an unkind push as she went that made her stagger on her sprained ankle.
"Hawkeye, remember?" he said with a scowl. He held up the flash drive. "I notice everything. You're this close to being tied up and sedated again."
This time, she believed the threat.
He stalked across the room and opened the window, using an empty S.H.I.E.L.D. file to fan some of the smoke outside. His body language was similar to the night before, defensive and tense, and his eyes held the same dark expression.
She dropped onto the sofa and studied him, watching for a break in his demeanor. Maybe setting his computer on fire was escalating the situation a step too far. She'd gotten lucky when he decided to withhold judgement on last night's story, but hoping for forgiveness twice in twenty-four hours was a little too optimistic.
She couldn't seem to find the balance between making enough of a personal connection to keep him happy and holding him safely at arm's length. Why was Barton so much harder than any other mark? If she kept this up, he'd be thinking twice about bringing her back to S.H.I.E.L.D. whether he read her files or not.
She gave his anger time to burn out, watching quietly until most of the smoke had cleared the apartment and he came to throw himself at the opposite end of the sofa. He ignored her and put the television back on the same football match from earlier, although he didn't seem invested in the outcome.
"Sorry?" she tried. He didn't look away from the football match, jaw set in a hard line.
"You're not sorry."
Fair enough. She wasn't really sorry.
"You can blame the computer on me," she offered.
"Damn straight I'm blaming it on you."
She found it annoying that after all the time she'd spent wishing he would shut up, she felt it necessary to try so hard to win his attention again.
The room was becoming downright frigid, although it didn't seem to bother Barton. His attitude didn't exactly invite conversation, so she stood and crossed to the window with the intent of closing it, for lack of anything better to do.
There wasn't a fire escape, but there was a skinny little ledge and a pipe that ran down the corner of the building. If she tried, she could probably make it to the ground in one piece. She leaned with her elbows on the sill and shot a quick glance back at Barton. She expected him to warn her away from the window, threaten to tie her up again if she started getting ideas, but he kept his eyes focused steadily on the television. At this point, he probably hoped she'd jump out the window and spare him the trouble of dealing with her.
She slammed the window with a little more force than entirely necessary and went back to her end of the sofa. She could be stoic and quiet, too. Barton liked the sound of his own voice too much to give her the silent treatment for long.
The football match wrapped up, but he didn't give any indication of which team he'd been pulling for. As the next game started, she began to worry that she'd pushed too far. Maybe she should attempt to make her apology sincere next time.
"I get what you're doing, even if you don't realize you're doing it," Barton said. Apparently he judged her sufficiently chastised. He cut the sound on the television.
"Enlighten me," she requested, less than thrilled about yet another attempt to analyze her motives. It was tiresome, the way he kept trying to figure her out. It seemed to be his only agenda.
"It's like..." He frowned and stared at the ceiling, choosing his words carefully. "Things have been shit for so long, when something good happens you're afraid to trust it. So you do everything you can to ruin it, prove to yourself that it was too good to be true. Usually things do fall apart. When that happens you aren't happy about it, but you aren't surprised either. You don't feel sad or disappointed, you just expect it. When the next good thing comes along you destroy it faster. It's easier than hoping things'll turn out differently."
She had been prepared to retaliate or tell him to shut up, but when she paused and considered his words, they made sense.
She recalled the little girl who slept on the bunk beside her in the Red Room, the girl who had pretended to be her friend and tried to murder her while she slept. Nikolai, who had made love to her in every major city in Belgium, then left her cuffed to the bed in Antwerp while he attempted to collect the reward for her capture from the government. A promotion, the Black Widow title, which only came with stricter observation and the always-impending threat of reprogramming to keep her loyal.
There was always a catch. At some point, she'd stopped hoping things would change and decided to live in a constant state of waiting for things to implode.
"Just don't with me, okay? Stop trying to piss me off on purpose. I said I'd take you in, so I'm taking you in. I'm not going to let them interrogate you or lock you up. The next couple weeks probably won't be fun, but it won't be as horrible as you're expecting." He stood and worked a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. " Anyway. I should call Coulson, make sure we're still on schedule."
She caught his sleeve before he could walk away. He looked down at her with raised eyebrows and surprise written across his features.
"You're sort of the first good thing," she said quietly, because it was true and Barton didn't really deserve all the shit she'd been giving him. He was genuine and altruistic, not devious like the Red Room girls or controlling like her handlers. Maybe she didn't need to work so hard to deflect his kindness and keep him at arm's length. "Not a lot of good where I'm from," she added.
"Yeah," Barton agreed, "but you'll get used to it."
He mussed her hair as he passed, a quick affectionate gesture, his fingers tangling briefly in her curls before flipping them up to obscure her vision. The unexpected touch made her flinch in a way that brought to mind skittish stray dogs, and she knew Barton had noticed.
"Do that again and I'll break your fingers," she called belatedly, brushing the hair out of her eyes. He waved her off, unconcerned, and pressed the phone to his ear.
Coulson was ten minutes out. She was too well-trained to display any outward signs of nerves, but Barton seemed to anticipate her feelings about the impending meeting. He moved around the apartment, tossing things into the black duffel bag and relating positive anecdotes about his handler. The character reference didn't make her any more inclined to trust Coulson.
Barton's phone buzzed much too soon for her liking, and she opted to observe from the sofa rather than immediately make introductions. He didn't comment or suggest otherwise. When Barton opened the door, he was greeted by a man in a suit and three agents with assault rifles.
Instincts and training overrode any sense of security she'd felt at using Barton as a buffer. She leapt to her feet and took up a defensive stance, backing slowly toward the kitchen with the idea of getting her hands on a knife.
"They need to wait outside," Barton said. He stood with one hand braced against the doorjamb, blocking entrance until the man in the suit ordered the agents to stand guard.
Barton stepped aside and allowed the suit, presumably Agent Coulson, into the apartment, closing and locking the door quickly behind him.
"This would probably go easier if you lost the gun," Barton suggested. "She's twitchy."
"I can see that," Coulson muttered quietly. He eyed her warily and reached slowly into his suit jacket, drawing out the aforementioned gun and holding it by the barrel as he passed it to Barton. "Better?"
"You're doing the look. Knock it off," Barton admonished, and shot her a significant glance. "You're killing your first impression."
She watched Agent Coulson for another long moment, cataloging the possible concealed weapons he could be carrying in that suit, then relaxed her fighting stance and went cautiously forward to meet him.
"Barton didn't mention you'd have backup," she offered in explanation. Coulson gave her a little smile.
"Phil Coulson," he said, tone pleasant enough, although not particularly warm or inviting. He held out his hand for an introduction.
"She doesn't do handshakes," Barton warned.
She took Agent Coulson's hand and turned a defiant gaze on Barton. Was he trying to blow it for her already?
"You're an asshole," he assessed conversationally. "Total asshole, Phil. She'll fit right in."
"What would you like me to call you? Natalia? Black Widow? Agent Romanova?"
"Just Natalia," she replied carefully, unsure if how she chose to identify herself was part of Coulson's assessment.
"Natalia, then," he agreed.
Coulson moved purposefully into the apartment, a black leather portfolio tucked under one arm and his gaze raking the room. Barton trailed after him, and she stuck close on his heels.
"Accident?" Coulson asked, pausing as he rounded the sofa, eyeing the soot marks on the ceiling, the charred computer, and the much abused coffee table.
"Battery overheated," Barton said with a surprisingly straight face.
"He was trying to hack my drive," Natalia said simultaneously, because Barton had told her to be honest.
"Neither of those explanations work here," Coulson said, tone surprisingly light considering the situation. "Sit, please."
Judging only on her first impression, she didn't care at all for Agent Coulson. He struck her as the kill-them-with-kindness type, too nice. The kind to maintain a pleasant facade, then flash into anger when he didn't receive the answers he wanted. That gun wasn't the only weapon he carried, she felt sure.
She followed Barton and sat on the sofa while Coulson dragged over the chair by the window. He situated himself on the opposite side of the scorched coffee table and laid out his portfolio, opening it to reveal a yellow legal pad half-full with notes already.
"We're pressed for time," he began. "Ninety minutes until extraction. That gives us about half an hour to decide if you'll be a good fit for S.H.I.E.L.D. Let's start with a little debrief. Barton pissed off a hotel full of drug dealers, interrupted your hit, and left you for bait while he escaped."
Being addressed immediately startled her. She judged it best to keep quiet, as Coulson hadn't asked her a direct question.
"Sounds bad when you put it like that," Barton mumbled defensively beside her.
"The situation progressed to a firefight in an alley." Coulson paused and looked up from his notes. "Can you tell me why you chose to fight alongside Barton rather than kill him?"
"I couldn't have made it out of the alley alone. He was useful."
"He has his moments," Coulson agreed, and added a quick note to his portfolio. "So. You killed the Germans and...turned on each other?"
"She started it," Barton interjected helpfully. Coulson narrowed his eyes.
"Remove yourself from the conversation, Clint. We've got to get through this quickly."
Barton shrugged and stood, wandering toward the kitchen with a muttered diatribe about the stick up Coulson's ass. She watched him go and repressed the urge to squirm uncomfortably at the prospect of being Coulson's sole focus of attention.
"You attacked Barton then because the fighting was over?" Coulson prompted.
"He told me in the hotel room I was his mark. I didn't expect him to let me live."
"But you let him live."
"I got that kill order because I took out one of your agents. It didn't seem prudent to kill a second."
Coulson made another note, frowning down at the portfolio.
"Did Barton tell you the reason for the kill order?"
"Yes," she said slowly. And then, because there was an odd tension under Coulson's tone, she added, "I had a gun to his head. He didn't volunteer the information."
"Did he share anything else?"
"No," she lied smoothly, thinking of the S.H.I.E.L.D. file he'd dropped in her lap the night before.
"Tell me about your second encounter."
She could tell from the way Coulson moved the conversation along that he'd bought the lies. He wasn't nearly as intimidating as she originally imagined him, but she didn't like the unsettling feeling that he was trying to investigate Barton through her answers. The interview was supposed to be about her, but his name was coming up with suspicious regularity.
"Barton shot me with a tranquilizer and brought me here. He said I could have a second chance if I wanted it. Start over at S.H.I.E.L.D."
Coulson closed the leather portfolio and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"I don't buy the second chance angle. You don't seem the type."
Point for Coulson, she thought wryly. She decided to go with honest again.
"I've been in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody for approximately sixteen hours. I left the last half of my mission unfinished and missed two check-ins. If I go back to my handlers now, the consequences won't be pleasant."
"You're asking for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s protection."
"Barton offered. I'm not asking S.H.I.E.L.D. for anything."
Make that very clear. She didn't want to go in with the higher-ups thinking she owed them, that they somehow owned her for extending a favor.
"He said you agreed to join. Switch loyalties, just like that."
Coulson snapped his fingers for emphasis. Barton caught her eye and gave her an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up from the kitchen; she wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean.
"It doesn't make a difference. Killing's still killing, whether I do it for the KGB or S.H.I.E.L.D. It's what I'm good at. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s just the lesser of two evils."
Barton dropped his forehead to rest against the bar with an audible thud and groan. Apparently the thumbs-up had meant 'lie spectacularly' and not 'keep being honest'.
"That I believe," Coulson said, and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, Natalia, what's going to stop you from moving on to the next agency? We bring you in, you get your hands on S.H.I.E.L.D. intel, and sell it to the highest bidder. How do I know I can trust you?"
"How did you know you could trust Barton?" she countered.
"We're not playing that game," Coulson warned. "You don't ask the questions. Give me a reason why I should trust you."
"Because Barton trusts me," she said. It was the only goddamn thing she had going for her.
Coulson left his chair without another word and went to stand by the window. He studied the street below, hands folded behind his back. She didn't understand how the short volley of questions could give him anything to go on. He didn't have enough information to make any kind of rational judgement about her potential as an asset for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Barton wandered over and took Coulson's chair, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
"Brutal interrogation," he commented with exaggerated sympathy. He gave her that stupid shit-eating grin. "Glad you survived."
"Am I in, or not?" she demanded quietly, shooting a quick glance toward the window. Coulson seemed to be ignoring them.
"I hope you're in. I don't have a contingency plan if Coulson says 'no'."
She eyed Coulson's notes, sure that they would give her a hint about his intentions.
"Didn't we just have a lesson on minding our own business?" Barton asked, but he gave the portfolio an obliging kick that sent it sliding to her side of the table.
She hesitated to open it. What if leaving his notes unguarded was part of the assessment, too? She pushed the portfolio back across the table with a disgruntled huff.
"I'll give you our terms," Coulson said suddenly, turning his attention away from the window. "No negotiation."
He crossed the room and took up the portfolio, using it to give Barton a solid whack to the back of the head. Barton scowled and vacated Coulson's chair.
"Once we reach headquarters you'll go to a containment cell for the first twenty-four hours," Coulson began, "then you'll be moved upstairs to one of the on-base apartments. You'll wear a tracking bracelet to monitor your movements. There will be a pair of guards posted outside your door day and night. You won't go anywhere unless you're escorted by either Barton or myself, and you won't be allowed off base. You'll submit to a series of interviews, polygraph tests, and psychological evaluations. You will be expected to formally defect to the United States, which means you will give up any state secrets or information about the Russian government and the KGB. If Director Fury is satisfied with your evaluations and you prove cooperative, you'll have a month-long probationary period followed by formal S.H.I.E.L.D. training."
"Fine," she agreed. Coulson's terms sounded fair, if a little more restrictive than Barton had originally promised.
"No counter-arguments?" Coulson prompted.
"I expected worse, to be honest."
"She expected us to torture her for information," Barton clarified.
"Not our style," Coulson reassured her. "If you're coming with us, it's best if the KGB thinks you're dead." He slid a thin tablet from the portfolio, opposite the notepad, and laid it out on the table. "There will be a body approximately your height and weight left in your hotel room. Fingerprints and DNA will match."
"That's impossible," she scoffed. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't that good. "They'll know the difference."
Coulson pulled a sleek black box from his pocket, unwound the cord wrapped around it, and plugged it into the tablet.
"They won't. Give me your hand."
She crossed her arms and leaned away.
"It's a finger stick," Barton explained, and shot Coulson an annoyed glance. "Give it here, I'll do it."
He sat beside her on the sofa and pulled the tablet into his lap, then worked his fingernails between the seam on the side of the metal box until it popped open. He held it out in his palm for her to examine.
"See? It's a little spring-loaded needle. It takes a blood sample, that's all. This part analyzes your DNA and sends it to the tablet."
"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s going to clone me and kill the double?" she guessed.
"Classified?" Barton asked Coulson.
"Classified," Coulson confirmed. "You don't need to know how the technology works, only that it does."
"Do it," she said, before she lost her resolve. Giving an agency like S.H.I.E.L.D. a blood sample and fingerprints would surely come back to bite her in the ass.
Barton took her hand and positioned the metal box so that the contoured underside rested snugly against the pad of her finger , then counted up to three and pressed the button on the side of the box. The mechanism inside released with a snap and pain lanced up her finger at the needle jab.
"You're done," Barton told her as a light on top flashed from red to green. She pulled her hand free, but found nothing worse than a tiny bead of blood on her finger. They scanned her prints next, Barton demonstrating how to position her hand flat on the tablet screen for a good reading.
"I appreciate the cooperation," Coulson said as he collected the tablet from Barton. "That could've been a lot more difficult."
He stepped outside briefly, returning sans tablet but with a black duffel bag identical to Barton's.
"Agent Wilkes is going to plant the body," Coulson explained. "This is for you," he added, and offered the duffel. "Clothes, girl...things, hair stuff. I had Agent Hill put a bag together. You can shower and change while I talk to Barton."
She studied Coulson and the bag skeptically, waiting for the catch. Barton huffed impatiently beside her.
"Thanks," she said at last, and took the bag.
"Come on, shower's through here."
Barton led her through a door that had so far remained shut. The room wasn't locked, and she was surprised to find an assortment of guns, knives, and Barton's bow laid out on the bed. She recognized her own weapons amid the pile.
"Cleaned your guns," Barton said, following her gaze.
"Thanks," she said again, and this time meant it.
She dropped the bag on the bed and followed Barton into the bathroom. He showed her a drawer stocked with individually wrapped toothbrushes, travel size tubes of toothpaste, and little bottles of shampoo and body wash. She picked through the drawer while he retrieved a clean set of towels and dropped them on the counter.
"Disinfect everything and do clean bandages," he ordered, and laid a first aid kit on top of the towels. "I can wrap your ankle again, if you need help."
"Think I've got it," she told him.
"We've got extraction in an hour," he reminded her. He pulled the door half closed as he went; she watched through the crack until he crossed the bedroom, collected the weapons from the bed, and shut that door too. She started the shower running, waited thirty seconds, then padded quietly back through the bedroom and leaned against the door, straining to hear any private conversation Barton and Coulson's might be having. She wasn't disappointed.
"...and you said 'pay it forward'. That's what I'm doing."
"I meant rescue a puppy or volunteer at a soup kitchen, not bring home a stray KGB agent."
"She's just a kid, Phil. She doesn't deserve what they're doing to her."
"She has free will. She knows right from wrong. Why is she still on the KGB's payroll?"
"Come on, you know what they do to those girls. We've got intel on the Red Room going back to the SSR days."
More intel than would fit on three printed pages, she didn't doubt. The mission dossier from the night before was incomplete. She slid down to sit on the carpet, listening intently to discover how much they might know.
"Exactly. You've read the files, Clint. She's dangerous. Best case scenario she's manipulating us, at the worst she's unstable. Either way, she won't pass the assessments."
"She won't if you set her up to fail."
"This is more than a case of a little girl falling in with the wrong people. She isn't a scrawny orphan from Iowa. She's been groomed and programmed to be the perfect operative her entire life. She doesn't know anything else."
The conversation dissolved into heavy, tense silence. When Barton spoke again, his words were weighted with sarcasm.
"You want me to put her down, sir?"
"Do you know what this looks like, Clint? You've stretched this mission an extra two weeks. You've missed check-ins. You declined backup. You're holed up here playing house with your little Soviet girlfriend-"
"It's not like that-"
"The Council are questioning your loyalties," Coulson interrupted, lifting his voice over Barton's indignant protest. "They're suggesting that you're a double agent and that you've been passing intel to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s enemies. They think you're working with her. Unless you're prepared to deal with the fallout from the Council, then yes, I want you to go in there and finish your mission."
Coulson didn't seem to deserve his rave character reference. She held her breath in anticipation of Barton's reply, resigned to going out there and siding with him if it came down to a fight with Coulson and the guards.
Heavy footfalls advanced toward the bedroom. God, she was an idiot.
She allowed herself one second of weakness, a moment to exhale and slump against the door while her heart dropped into her stomach. The Council sounded almost as unforgiving as the Red Room. Barton kept urging her to believe he understood her situation, and she finally bought it. She couldn't blame him for his decision. If her handler had given her the ultimatum, she'd make the same choice.
She recast him as the archer in her mind. It made the prospect of killing him sting a little less.
She rose in a graceful, fluid motion and stepped to the right of the door, taking up a defensive stance. Strike fast and hard, aim for his face and the bruised ribs on the left side. Take his weapon of choice, shoot Coulson, go out the window before the agents standing guard caught on. She felt a swell of resentment toward Coulson for forcing her into a fight. She was beginning to genuinely like the archer.
Still, it was exactly as he'd said. The good was too good to be true. Easiest to destroy it and move on.
"I'll take my chances with the Council," the archer declared, but she didn't believe him. He was well-trained, he probably anticipated the possibility that she was waiting to take him down. She listened as he shuffled outside for a moment, then silence. She stood tense, ready to leap at him if he chose to open the door, but when nothing happened for a full five minutes, she cracked the door just enough to peek out.
"It isn't polite to eavesdrop," the archer said quietly. He leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed and eyes trained on a point across the room. A gun had found its way into the back waistband of his jeans.
"Gonna shoot me, Barton?" she asked. She had meant to sound flippant, but the words leaned toward tentative.
"Haven't yet." He caught her eye and gave her the tiniest hint of a smile. "Hurry up, we're on a schedule."
He pushed the door shut and she leaned against it for a moment, whispering his name to the dark bedroom to solidify her resolve. The man from the night before, the archer, the enemy she thought she knew, wasn't Clint Barton. Barton had just defied his handler and chosen not to take the easy way out. For her. Clint Barton gave her a dangerous feeling that for reasons unknown, she was ready to embrace, at least on a trial basis.
Partner was a stretch, and friend was out of the question, but she could get used to having an ally she could trust.