- 2015
2015 started off with a bang, literally. Sure, Coulson had been sending us out on easier missions than our first one, but that wasn't exactly hard. So it led to a gunfight on New Year's Eve, whoo!
While every other human on the planet was celebrating the new year, we were running for our lives and trying not to get shot (done that before, 0/10 do not recommend). Unusually, Jason Grace had been shoved on this mission along with us, so we weren't the only unlucky fuckers.
As Jason and I sprinted through the warehouse, I pressed a hand to my comms to talk to Clint. "How are you doing?" My voice crackled through the intercom.
"I haven't been shot yet, so pretty good on the whole." I laughed as I heard Jason make a sputtering sound on the other side of the comms.
"Is that what qualifies as good?"
Clint and I replied with a joint hum of "yes" and "absolutely".
"Yikes."
"Well, newbie, you've got a lot to learn," I commented wryly. "If we live, let's go out for drinks. We're not 21, but we've got those forged IDs that Coulson straight up gave to us."
I heard affirmation from both parties on the end of the comms link.
Clint's voice crackled through again just a few seconds later. "I've got a shot at the leader."
"Do it," I replied without a second's thought. There was more sputtering from Jason, but no statement to the contrary.
I fancied that I could hear the difference in the shots: where the enemy's was frantic and ineffective, Clint's was surgical in its precision. The gunfire eased but didn't cease altogether, providing the opportunity to move from our scattered positions and regroup.
"Are we just gonna shoot 'em out so that e can leave as quickly as possible?" Jason asked. "I'm knackered."
"Aren't we all. And yes, there is no plan. Stick together and shoot them to hell. I want that drink. God knows we need to get off base."
Clint grinned, inserting a fresh clip into his rather large and terrifying assault rifle. Because sure, give the biggest, most destructive weapon to the youngest kid without any impulse control. He raised it to his shoulder and checked the scope. "Let's do this."
We spread out, leaving Clint to take out the majority, while Jason and I did it at close range, affording him some protection. I noticed that Jason fought well, but in a very deliberate and straight-laced fashion, like someone fighting in a big military line. He didn't seem the kind of guy who kick a downed man, which was unfortunate as that was quite literally our job.
The fight was short but vicious, ending as quickly as it had begun, and (shockingly) without any major injuries: the worst was a shallow cut on my knife arm from a lucky bayonet (who even still uses those?) swipe.
Clint joined us a few seconds later, gun still idly smoking. "I think I need a shower," he moaned. "'Feels like I'm gonna have to rip my skin off to get rid of this vest."
"Oh, stop moping. At least you're not dying this time. Let's get back and meet after ten for those drinks. I think we've earned them."
o0O0o
Maybe in the heat of the moment I'd forgotten how much I loathed alcohol with a burning passion. I settled for a giant Coke and watched the pub get more and more wasted. Jason had no such qualms and could not hold his liquor, which made for some amusing escapades. I had to pretty much carry him back while he professed his undying love for me. Clint, on the other hand, had downed seven shots of vodka, could still walk and was almost coherent. Maybe Nat had taught him how to drink like a Russian all those years ago (three years ago).
Happy New Year. Thank you for that, SHIELD.
I considered leaving Jason with a large glass of water and maybe a painkiller, but decided against it. He could suffer (it would be funny). Clint walked straight into a door frame, then sat down on the floor and looked confused until I pointed out which room was his (maybe he was drunker than he looked). He mumbled something that I couldn't understand (maybe because he told me the following day that it was in some obscure Latvian dialect, because why not) before closing his door with more force than he probably wanted to use.
I stumbled back to my own room, not drunk but tired, and promptly collapsed on my own bed. I hoped half-heartedly that SHIELD would stop trying to send us into so many gun fights. Couldn't I have some sort of quiet mission, or something remotely not gang related?
o0O0o
Turns out that my prayers were answered (or not, depending on your perspective) two weeks later, when Coulson came barging into the junior agent shared common room. James, Milly, one of the other junior agents, Clint and I were in the middle of a rather frantic game of Irish snap (only one injury sustained so far and no fights yet), when he dryly cleared his throat. "Agents Barton and Jackson, a word?"
We hastily got to our feet and followed him quickly to one of the briefing rooms. "You're both officially being promoted to Level 6, so that this mission is appropriate for your ears. Congratulations."
I'm pretty sure that's not how clearance levels work, but go off I guess. "Is it just a SHIELD thing?" Coulson shot me a quizzical look. "You know, getting bumped up three levels at a time."
"Desperate times, desperate measures. And we can clear you as we see fit. Consider yourselves fully fledged agents now." He placed a manila folder with a USB attached to it in front of each of us. "Here is your mission briefing. It says that it is primarily a surveillance task, but if you have the opportunity to take the kill shot, it is within the mission parameters for you to do it."
Clint and I exchanged a Look. "Uhh, okay."
I flipped open the folder to reveal the target's name, Sonya Alianova. Code Name: Чёрная Вдова. There was no picture.
I looked up at Coulson. "Her code name is Black Widow?"
"Yes." His answer was curt and clearly anything else was above my pay grade (which, by the way, was shockingly low, given that I nearly died on pretty much a daily basis).
"Okay, so where are we going?" Clint straightened up in his chair.
"Srednekolymsk, Russia. It's in the North-East and by North-East, I mean North-East."
"Sounds… cold?" Honestly, I hadn't a clue.
o0O0o
And that was how we ended up on a freezing cold Quinjet above Northern Siberia. Because apparently it was so cold that all heating power had to be diverted to the engine to stop it from freezing over, and there was no capacity left for the cabin. Yay. They parachuted us a couple of miles out of town and gave us instructions as to how to find the warehouse that we were going to survey. SHIELD had equipped us with little body cams before we left, ensuring that Coulson could see what was happening and give us instructions as necessary, because after the Lawrence fiasco, he didn't trust us with anybody else.
The two of us shivered in our fake-fur-lined tactical gear that made us look like marshmallows. It was cold. Also pretty much always dark, because the Arctic Circle is festive like that.
I raised a pair of night-vision goggles/binocular things to my eyes and squinted through into the now-green murk. "I think I can see the warehouse, but it might be a large shrub. Everything's covered in snow, so, ya know."
Clint snatched the goggles and peered through them himself. "That's the warehouse. You can tell because there's a chimney, dumbass. Shrubs don't generally have chimneys."
Oh.
We approached the warehouse as quietly as we could (which wasn't very quietly because of the crunching of snow beneath our feet). When we finally got there, there was a symbol painted on one of the walls: a message for anyone that found it and knew what they were looking for. A spider was painted onto the wall with an hourglass on its back. Clint traced it with his fingers. "The Black Widow," he breathed.
"Dude, is this spy like your childhood crush or something?"
Clint's face reddened slightly. "She's always been a bit of an idol for me. Never caught, you know."
"Okay, I'm gonna stop you there before you ramble about how amazing she is. I think that this might be a trap. Ya know, maybe."
We ventured towards the actual entrance of warehouse, before doing one final check and going inside. The warehouse itself was pretty typical, so I'll save you the boring detail and just jump to the exciting bit.
Clint and I split up immediately; Clint heading for the upper levels (i.e. rafters and overhead walkways, because for some crazy reason he likes being close to potentially fatal drops), while I scouted the ground floor. In one corner, there was a mattress and duvet, and in another a single, barren desk. "Coulson," I pressed my fingers to my comms, "are you getting this? She seems kind of-"
I was cut off by a gunshot and two cries of pain, one male and one female.
"Hawkeye down," Coulson chanted in my ear. "Hawkeye down."
I didn't reply, crushing myself instantly into the floor on pure instinct, knowing full well that a deadly assassin was currently in the warehouse with me and she'd attacked and possibly killed Clint and I didn't want her to catch me and-
I cut off my hyperactive train of thought. It wasn't helping me. My focus narrowed to a pinpoint: stay alive.
There were darker shadows in the corners, so that was where I stayed. And then I heard the voice. "Clint?" Something clattered from the rafters with an ugly clang. The dull light glinted off a silvered barrel in the middle of the floor.
I stopped everything I was doing, even breathing. I knew that voice; it was-
"Tasha." Clint's voice sounded pained as he exhaled her name over both my comms and through the warehouse.
Coulson decided to pipe in then, not exactly screaming but most definitely no longer calm. "What is happening in there? Report, now!"
I took a deep breath and stepped very slowly out into the dimly-lit interior. My tongue rasped against my dry mouth, but I still managed to raise my voice loud enough to echo throughout the building. "Natasha? Clint? This is Percy. Don't shoot."
A rope hit the ground with a dull thump, and a lithe figure shimmied down, steady but not looking dangerously hurt.
Natasha Romanoff had a split lip and an arrow stuck in her thigh, but somehow still looked effortlessly fabulous. It wasn't fair. She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing in a mildly deadly fashion. When she spoke, her voice was cold and flat, devoid of emotion. "Are you here to kill me, Percy?"
Coulson's voice thundered through my ear. "Shoot to kill, now. Goddamnit Jackson, what are you doing?"
I muttered a soft "wait" before approaching Natasha. "Not if I can help it." I shoved my gun back into its holster to emphasise the fact, ignoring Coulson's voice. "We're with SHIELD now."
She laughed softly. "So the Little Hawk did get what he wanted in the end." I almost snorted at that, given that Clint was still up in the rafters with a bullet in him, but decided not to ruin the moment.
"And so can you." I was not expecting those words to come out of my mouth and neither was Natasha. "If you help to patch Clint up, you might be able to convince the guys at SHIELD that you don't want to be an illegal assassin forever. And- Overwatch, with all due respect, shut up. I can't hear myself think."
Coulson spluttered indignantly. I threatened to break my comm in retaliation and he quickly fell silent with a half-hearted claim about 'firing' me.
"So, yeah, join SHIELD; it would be nice to have another friend on board." I held out my hand for a shake and she reciprocated. "Now, let's go stop Clint from bleeding out."
Nat looked a little sheepish at that. "Yeah, maybe. There's some first aid stuff in that corner." She pointed and I fetched. She was injured, after all.
Natasha wiggled her way up the rope towards Clint, before gesturing to me to follow her up from the shadows of the rafters. I shoved the handle of the first aid kit in my mouth before channeling all of my upper body strength and maneuvering my way up the rope towards Clint's slight moans of pain.
I tossed Nat the med kit as I yanked myself up onto the rafters in rather an ungainly fashion (the rope was thin and slippery. Give a guy a break)."Hey, buddy," I addressed Clint, "How you feeling?"
"Like I was shot in the fucking arm." Okay, so what was I actually expecting?
"Apart from that?"
"It's cold in here. And this rafter is hard and uncomfortable. And I was betrayed by someone who I thought was a friend. Nat, I am so betrayed! I will never forgive you!" He laid his head back dramatically and winced.
Nat glanced up from where she looked like she was psyching herself up to rip an arrowhead out of her thigh and rolled her eyes. "Of course, birdbrain."
"Anyway, say hello to SHIELD's newest recruit, if I get my way." I pressed a finger to my comms. "Huh, Coulson? What is your answer?"
Coulson gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. "I suppose, but only because you're two of our most promising agents and otherwise I'd have to shoot you all. I'll trust your judgement on this one."
"Yay! Overwatch, this is why you're my favourite."
"Say that one more time and I actually will shoot you."
"Whatever you say... Overwatch."
"That's not what I-"
"Over-watch, Over-watch!"
Clint narrowed a brow. "Percy, did you hit your head or something? You're kinda high-sounding."
I glanced down at the open first aid kit. "No, but that open canister might say 'oxygen' on it. I'm not sure, my Russian doesn't extend to chemical elements."
Clint groaned. "I'm gonna die here."
o0O0o
Mom and Paul's wedding anniversary was in May, and oh boy, was I going to make it special. I booked their favourite restaurant (the one they had gone to on their first date, and every one afterwards, because they're dorks) and then I called in a favour with a guy I knew from high school who ran one of the horse and carriage companies in Central Park.
The actual day was thankfully sunny and I was going to make it so adorable it would be sickening. Not to mention that I hadn't told either of them that I was due home from work for once.
Clint and I drove the distance up to New York, both not wanting to go in a plane after our last mission involved a hijacker. Pro tip: guns in pressurised containers equal death. Good job I was wearing a parachute.
Our next job was to somehow park the car and get into the apartment with a large bouquet of flowers without being spotted by the couple. Our spy training came in handy, but we didn't want to look too suspicious and get reported to the police, because bailing out your son probably wouldn't be the best wedding anniversary ever. We ran up the fire escape to the window of what used to be my room, and then Clint's, and quietly jimmied the window. We clambered in and immediately set to work. Clint removed the vent cover discreetly, leaving me standing on guard. He gave me a thumbs up before grabbing the flowers and the card we had written for them and shuffling into the vents. I recognised the familiar quiet creaking of Clint doing surveillance, and then I received the all-clear on my comms.
(Yes, we had brought comms from work because we were extra and wanted it to be a really big surprise. Also to piss off the too-proper technicians in charge of them.)
I opened the window slightly wider, because it was always more difficult to get out than to get in, and watched as Cint gracefully dropped to the floor from the ceiling vent. "Done."
I grinned in response. "Okay, let's get outta here."
Clint folded himself neatly through the window and I followed with a little less poise, shutting it behind me and not-quite chasing him down the fire escape because we were both incredibly mature.
We raced to the restaurant (after grabbing a change of clothes and getting changed in the back of the Inconspicuous Van™, which we'd kind of unofficially booked out aka stolen, because sitting in a posh restaurant in tac gear is a bad idea), having booked tables for both Mom and Paul, and us. We hoped that they would notice the incredibly conspicuous notecard and enormous bouquet of flowers when they got back from work and actually go to the restaurant for the time written there (we'd let them know in advance that it was a surprise and to charge it to the official SHIELD tab, which I'd nicked the details for. It was a 'work perk', if anyone asked). I sat down at our table, hand running up and down my legs nervously. "This will work, right?"
Clint made a 'pfft' noise. "Of course it will, how unobservant do you think Mom is?"
I froze. Did he just call Mom 'Mom'?
Clint stared at me in concern. "Why are you grinning like that?" He spun around to look behind him, looking concerningly like an excited puppy. "Are they here?"
I shook my head gently. "No, but people are going to look at us funny if you keep bouncing in your seat. You're supposed to be a spy. Blend in!"
"Yeah, but can I ask again, why are you smiling?
"You just called my mom 'Mom."
Clint snorted. "No, I didn't."
"For an assassin with over 100 confirmed and nearly 200 accredited kills (yes I read your file; shut up) you are a terrible liar."
"You read my... Nevermind, the point still stands: no, I didn't."
"You so di- shhhhhhh!"
Mom and Paul walked into the restaurant, looked a little bewildered. Clint and I spun around in our seats and put on the very best 'random civilian' personas that we had. I loved this bit, randomly chatting about the mundane things like how Clint's 'dog' and 'sister' were doing while he spewed nonsense about the weather forecast and how the only people who lied more than weather people were politicians.
The waitress took our order and then Mom and Paul's, doing a constant routine throughout the meal going from table to table. At the end, when it was our time to pay the bill, I pulled out the SHIELD credit card and thrust it in her direction. "Can I pay for both tables, please?"
The waitress's eyes widened as she realised that the weirdly (hey, SHIELD suits are cheap and fit all weird to go over bulletproof vests, which we weren't wearing) dressed slightly scruffy twenty year old was paying for a meal for two far more mature looking adults. "Okay." She let me insert the card into the machine, eyeing me tentatively as if she expected the card to bounce at any moment. Rude.
It didn't bounce, and a rather enormous amount of money was put straight through for Coulson (probably, as our handler) to deal with later. She thanked us rather kindly considering how rude she'd been earlier, and then moved onto my parents' table to tell them that their meal had been fully paid for by me.
Mom then kicked up a minor fuss of 'no no no why did they do that who even is it- oh'.
I waved. "Hey guys. Happy anniversary."
Mom's face flipped through emotions like a kid with a picture book: angry to happy to amused to angry to joyful. "Perseus Jackson!"
I smiled, only a tad awkwardly. "Surprise?"
"Yes, surprise indeed." She folded her arms. "You couldn't have just sent a card like a normal person?"
I scoffed. "No."
Clint, eloquent as always, snorted behind me, alerting Mom to his presence. "And you, Clinton Francis Barton, don't you dare pretend that you aren't just as involved as he is!"
Clint froze in that way that he did only when Mom gave him the Talking To™. Seriously, the guy can walk into a firefight without a flinch, cool as anything, but Mom? She terrifies him. I hear the words "How does she know my middle name?" slip out of his mouth before he went completely stock still.
I grinned guiltily. "Mom knows all, Francis."
He glowered good-naturedly.
Mom hastily thanked the waitress and got ready to leave, gesturing for us to come with. We slid out of our chairs, possibly with the kind of grace that most people get mildly concerned by, but hey, perks of being a spy 'n all that. We headed home to our little apartment that contained our family.
"What are you doing back in New York?" Mom grabbed one of the couch cushions and hugged it around her midsection, looking a little lost, but very happy nonetheless.
"We took the time off to come and see you guys. Treat you even. You deserve it, especially having to deal with me and this one." I elbowed Clint lightly in the stomach. He tensed almost imperceptibly, training coming to the forefront as he fought to not launch himself in my direction. Might've messed up the living room. Yikes.
o0O0o
Nat was about four months into her SHIELD probation when they finally let her go out on a mission with us. I think they were scared of her tearing the place down in boredom (which was probably a justified concern). The mission was out in the middle of Tajikistan,which was, in my opinion, weird as fuck. Not that questioning SHIELD ever got you anywhere.
Sure, it was the lowest-level low-level mission that they could've picked, but it meant that the stakes were low, so SHIELD could extract Clint and I if Nat decided to go feral. It was drugs bust and an easy one at that; we'd been given the times and dates of the border crossing, told that there was only one feasible border in a mountain pass between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, where the drugs were being transported to.
We were stood by said mountain pass as we waited silently from above for the drug smugglers to arrive at their stupidly easy to find crossing point. It was cold. I shivered miserably while Nat just produced these vodka miniatures from somewhere in her coat ("Nat, how on Earth did you smuggle those out?") and handed us each one without a word, eyes clearly displaying her 'shut up' message as she knocked hers back in one, neatly capping the bottle and putting it back into her coat. I shrugged before downing it despite any misgivings (I was cold. Did I mention that?), while Clint looked down at it skeptically. "Maybe I'll have it later." I realised suddenly that giving alcohol to someone who was abused by an alcoholic probably wasn't a good idea. He shoved the bottle into his coat pocket before fiddling with the drawstring of his bow, muttering something about cold making it brittle.
"Back in my day," Natasha burst out, trying to break the tension that was building, "Tajikistan wasn't even close to being an oblast, let alone a country."
I wasn't sure what any of that meant. "Okay."
Clint's head shot up. "Nat, oblasts are from the Soviet Union. It said that Tajikistan became part of the Soviet Union in 1919. How old even are you?"
Nat pulled a knife out of some hidden pocket of her coat, took off a glove, and starting filing her nails with it. "Older than you, and that's all you're going to know." I didn't question it: questioning Nat when she'd being cryptic gets you an even more cryptic answer or a knife in a non-vital part of your body (if you're lucky).
"Nat, you are going to get frostbite."
She snorted. "Frostbite is for babies." I was pretty sure that wasn't how it worked, but she was currently holding a knife and I wasn't, so I wasn't arguing.
Clint burrowed deeper into his thick, winter-camouflage coat until only his eyes were really visible. They were erring on the side of murderous, I'll admit. His breath clouded in front of him, giving the impression of a bundled-up and pissed-off blond-ish dragon.
As much as I hated to admit it, the alcohol was warming my insides quite pleasantly and taking the edge off of the biting wind that swept across the desolate moonscape. By this time (by which I mean slightly drunken time, since I had almost never consumed alcohol before and was fairly sure that Nat's miniature was both illegally strong and rather large, so well over a unit) I had completely accepted that it wasn't the alcohol that had haunted my past, but instead Gabe's putrid personality showing itself in the form of abuse. Not that it meant that I was going to drink much myself, but dire needs in dire circumstances and all that. Plus I quite liked my toes to stay attached to my feet.
I shuddered again as I heard a crunch of feet on the icy snow below us. Are you kidding: they were trying to smuggle drugs on foot? How dumb can you get? How dumb do you have to be to be here anyway (looking at you, SHIELD)?
All three of us sprang into action with Clint nocking his bow (he'd been stubborn and flat-out refused the rifle, saying that the cold would cause it to jam or something equally stupid. The unknowing techies just gave in, eventually), and Nat and I heading as quickly and silently as we could down the mountains to meet the illegal drug smugglers below us.
I mean, we were both spies, so we were quiet (quieter than the oafs beneath us, anyway, not that it was difficult), but Nat was genuinely soundless and my slightly drunken brain did think for a brief moment that she was actually a ghost come to kill us all, because who is completely silent on snow? (Not me, that's fucking who.)
I whispered into the comms, confirming our orders (shoot to kill: these guys were all also arms dealers to the black market as well as drug smugglers, apparently), before slipping down to cover the rear of the convoy (if that's what you all it when it's people), preparing to box them in. Nat was going to be the dramatic person at the front, while I helped Clint to gun (or arrow) them all down. Just because SHIELD has a flair for dramatics.
I crept around to the back of the group, before lying down in the snow and slipping the rifle case from my back, clicking the parts together almost soundlessly and loading it, giving a soft affirmative to my teammates.
A cold voice echoed out across the frozen wastelands, and the convoy (?) erupted into chaos, men scrambling for guns. Two or three just bolted, trying to sprint through the nearly waist-deep snow on the sides of the track and not making much headway.
I tightened one last bolt and stepped up fluidly, swinging the weapon to coldly (very coldly, given the temperature) fill the deserters with lead. The screams intensified as they realised that I was there as well. Clint told me afterwards that the flat, dangerous look didn't fade from my eyes for hours afterwards.
One man fell, scream turned abruptly to a gurgle, as a black-feathered arrow lodged itself in his jugular. I heard Clint muttering about how his 'chicken screeching' was giving him a headache.
The blood bounced on the snow, I noticed with a sort of detached fascination, landing almost metres away from where it started and turning the blue-white snow all shades of brown and crimson.
I kept firing through the crowd, hitting target after target until it was only Nat left standing in front of me. She gave a small, feral smile and holstered her smoking pistol (because she is way too cool for a rifle, of course), before turning to walk back to the rendezvous, combat boots leaving deep imprints in the bloodied snow.
We left the bodies for the wolves.
