It takes Coulson a week to decide on Clint's punishment for messing up the Garcia op, and Clint only thirty seconds to decide he'd much rather strangle himself with his own bowstring.
He argues long and hard that making him give a series of lectures at CIAU is a waste of his talents and everyone's time, and doesn't Coulson remember Clint slept through most of his own courses at SHIELD? ("I'm a high school drop-out, sir." "You'll do six modules over three days." "I barely know how to add and subtract." "The class will have around twenty people." "Divisions of any sort are a mystery to me." "Agent Clara Ramirez will be waiting for you." "I can't even calculate a tip. Just ask Natasha.")
Clint points out that he's much better suited to a more practical sort of class; Coulson points out that letting him show off in front of a group of impressionable CIA recruits is no one's idea of a fitting punishment; and Hill points out that Avenger or not, she has the authority to make him spend the next six months as Jasper Sitwell's personal assistant. ("Do not try me Barton. I'm getting mighty tired of your bullshit.")
That's how Clint and Natasha find themselves in Langley, Virginia.
Clint is there because impromptu make-out session notwithstanding, Coulson has yet to forget he went rogue on a mission. Natasha is there because according to Clint, if he has to put up with the sorry collection of SHIELD rejects the CIA employs, so does she.
That's some deeply flawed logic right there, but it was either tagging along or letting Tony take another stab at turning her back, and the last discussion on the subject had included the words 'transfiguration ray.' ("Kind of like the makeover version of a death ray. What do you think, Bruce?" "I think thirty-six hour days is how you end up with ideas like transfiguration ray." "You say that like it's a bad thing.")
They're at the CIA headquarters because Clint balked at showing up at a place someone had unironically named CIA University, and they're in the big auditorium because news somehow got out that an Avenger was giving a lecture.
That or the CIA has an unusual large amount of agents in need of an intro course on mathematics for precision shooters.
"Gravity," says an elderly lady in the front row.
"That's right, Doris, gravity. Benson, hand Doris the trophy. You don't deserve it." Agent Benson chuckles and passes the small Hawkeye figurine someone had thought to bring to the junior agent in the row in front of him, who then passes it to the agent in the row in front of her, all the way down to Mrs Doris Lansing, who smiles and bows her head at her cheering colleagues. "Yeah, yeah, settle down, people," Clint says. "The HR department is back in the lead, and shame on all the rest of you. Gravity is another thing that affects a bullet's trajectory. So far we have wind, temperature, altitude, humidity, gravity, what else?"
Clint had been determined to be difficult; he had been determined to be the worst. SHIELD wanted him to teach CIA recruits? Fine. He'd teach them. He'd teach them real good. He'd be the most thorough, most painstakingly meticulous teacher they had ever seen. By the time he was done with them, they'd have formulas coming out of their ears. He would bore them to death if he had to bore himself to death to do it.
That brilliant plan (which had mostly consisted of Clint cutting off his nose to spite his face) had not survive first contact with the enemy, and Natasha is not even a little surprised.
Clint likes people. He likes people a lot. Even if they happen to be CIA. But most importantly, Clint likes showing off. He grew up in the circus. He likes the attention, he likes the applause, and he could never resist putting on a show.
And he doesn't need a bow to do it.
"Anyone? What else can affect a bullet's trajectory?"
"The Hulk on a rampage?"
"Accounting loses a point because Greg thinks he's funny." The collective groan gives away the location of the entire Accounting department. "Anyone else?"
"The Coriolis Effect," says a voice from the back.
"I'm not giving you the trophy, Quincy. You're still a dick." John Quincy smirks and flips Clint off. "The Coriolis Effect is one of those things snipers like to talk about 'cause they think it makes them look impressive. Basically means that because of the rotation of the Earth, if the distance of the shot is long enough, your target will have moved slightly by the time the bullet reaches it. Which is kind of cool, but also largely academic. The effect is minimal at anything under a thousand yards, and even at longer distances nine times out of ten you'll have bigger problems than the damn planet moving. Like an actual moving target. Or wind. Or line of sight issues." He points emphatically at Greg from Accounting. "Or the Hulk on a rampage."
"You're just bitter that you can't shoot an arrow far enough for the Coriolis Effect to matter," Quincy shouts over the general laughter, causing Clint to flip him off.
"Why use a bow and arrow at all?" Mrs Lansing asks when the noise dies down.
"Doris, you wound me," Clint says, holding his hand to his chest. "I thought we had a good thing going here." He winks at her and the older woman chuckles, shaking her head. "Why use a bow and arrow? Anyone care to hazard a guess?"
"Because it's damn cool."
"That's right, Greg, it is damn cool, and I don't even care that you're sucking up to me. Doris, pass the trophy to Greg. Accounting is back in the lead."
It's less a punishment and more a chance for Clint to show off in front of a group of impressionable CIA recruits and their equally impressionable, if more experienced, colleagues, and Natasha's fairly sure that hadn't been the point of this whole exercise, but she's not complaining. After all, she enjoys a good show as much as anyone.
No one so much as bats an eye at the orange tabby sitting on the desk behind Clint Barton of SHIELD as he carries on explaining things about elevation estimation, and windage formulas, and why John Quincy is a hack who should never be listened to, let alone humoured in any way.
Going around with a cat is exactly the sort of eccentric behaviour CIA agents have come to expect from their SHIELD counterparts, and there's no telling what sort of bizarre things Avengers are up to. Hawkeye knows the Scarlet Witch. Maybe the cat is a familiar. That's a thing, right? Or maybe he's just really attached to his pets. Who's to say? But in a world where superheroes exist and there's a true, bona fide superhero right in front of them, they have no attention to spare for the critters said superheroes carry around with them.
It doesn't bother Natasha, even if she's supremely tired of the whole fur and claws act. Spies do better in the shadows. She likes being an Avenger, and she values her place in the team, but it has had the unfortunate side effect of making her far too recognisable, and in her line of work, that's a hazard. She can work with it, but it's a hazard. Being this inconspicuous with so little effort on her part is a luxury she doesn't get to enjoy very often anymore.
She doesn't get to enjoy it for very long, however, because one moment she and Clint are alone in the raised dais facing the auditorium, and the next there's a tall, blond woman in a fitted green dress just a few feet from them. Natasha instinctively hisses, fangs bared and hackles raised, and Clint doesn't even turn before throwing a dagger he hadn't been holding a second before, left-handed, at the woman.
The dagger stops mid-air only a few inches from the woman's face and she looks at it, unimpressed. A wave of her hand is all it takes for it to drop to the floor with a clang.
"Verily, this is a most uncivilised welcome."
"Might just mean you're not welcome." Clint isn't the only one aiming a gun at Amora. There's more than HR reps and accountants in the audience, and even if most of the field agents among them did not feel the need to carry a weapon to a lecture, enough of them did that there's a small arsenal trained on the Enchantress. For all the good it will do any of them. "What do you want?"
"Must I want something, Clint Barton?" Her smile is bright and stunning and dangerous. "Maybe I'm just desirous of your company."
"Yeah, that seems likely. What do you really want, Amora?"
But the Asgardian is no longer paying attention to him. Doris Lansing shrieks when her phone turns into a snake in her hands, and shakes it off with frantic movements.
"Now, now, we shan't be friends if you insist on being disagreeable. One must not tell tales." There are startled shouts when everyone's smartphones and tablets and laptops rise up in the air, which turn into alarmed screams when they blow up several feet above their owners, showering burning debris over them. Most people duck for cover, but several agents open fire instead, and Amora immediately casts a shock wave in their direction, knocking back anyone still standing.
That's as much of an opening as Clint needs to lunge for the desk, where his bow and quiver are lying next to Natasha, who hisses at him despite herself, because everything around her is registering as a threat: Clint, Amora, all the CIA agents. There's too much noise, too much movement, and if she moves she'll bolt, so she stays put and growls and hisses, and tries very hard to remember who she is.
There's no more than a second between Clint grabbing the bow and an arrow flying straight at Amora's head. She stops it as she stopped everything else.
"How about you pick on someone your own size?" Clint asks, another arrow nocked and ready.
Amora smirks, eyeing the arrow that's still hovering in front of her. "You Midgardians always give yourselves too much credit. Do you fancy yourself someone my size, archer?" She touches the tip of the arrow with a finger and howls in pain when an electrical discharge runs through her body, causing her to fall to her knees.
"Can't do that with a bullet," Clint says with a smirk.
It's a band-aid on an open wound, and even Clint must know that, but before he can so much as move a muscle, Amora's eyes flash green and his own glaze over. All the way across the auditorium, John Quincy raises his handgun and fires a single shot, but the round never reaches the dais, because that very same second Amora waves a hand in his direction and a shimmering barrier immediately goes up between the dais and the rest of the auditorium. Without looking away from Clint, she rises gracefully to her feet, her smile sharp and dangerous.
And then the bow comes up and Clint releases the arrow, his eyes alert and focused. Taken by surprise, Amora is too slow deflecting the projectile, which grazes her cheek, leaving a thin red line in its wake.
"What is it with you lot and trying to get into people's heads?" He already has another arrow aimed at her. "Is this an Asgardian kink I should know about?"
The Enchantress chuckles, raising a hand to her face. "Loki was right," she says, staring at the blood on her fingers before turning her attention back to Clint. "You are fun."
"What do you want, Amora?"
She pouts, tilting her head to the side. "I'm bored." God rid them of bored Asgardians. "And if Odinson is too busy with his Midgardian pet to amuse me, I must make do with what entertainment I can fashion for myself. She," she says, pointing at Natasha, "was diverting for a short while, but I find myself in need of a new plaything. And I'm told you make for an excellent plaything, Clint Barton."
When the time is right, Natasha is going to take her sweet time cutting that pretty face to ribbons. And then she will find Loki, tie him to a table and pour a vat of molten lead down his throat. Neither of them will be bored then.
"Has Loki been singing my praises?" Clint takes a step back, the mirror image of Amora's step forward. "That's sweet. I didn't know he cared."
Amora's smile is that of a predator, all teeth and sharp edges. "You and I will achieve great things. You will assist me in taking down your little friends, and in exchange for your services I might even let you live."
"Tempting as that sounds, I'm gonna have to pass."
"Do not mistake that for a request, archer. You cannot win against me, and you'd be a fool to try. You are an insect. You are an ant. I will take what I came for. Your agreement is of no significance."
"I just had the greatest feeling of déjà vu. Newsflash, lady: you can't get inside my head. I'm not going anywhere, I'm not doing shit for you, and you can't make me. And you might think you're so clever, taking out all the mobile phones, but the moment you walked in, Natasha activated the tracker in my bow. The other Avengers will be here in a matter of minutes."
"No more time for niceties, then."
Natasha anticipates her move just a second too late, and tries to dart out of the way, but she's too slow, and Amora's spells yanks her up in the air and squeezes all the hair from her lungs. And then it keeps squeezing. She can't stop the horrible sounds torn from her throat, can't help the distressed whines and whimpers as Amora's magic surges through her body, crushing bones and tearing flesh with slow, deliberate cruelty. She doesn't have any air left even to scream.
Clint shoots two arrows in quick succession, but Amora deflects them easily, her laughter loud to Natasha's ears.
"You cannot win against me, Clint Barton, but it does you credit to try. And because I am merciful, I shall offer you a deal. Give in to me and I will let her live."
"If you think I will bargain for her safety, you don't know me. Or her. SHIELD doesn't negotiate with psychotic bitches from outer space."
"You would watch your friend die?"
Yes, he would, and Natasha loves him for it. SHIELD has protocols for everything, even for this, but those are nothing to the promises she and Clint have made to one another over the years, the vows they've made and always kept. They've always had each other's back, they've always brought each other back, and they've never once let themselves become each other's weakness. And they won't start now.
Amora's smile falters for a second, and then one of the CIA agents fires a shot at the magical barrier and her smile widens again, sharp and dangerous.
"Would you watch them all die?" she asks, and there's suddenly a commotion on the other side of the barrier. The CIA agents, who until then had been relatively subdued, are suddenly shouting in alarm — some of them pounding on the doors, some of them emptying their clips on the locks or on the windows or on the magical shield keeping them all trapped like rats. "It is my understanding Midgardians need oxygen to live," Amora continues, as if commenting on the weather. Her expression hardens when she adds, "Soon they won't have any left. Would you have their deaths on your conscience?"
The sounds of their screams and shouts and sobs swells all around them on this side of the barrier, amplified by the Enchantress's magic, drowning Natasha's own choked shrieks and increasingly softer whimpers. There's darkness at the edge of her vision, and soon she won't be able to keep herself conscious anymore, but she still sees the exact moment Clint acknowledges defeat, even before he lowers his bow.
"Fine," he says. "You win. Goddamn it, I said you win. Let them go."
The crushing pressure on Natasha eases, and she almost chokes on the sudden influx of air that fills her lungs.
"So we have a deal?"
"I have conditions. If I go with you, you will let everyone here go, unharmed, including Natasha. And you will make her human again."
"You make a lot of demands, for one in so weak a bargaining position."
"You want me, that's my price. And you can take it or stay here and argue about it until Iron Man blasts through those doors."
Amora smiles and suddenly the entire world turns and shifts around Natasha. The startled sound that coaxes out of her turns into a strangled scream as her bones change and shift, her whole body morphing and expanding and reshaping itself. When she drops out of the air, she tries to break her fall with human hands, tries to avoid hitting the table on the way down by kicking uselessly at the air with human legs.
The corner of the table hits her stomach and she stifles a scream as she rolls to the floor.
"I said unharmed." Clint's voice sounds different to her human hears: less nuanced, less detailed.
"'Tis but a bruise. It's of no consequence."
Natasha tries to clear her head, tries to push herself up, but her limbs feel alien and unfamiliar, and refuse to cooperate, and she can do no more than lie there, naked and weak like a newborn. She turns her head towards Amora, who's now standing only a few inches from Clint, his bow lowered and useless by his side.
"I've upheld my part of our bargain, Clint Barton. It's time you upheld yours."
"No," Natasha says, the sound catching in her throat. Neither Amora nor Clint so much as glance at her.
"She will kill you," Clint says, his gaze firmly on Amora. "She will find you and she will kill you."
"She's welcome to try," she says, and then leans forward, kissing him — a soft peck on the lips that quickly turns into something more, and Natasha can almost see the exact moment Amora's spell locks on Clint. When she pulls away, his eyes are glazed over and far away, a slight green tinge to his pupils.
The sound of an explosion draws their attention to the other end of the auditorium. Steve is the first one to walk through the hole in the wall, his shield raised in front of him. The moment he does, Amora's magical barrier drops, and Natasha knows without looking that neither the Enchantress nor Clint are there anymore.
AN: Turns out my prediction of one chapter left might've been somewhat optimistic, and there's actually one more still to come.
Hope you guys enjoyed this one :)