Chapter Title: I Kick and You Like to Punch

Author's Note: Time for some badassery!

And there might be one point where it seems it might be a little too easy… Not proud of it. Did it anyway.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership or copyright of anything depicted or over anything you might recognize.

It was with a sense of trepidation, Natasha parted with her archer.

They each had a part to play if they had any hope of getting back inside that building but, in his state, she wanted desperately to keep an eye on him, no matter how healthy he claimed to be.

She had squeezed his hand and leaned her cooled forehead against his hot one. Hours outside in the snow and his skin was still worryingly warm. He had told her to be careful and not hurt anyone too badly while she had warned him to not fondle with his arrows for too long.

A quick wink and then he vanished from her sight.

She made her way to the front gates, etching silently from pine to pine to stay out of sight. Her slim, strong fingers tightened around the rifle as she leaned her head against coarse bark to steady herself. She glanced out. Several guards patrolled the front gates and walls, 22 yards of open space between her hiding spot and the gates. There was no way she wouldn't be gunned down if she just made a mad dash for it.

Instead, she settled for getting their attention. She raised the rifle and peered through the scope. Satisfied with her target, she pulled the trigger. Alarmed shouting followed immediately, along with a hail of retaliatory gunfire plowing into the snow and burying themselves into the tree trunk. She felt the kick-back of the semi-automatic as it jerked with every shot she fired; the loud bangs of chambers being emptied vibrating in her eardrums. She kept returning the fire until her rifle clicked empty. Natasha remained hidden, waiting until they realized she had stopped shooting. Their rapid gunfire ceased. In the ensuing quiet, she yelled out, the Russian language rolling effortlessly off her tongue.

"I'm out! Do not fire!"

A rough male voice echoed back. "Toss out your weapon! Then come out with your hands in the air!"

Natasha smirked and rolled her eyes.

Men.

She did as instructed. She threw the rifle to the side where it landed in a puff of featherlight snow before she moved into the open with her hands raised high above her head. She slowly walked towards the remaining guards, all of whom had their rifles squarely aimed at her. They intercepted her halfway, where the same guard spoke up again, barking at her to get on her knees.

Still with her hands resting on top her hair, she sunk to the ground, her knees digging into the cold snow. Her green eyes tracked the guards' movements as they surrounded her. The guard who had the command, spoke into the small walkie-talkie on his shoulder,

"Sir, we got her."

She couldn't discern the reply, only the disjoined scratchy answer whispering over the radio. But she assumed he wanted her brought to him directly. And her assumption only strengthened when the guard ordered her to stand, the round barrel of his rifle hovering at her chest, his finger caressing the trigger.

Natasha's eyes hardened.

Come on, Barton…

West of her location, Clint had snuck silently closer to a hangar, the trees covering his heavy steps. He took no chances. He didn't trust his own body to handle complicated or rapid movements like he normally could. Instead, he settled for sneaking in as close as he dared without too much gamble on his part. His secured rifle was hanging by his side in its strap, as he peeked out from his hiding spot.

There had been one or two guards on the outside of the hangar when they had made their explosive escape, but it seemed Omarov had learned from that. They had massively increased the guard count and Clint could make out at least 8 armed men circling the area.

Shit…

Gunfire echoed across the snowy landscape, coming from around the corner at the front gates. Natasha had started wreaking havoc. The men keeping sentry at the hangar tensed and Clint silently hoped some would run to provide assistance. As the universe continued teasing him, none of them moved, however. Instead, an unease settled over the guards as their fingers itched towards the triggers of their weapons and their attention shifted out into the landscape.

He breathed out an annoyed sigh. Natasha didn't have time for him to take too long. Time for a quick and slight alteration of plan then.

He sunk back into the shadows from where he had come, the gunfire whispering across the plains.

Clint returned without any stealth.

Instead, he came rushing towards the hangar, the snowmobile roaring beneath him as he ducked down to avoid the hail of bullets raining his way.

He headed directly for the large door.

A scream tore through the still air. It was quickly followed by a large boom as something broke and tore on the western side of the compound.

Natasha smirked.

Always gotta be so dramatic.

The guards around her jerked with the sudden sounds and with their attention drawn elsewhere, she pounced. She shot up from the ground, grabbing the wrist of the one on the right, while wrapping her arm around the one on the left's neck. Securely fastened in her grip, she twisted his upper body one way while she drove her heel violently into his shin. Both bones broke with an echoing snap and she let him crumble down to the snow with a cry of pain. She turned her attention back to the first guard. With her fingers still firmly wrapped around his wrist, Natasha pulled the knife from her belt and jammed it into his side. She had strategically inserted it as to make him compliable and utterly incapacitated. She needed him to do some legwork for her.

The guard jerked and grunted, the rifle almost slipping out of his hand. Natasha made sure she had a firm grip on lax fingers as well as the rifle before she spun around, so she landed at his back, holding the tall man upright as he staggered. She pressed his fingers against the trigger. A hail of bullets came her way as she started shooting every guard within her proximity. The bullets embedded themselves into the poor guard, using him as a human shield, while she etched closer to the gate. The large guard sagged quickly and soon his feet stumbled. He was too big for her to hold up for much longer. It didn't matter – she was close enough.

Natasha tossed the dead weight to the ground.

Then she leaped onto the next one.

Clint threw himself from the snowmobile seconds before it collided with the hangar door.

As the vehicle continued its rapid course, Clint abandoned ship and rolled into the snow to safety. He heard the loud impact as it crashed through the door along with the screams of the guards it took out on its way through. Clint slowed to a stop, his already-abused body protesting at such a move.

He raised his head and through blurred vision, the flames of a busted door and the unmoving shadows of limp guards on the ground drifted into focus. Clint heaved himself onto shaking feet with a pained grunt. He cautiously inched closer, the rifle held at the ready if any dared move. When a few started rising, Clint quickly dispatched them with as many bullets as it took. It still annoyed him that his reaction time was so slow and that his coordination was practically nonexistent.

He huffed in frustration as he moved through the large, gaping hole in the hangar door. The smoke stung his eyes and the arid air tore into his lungs. He stepped over a dead guard, half-smooshed under the keeled-over snowmobile, as he made his way through the hangar. In the far distance, the shooting had silenced, and Clint knew Natasha must have entered the compound.

With that knowledge, Clint started his descent back into Omarov's lair.

The alarm had started blaring again.

Its angry, red colors crisscrossed the walls and floor and the loud screaming blasted Clint's ears. It made it annoyingly hard to concentrate. He was breathing hard as he rounded another corner, relieved to find it empty for once. He had dispatched his fair share of guards by now and it had taken its toll. His hands hadn't stopped shaking for the past 20 minutes and he knew he had over-exerted himself well beyond his limits. Yet he continued to push on.

The compound had completely descended into chaos.

Guards weren't where they should be half the time, some dead, others having abandoned their posts and wandering aimlessly about, fidgeting nervously. Some of it was his doing. He had destroyed whatever he had come across but armed with only knives and guns it was limited what he could accomplish. He needed to find the armory. He needed to find Natasha too. She was no doubt causing her own amount of trouble somewhere. But they needed to coordinate. And locate that damn armory.

Instincts and experience guided his movements through the compound, making turns left and right until he found himself in front of an iron door, a keypad shining next to it.

Clint swept his eyes across the hall. Satisfied that he was alone, he shrugged nonchalant before blasting the keypad to pieces. He heard a slight groan from the door as the keypad frizzled and popped. He grasped the handle and started pushing. The door slowly etched open. With a final look at the halls, Clint slithered inside, closing the door behind him. The light inside flickered on. The SHIELD agent smirked.

His hunch proved right.

The room was a storage compartment, filled to the brim with boxes of ammunition and weapons of every kind; rifles, handguns, grenades, explosives, detonators, knives, heaps of ammunition and gear. All of it seemed haphazardly thrown in there, strewn randomly around the large room. It was definitely used more as storage than the actual weaponry. But it suited him fine. No one came to bother him as he took the liberty of browsing through the entire armory for anything useful. His eye caught sight of the heaps of C4 on a pallet.

That will do.

He grabbed a backpack from a pile on his right hand. He began stuffing the C4 blocks into the pack, briefly contemplating how many settings he would need to bring this compound, along with the whole disgusting operation, to its burning knees. He stuffed that backpack to the brink.

After that, Clint went in search of detonator wires and triggers. He rambled through the shelves and pallets, sampling extra ammunition and weapons. He tucked them away on his belt and hid as much as he could on his person. He was rummaging through a shelf when something to the left caught his eye.

"No…"

It can't be…

There, practically tossed onto the ground was his precious bow.

His quiver was resting right next to it, full and restocked with arrows, along with Natasha's Glocks and her utility belt. He felt furious they had simply discarded it like it was nothing more than another simple weapon they could use in their arsenal. But that feeling was nothing compared to the elation of being reunited with his beloved bow. It was silly, he knew, but it was a part of him; an extension of himself, never truly whole without it. It disgusted him that Omarov and his goons had defiled it by throwing it away like trash.

He smirked at the lovely sight.

"Come to papa."

TBC