Note: This is so many levels of "not where I thought this was going" that I don't even know what to say. Also, this entire chapter is one story, so be prepared for that.
It was supposed to be a quick mission. Drink some champagne, flirt with the ambassador, and gain access to the embassy's basement to find the files her informant claims are hidden there. Just another rather boring Thursday night.
Across the room, Barton is chatting with a couple of elderly women, doing a decent job of looking like he's interested in what they're saying. She can hear his murmured "mmmhmm"s and "really?"s through her earpiece. She knows he feels like he's missing a limb without the weapons they didn't even try to get past security.
She weaves her way to the door and smiles at the security guard stationed in the hall as she makes her way to the ladies room. She makes sure she's alone, then kicks off her shoes and stows them underneath the garbage bag in the trash can. She unscrews the air duct in the ceiling and hoists herself into the vent.
"In the duct" she mutters as she clamps the duct back into place and starts the slow crawl through the building. Finally, she reaches the end of the duct and listens for a full minute to make sure she's alone. She opens the access panel and drops to the floor, murmuring "Heading for the stairs".
The hall is still deserted, so it only takes her a few seconds to reach the stairs. Thirty seconds later, she's in the basement, picking the lock on the room that should hold the files.
The first sign that she's not alone is two hands, clamping down on her arms. The second is a familiar voice saying, "Well, well, little Natalia."
"Shit", says Clint's voice in her ear.
. . .
He's had a bad feeling all day, an itch between his shoulder blades where his quiver should be. He watches Romanoff flirt with some old dude in a tux and takes a canapé from a passing waiter. She's moving closer to the door, so it won't be long now. The women he's talking to laugh, and he chuckles as well, even though he has no idea what they're talking about.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Nat slip out the door into the hall. He can hear her heels clicking along the marble hallway, then a gasp as she lifts herself into the duct. "In the duct", he hears, followed by the sound of his partner pulling herself through the metal duct. She stops, and he hears her unfastening the access panel, and then a thud as she drops to the floor." He smiles at the women he's talking to as he hears her say "Heading for the stairs".
A door opens and closes, and he hears nothing more than a little rustling as she makes her way to the target. Then he hears a gasp, and a man's voice saying, "Well, well, little Natalia."
"Shit", he says. He makes his excuses to the women he's talking with and moves toward the exit.
. . .
Three minutes later, he's creeping down the stairs wishing he had his bow and arrows. He can hear Nat's voice down the hall as well as echoing through his earpiece. As he hits the bottom step, there's a thud and she abruptly stops talking.
He reaches the end of the hallway and peers through the door. Nat is slumped in the arms of a disturbingly large man. Another man is running his hands over her, clearly checking for weapons. He finds the earpiece and yanks it out, tossing it on the floor and stepping on it before gesturing at his goon to follow him. Clint presses himself against the wall and waits as the two men walk by. They're focused on where they're going, oblivious to the threat he poses, so Nat is the only one who sees him. She grins and goes completely limp, slipping out of the goon's arms and then turning to fight. He sighs and takes on the tuxedoed leader.
It's the kind of fight he hates – too close, too personal – but it's the fight he's got, so he does what he has to do. The big guy hits the floor with a thud, and he throws one more punch at the leader before Nat grabs his hand. They bolt for the stairs and out the back door, racing for the fence that's hidden behind the trees.
They're not quite at the trees when the tuxedoed man starts to shoot. They duck and weave, and then they're over the fence and in their rental car, driving through the streets at a speed that's not quite fast enough to make it worth pulling them over.
"I knew this was going to go bad", he mutters. "I knew it. We never should have gone in there. We should have found another way."
His only answer is a broken sob.
. . .
She knows it's bad. Her side is on fire, it hurts when she breathes, and there's far too much blood seeping past the hand she's got pressed to the wound.
Beside her, Clint is swearing, yelling into his cell phone as the person on the other end tries to tell him where the closest hospital is. They hit the curb as they swerve around the corner, and she sobs from the pain.
"Hang in there, Nat", he says, and she musters all of her strength to reply.
"Not your fault." Her words slur, and she can feel the darkness approaching. "Bad luck. Tell … kids … Laura …"
The car skids to a stop and he's opening her door, pulling her out. "Tell them yourself. I'm not your messenger boy."
And then there are bright lights and loud voices and, finally, blessed darkness.
. . .
He hates this city; hates the architecture and the river, the spas and the cafes. Most of all, he hates the hospital – the fluorescent lights, the antiseptic smell, the terrible coffee, the hushed voices of the medical staff.
It's been hours since Nat was rushed into the back of the hospital. He's grabbed his bag from the car and changed out of his monkey suit. Now he's staring into space, waiting for an update, hoping it'll be a good one.
His eyes focus for a moment, and he sees the goon from the basement at the triage desk. He walks towards the desk and hears the nurse say, "I'm sorry sir, I can't give out any information on our patients."
Clint moves closer and throws his arm around the goon, using his other hand to press a knife to his ribs. "Hey, buddy!" he says, "Thanks for coming." He steers the goon through the emergency room doors and around the corner, where there's a conveniently deserted alcove.
The goon doesn't want to talk, and he doesn't have time to persuade him, so he does what he has to do and leaves the goon lying in a puddle of his own blood. The only thing of interest in his pockets is his cell phone, and Clint pockets it for further investigation. He makes a stop at the car and grabs his bow and arrow, then climbs the bricks to the roof and settles in. The goon's cell phone rings once, then again, and he finally spots the goon's boss stomping impatiently towards the ER. He lets his arrow fly and his victim falls. Before anyone notices the man lying on the ground, he has stashed his weapons in the car and made his way back to the ER.
. . .
Four hours after he carried her through the door, she's out of surgery. Two hours after that, she wakes up.
"Hey", she says.
"Hey", he answers, more calm than he's been in hours. "How do you feel?"
She pauses to take stock. "Sore", she finally answers. "What happened?"
"You decided you wanted a bullet as a souvenir", he answers.
A look of fear washes over her as the events of the night come rushing back. She grabs his arm. "We need to get out of here."
"You can take a day off, Romanoff", he answers.
She shakes her head. "No. The guy in the basement. I knew him, and he knew me. I saw him in the red room. We have to get out of here."
"He's not a problem."
Something in his face must tell the story, because she relaxes back onto the bed. "Knew you'd have my back."
"Anytime, Romanoff", he answers.