BUDAPEST, HUNGARY
4:16 P.M.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Barton walked slowly along the third-tier veranda of the apartment building, attentively scanning his surroundings. The air was warm and quiet; the only noises were the faint tinkling of a nearby wind chime and the whoosh of passing cars in the street below.
Around the corner, a woman was singing softly in Hungarian as she watered the hanging ferns that swayed lazily in the breeze. She paused to stare at Barton as he passed, and he nodded a polite greeting.
He stopped outside Apartment 13 and drew a key from his pocket, glancing cautiously over his shoulder. He twisted the key in the lock and let himself into the flat.
The air inside was heavy with silence. Dust particles danced in the rays of golden sunlight that slanted in from the windows. Neat rectangles of sunshine pooled on the floor and the wooden table. The apartment lay quiet, waiting.
"Romanoff."
Even his voice was muffled by the layer of dust that lay thick on every surface. He cast a cursory glance around the peaceful kitchen and peered through into the living room. The few scattered pieces of furniture left no feasible hiding places. He moved instead to the bathroom.
A deft brush aside of the shower curtain instantly crossed the bathroom off the list. He had hardly ascertained this when a faint scuffling noise reached his ears, barely audible even in the oppressive silence. He tensed, hand straying automatically to his holster. There was only one place left to hide.
Noiselessly, he doubled back and approached the bedroom.
He paused in the doorway. "Romanoff," he said, more insistent this time. His eyes swept the room. Queen-size bed. Armoire. Quaint old vanity. None of it big enough to hide behind.
Unless…
His gaze rested on the bed. Heavy, floral-patterned comforter, skimming the floor on both sides. Bedframe elevated just enough to fit a small person.
He flicked open his holster.
Slowly, he approached the bed and knelt in the dust that blanketed the hardwood. He lowered his head to the floor, and lifted the comforter.
There was a flurry of movement in the darkness, and something shot toward his face. He fell back on his heels as a fat mouse streaked across the room, its nails scritching the floorboards. With a flick of its tail it vanished under the armoire.
Barton got slowly to his feet and plopped onto the sagging mattress. He dropped his head forward and sighed.
"Dammit."
S.H.I.E.L.D. HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CITY
7:47 P.M.
Coulson met Barton outside the hangar and fell into step beside him as he stalked down the crowded hallway.
"Still no luck?" Coulson asked sympathetically.
"Checked all the rendezvous points again," Barton grunted, weaving his way through the busy corridor. "Ottawa. Saint Petersburg. Budapest. Places we said we'd meet up if things went south. No sign of her. No sign she'd even been there." He shook his head, hot frustration prickling at his scalp. "I just, I don't get it, I mean obviously something's wrong or she would've been back by now so why wasn't she there? She should've been there."
"Give her some time," Coulson said evenly, keeping up with his furious pace. "Check back in another month or two; she might decide to show up."
"Yeah, and what if she can't?" Barton demanded. "I mean, what if she's hurt? What if she's being held somewhere?" What if she's dead? his mind whispered. He shoved the thought aside.
"But you know, I just don't see how she could be a captive," he went on hurriedly, "I mean, do you know how long the security cameras were out?"
"Thirty seconds.—"
"Thirty seconds," he repeated viciously. "And I just, I don't understand how anyone could get into that safe house, neutralize Romanoff, and get back out of there, all without raising any eyebrows, in thirty fucking seconds." He was aware that he was starting to rant, but he was tired and aggravated and he didn't care.
"No, thirty seconds is just enough time for her to walk out of there, get into a car, and drive away, so she has to have left voluntarily, there's no way around that. So where did she go? Why hasn't she contacted us? And why the hell didn't she bring any weapons?" He ruffled his hands through his hair, agitated.
"Barton," Coulson said firmly. "We're gonna find her. We have teams all over the globe looking for her, and our people are double-checking everything: the forensics report, the briefing file—"
"The briefing file." Barton let out an exasperated laugh. "Sir, I've been over and over that thing, it's a waste of time. 'Title, Operation Goldfire. Description, illegal weapons broker to deliver potentially lethal biohazardous substance to Russian buyer, loyalties unknown, in covert transaction'," he rattled off irritably.
"Barton," Coulson said passively.
They had reached the cafeteria, and Barton headed toward the coffee maker. "'Objective, secure payload without, one, alerting supplier, consumer, or other potential hostiles, e.g. security detail, to said proceedings until payload is acquired, or, two, implicating United States intelligence, viz. SHIELD et al., as perpetrators.'" He grabbed the coffeepot and began filling a mug with steaming coffee. "We know she secured the payload, I assume by impersonating the buyer and intercepting the transaction, but of course we'll never know 'cause she never filled out her damn field report," he fumed.
"Barton."
Barton spun to face him, coffee in hand. "Nineteen sixty-three, does the year nineteen sixty-three mean anything to you?"
"No," Coulson said patiently.
"No, and either it doesn't mean shit or it's the only piece of evidence we got," Barton snapped, stalking heatedly to a nearby table. He collapsed into a chair. "Graphology couldn't confirm if she wrote it or not, said it was written at a bad angle on a rough surface and graphology's a pseudoscience anyway so what's the point? We've got nothing to go on, nowhere to start, all I know is she's out there somewhere and I just—" He broke off suddenly, desperation swelling in his throat, and dropped his face into his hands.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The truth was that he was starting to panic. No one had seen her in two months, and he was certain that, if she could have, she would have contacted him by now, if just to tell him that she was alive. Which was why he was starting to worry that maybe she wasn't.
And on top of his fear that he would never see her again, he missed her so much that it ached. He missed her laugh and her sarcastic jokes and her exasperated eyerolls. He missed walking into a room and seeing her standing there. He missed the inconceivable ability he'd once had to simply pick up a phone and hear her voice. He missed the simple, profound freedom of knowing she was safe.
"Barton." He felt Coulson's hand on his shoulder. "You should get some sleep."
Barton sighed and massaged his forehead, a headache throbbing weakly behind his eyes.
"Theta team leaves for the next search in fifteen minutes," he said quietly. "I don't wanna miss it."
"They'll do fine without you," Coulson persisted. "Get some rest."
He considered it a moment. But then—
"They're going to Paris," he remembered, straightening. "It's one of her favorite cities."
He looked up at Coulson, who was watching him, looking concerned. "I should go," he said, and without another word, he got up and headed back to the hangar, leaving his untouched coffee to cool on the table.
This one gives good insight into Clint's mental state as time passes...
I hope you're enjoying it! Also I forgot to mention that you can look at my location board on Pinterest for this fic, if you want. It gives an idea of what I'm picturing, and the sections are labeled by chapter. The link is pinterest dot com / taliaedward/fic-the-lost-years/ . I had to space it out and write "dot com" for ffnet to accept the text but you get the idea:)