Compromised

Disclaimer: I don't own 'Harry Potter' or 'Avengers'. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter One: Probationary Officer

1st October, 2003

They called her Nightshade. Curvy, small, with a Mona Lisa smile, and a face most women would die for. The same could be said for the entire package, in truth, a tiny waist, but disproportionately wide hips, legs up to her armpits, and a rack that should only ever be worshipped.

"You survived training. Congratulations."

Coulson couldn't sound more enthused if he was watching grass grow. Clint himself was occupied with SHIELD's newest recruit, with the brightest eyes he'd ever seen, and an almost innocent sort of sexuality that was difficult to ignore.

"Thank you," she acknowledged. Her voice was devoid of an English accent, but her tone was low and throaty, and he thought she could probably wrap men around her little finger with a whisper of their names on her tongue and a flutter of those thick black lashes.

No wonder SHIELD thought she'd make an excellent asset. She was a temptress without even trying.

"My name is Phil Coulson. I'm your handler, which essentially means I watch over you on and off field duty. Hawkeye, here, can explain further. Do you understand that until further notice, you'll be a probationary officer under the seniority of Agent Barton?"

"Yes," she confirmed. She met his gaze, a clash of grey and green, and her lips pulled into the slightest of smiles.

"Excellent," Coulson acknowledged, "In that case, welcome to SHIELD. Barton will show you your quarters. You are, of course, free to live off base, but you will always have a room here as well."

Phil disappeared into his office, and Clint approached the girl with his hand outstretched for a handshake. She shook it, her grip firm and callused, and all he could think about was the fact that the girl was eighteen, formerly trained by Britain's MI-6 from the age of ten, and probably as jaded by her past as Clint was by his.

"Clint Barton."

"Elle Potter. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The feeling's mutual. It should be an experience working with you."

He showed her the way to the quarters they would share. It was a dormitory more than anything, a set of bunk beds, a chest of drawers, and a small attached bathroom with a medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Clint didn't use it much, more comfortable with his dinky little apartment in Brooklyn when he wasn't in the field, but he kept a supply of clothes and weapons available, and offered up two of the drawers for her use.

"It's not much." He shrugged. He wouldn't feel guilty about something that wasn't his fault.

"It's enough," she answered simply. "After the streets, it's almost luxury."

He couldn't deny that. He chuckled instead, nodded his agreement, and asked if she'd want to spar later. They'd have to get a feel for each other's fighting styles soon enough, and it would be better if they weren't thrown head first into the field beforehand. That could get people killed, and it would probably do them both well to get to know each other, if only marginally.

Trust, after all, took time.

That was what found them in the gym several hours later. Their first stop had been the shooting range, where he'd learned that she had a frankly wicked skill with throwing knives. She excelled with guns as well, but her preference, as he understood, was blades, and he'd not been about to contest her preference for weapons that were arguably out of date.

In turn, she'd learned that his marksmanship skills were second to none, that he could use any weapon offered to him, but his first choice would always be the bow and arrow.

In the gym, they'd kicked off their shoes, warmed up, and begun to spar, and 45 minutes later, they'd begun to tire ages ago, and yet neither had called a halt to the exercise, and Clint had come to the conclusion that the girl was probably as stubborn as he himself was. They were more or less equal in skill, however, and after they'd gone all out in the last ten minutes, Clint finally called their spar to a halt, drenched in sweat and short of breath.

"I'm impressed," Clint admitted, "No one's ever been able to manage so long against me before."

"I was partnered with you for a reason," she acknowledged dryly, "As I understand it, our eventual missions will be the suicidal sort. After I left MI-6, it took SHIELD a long time to find me."

"Why did you leave?"

Her gaze darkened, her expression soured, and Clint contemplated the possibility that they'd been paired together for more reasons than their preternatural skill for fighting and killing things. He didn't pursue the topic, however, and instead, he led the way towards the mess hall, where they enjoyed idle chit chat over lunch and public scrutiny.

"Have you read my file?" He enquired.

"Yes. I refused to go in blindly, and Fury's desperate enough to be accommodating. I doubt I received all of the facts, however."

"Not likely," he agreed. "I read yours as well."

She gave another Mona Lisa smile, but she also changed the subject, and Clint took the opportunity to regale her with stories of terrorising the trainees.

"Yes," she acknowledged dryly, "I remember your Nerf arrows. Sanderson was particularly unimpressed when you managed to superglue one to his forehead."

Clint laughed shamelessly, and explained that he used it as a training exercise. It kept their guard up, kept them vigilant, and kept them humble. The supervisors saw the merit in junior hazing, and thus, it wasn't stopped.

"We don't need arrogant jackasses in the field," he continued, "It's dangerous enough without assholes who think they know best. It weeds out the most competent from the sorry bastards who wouldn't survive a day. I don't remember ever shooting you."

"My training officer in MI-6 practised the method of 'constant vigilance'. He snuck up on recruits and shouted it in our ears until we learned to be perpetually on guard. I learned 'constant vigilance' very quickly."

Their conversation continued, reliving meaningless anecdotes about their training experiences, and before long, it was past three. Clint showed her to the office they would have to share, she made herself comfortable at the empty desk, and Clint himself procrastinated his way through a pile of paperwork he'd been putting off for days. Eventually though, he'd finished, the paperwork was filed, and the pair settled themselves in their dorm, for what would be the first test of their partnership: sharing a room.

For a pair of assassins, it was a lot easier said than done.