Room for Error
Set after Avengers. POV: Natasha Romanoff.
Disclaimer: The plot and the "Jamison" character are the only elements I own here. Everything else is borrowed from Marvel.
"Just get in there, get it done, and don't make a scene. There's a reason I'm sending you three—we've already got enough residual hysteria on our hands from the New York situation." Fury raised an eyebrow, drilling a stare from his good eye first into me, then Steve, then Clint.
The mission was straightforward enough, although somewhat sad in nature: Rick Jamison, an agent from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s security division, was apparently having difficulty getting his bearings after the whole Loki-brainwashing incident. Several agents were still dealing with lingering confusion, but Jamison's manifested in frenetic rampages during which he attempted to snipe random citizens, whom he called "servants of the Chitauri." Lucky thing his training focus was in nonlethal incapacitation.
I doubted that it would require all three of us to track and capture him, especially since his last known location was both recent and nearby. It was understandable, though; always better to send too many for a job than too few.
As an ex-spy with a buttload of stealth training, I was a sensible choice. Today, though, I secretly wished I wasn't one of Fury's "chosen ones." I was spent. Our scars from the battle for New York still bled—well, maybe everyone's but the super-soldier's—and my muscles ached with the kind of fatigue that follows a prolonged adrenaline rush. Additionally, one of the small children I'd hauled out of one of the crumbling buildings had been coughing terribly. I assumed at the time that it was from smoke inhalation, but the tightness that had since built in my own chest and searing pain in my throat were leading me to question that assumption. Extra-strength throat drops and a sneaky flask of ginger tea were the only defenses allowing me to hide my suboptimal state from the rest of the team for the past couple days.
All told, it was not a pleasant day to be an Avenger.
"Any questions?" Fury asked.
"Nope. Got it," I said.
"Understood, sir," replied Steve.
Clint gave a brisk nod of affirmation.
"Dismissed, then. Car's waiting outside."
The two men and I piled into the bulletproof sedan. Leaving my left hand on the steering wheel, I absentmindedly dug my first two fingers of my right hand into the base of my skull, trying to ease the tension accumulating there.
Steve noticed. "You alright, Nat? You've been quiet today."
"Because I'm usually the life of the party?" I said with a half-smile. Even when talking didn't feel like razor blades in my throat, it was still utilitarian. Small talk held little appeal for me unless it was serving a specific goal. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just focused. Ready to get this over with and get Jamison home."
"You trained him for a while, didn't you?"
"Mhm, when he first started with S.H.I.E.L.D. eighteen months ago. Evaluated his weapons handling and accuracy."
Clint shot me an incredulous look from the passenger seat. "Seriously? Fury has a literal marksman on the team—that's my whole job—and he doesn't even let me judge the new kid's aim?"
I snorted. "Sorry, Hawkeye."
"Sure, you are," he grumbled good-naturedly.
"How about this: if Jamison stays in S.H.I.E.L.D. after all this is over, he's all yours. No telling what kind of shape he'll be in, but I'm guessing he's gonna need some help."
"Probably true," said Clint. "Whatever magic rock Loki had in that scepter was…something else."
I kicked myself at the implications of his words. Barton had been under literal mind control not a week ago, and here I was feeling sorry for myself for having to go on a mission with a cold! These past few years out of the Red Room had made me soft. I had let myself go soft.
"Any insights on how to bring him in gently?" Steve asked. "I'm sure we'd all prefer to avoid using force if possible."
"Wish I could help," Clint said, "but my memory from the whole fiasco is close to wiped. And from what I do remember"—here he shook his head grimly— "well, I'll just say that force will probably be necessary. It's highly unlikely he'll even recognize us, let alone be open to a civil discussion."
~.o.0.o.~
We approached the coordinates Fury had supplied: those of an old, abandoned shopping mall. Apparently, this was the location Jamison had set up as his "hideout." I pulled neatly into a parking space, because it seemed the thing to do. I felt for a moment like a suburban mom taking her kids to soccer practice in a minivan.
"Looks like the perfect setup for a cheap horror movie," Clint remarked.
"You mean because of the werewolf-masked guards in front of the doors?" asked Steve.
"What?" I said. "Oh, lovely." Indeed, two figures—teenagers, judging from their slight frames and slouched postures —were loitering in front of the main mall doors with hairy dollar-store-quality masks. Apparently, Fury had forgotten to inform us that Jamison had recruited junior bandits to further his cause. At the sight of our car, they snapped to attention and reached for some sort of weapon.
That'd better be NERF.
The men got out of the car, but my limbs seemed unwilling to overcome inertia. For a brief moment, I considered telling Steve that I was compromised. I could wait in the car, play the getaway driver if things went south…like a coward. No. The sooner you go take care of this mission, the sooner it's over, I thought. Popping a cough drop (a choking hazard, maybe, but I live on the edge), I mustered all my determination and joined them. It was only September, but the air felt bitingly cold.
The lanky "werewolves" pointed their weapons at us—not especially effective, since the left one's aim was clearly abysmal and the right one's skinny arms were shaking visibly. Yep, these were definitely teenagers.
"Hey, there," said Steve. "What are you guarding in there?"
The one on the right spoke up with the voice of a mid-teen girl. "Who's asking?"
"He asked first," said Clint, but Steve put a hand up to stop him.
"My name's Steve. I'm looking for a man named Jamison. Do you know where I can find him?"
"You mean the Dark Wolf?" piped up the guard on the left.
"Shh!" scolded his colleague. "Ben, you know we're not supposed to give away stuff like that!"
"Sorry," mumbled Ben.
"No, it's alright," said Steve. "Yes, we're looking for the Dark Wolf. We're friends of his. Is he inside?"
The female werewolf took a step forward. "You're friends of the Dark Wolf?"
"Sure are," said Steve, still patient and nonthreatening.
"That's funny," said the girl. "He told us he had friends on the outside. He also told us they weren't to be trusted." She drew an imaginary line across the pavement with her foot. "Don't cross this line."
I could have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but the fierce determination in the eyes staring out of the latex mask stopped me. Those eyes were still innocent; not the eyes of a calloused child assassin, but those of a young person struggling to find her place in a world so much bigger than she was. Our mission was not only to rescue Jamison—it was also to protect their innocence.
I stepped into the conversation beside Steve. "How long have you two been following the Dark Wolf?"
"Since the day after the battle last week," Ben said. "He says he'll show us how to get home if we follow him."
"How to get home?" I repeated.
"My family got split up during the fighting," he said. "The Dark Wolf found us. He's taking everyone who got displaced back to their families."
"There are other, safer ways to get back with your family. Speaking with the police, for example. Why did you choose the Dark Wolf?"
"Police stations were way overcrowded. Not enough of them, too many of us. We stood in line all night, in the fires, and no one came. That is, until the Wolf."
"I see," I said. "You're right, they are working overtime right now. But I think going through the police would still be faster than following a stranger." I looked him squarely through the eye holes of his mask. "This may be hard to hear, but this Dark Wolf isn't who he thinks he is. He suffered a brain injury in the accident, and he's not well right now. He needs time to recover, and you need to get back to your family. I'm sure they're worried sick."
The girl whipped her gun up to my face. "He told us you would come to sabotage his mission!" she said. "He warned us about you, servants of Chitauri!"
"We have nothing to do with the Chitauri. Put down your weapon."
"I will not. In fact, if you try to get into the building, I'll shoot." She stepped closer, shoving the barrel against my jaw.
"I don't think you will," I said. "But nevertheless, I'd prefer not to find out." In a single motion, I twisted the gun from her hand and nodded for Steve to do the same to the boy.
"It doesn't matter. There are plenty more of us." With her free hand, the girl drew a four-inch switchblade from her belt. "You are Chitauri. You must die!" she cried, moving like a flash to my neck.
She was fast, but I was faster. Her blade was less than an inch from my skin when she went limp from the stun baton I held to hers. I lowered her gently to the ground.
Ben had apparently tried a similar trick, because Steve was laying him down beside her when I glanced over. "Copycat," I said.
"Learned from the best. Shall we?" he said, forcing open one of the deactivated automatic doors.
~.o.0.o.~
I took a few quiet steps into the atrium. The air inside felt stagnant and hard to breathe, but Steve and Clint didn't seem to notice. "Do we know anything about where exactly he's hiding?" I asked. I tried to remember details of Fury's briefing, but my thoughts were jumbled in a feverish haze.
Seriously, Natasha. Pull yourself together. I fought the disorientation that was beginning to threaten my consciousness. This was a mission, and there was no room for error.
"Nope. Just that he's in here somewhere," Clint replied, a little too loudly.
At once, we were alerted to what the girl had meant by "plenty more." From the large department store across the atrium came rushing a horde of young defenders—some around the guards' age, some a little younger. All were armed with weapons dramatically inappropriate for their ages, and all were raising their voices in unison against the Chitauri.
Steve turned to me. "We need to do this quickly. You go find Jamison; you know him best. We'll handle the kids down here."
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a scrap of movement through the upstairs railing. Jamison, or another of his army? Only time would tell.
I caught a bar of the railing with my grappling hook and swung up. Over the din from the main level, I could make out the sound of footsteps headed around the bend into the food court. They were heavy like those of a fully grown man. Charging my widow bite gloves in case we came to blows, I followed him.
My steps were silent as a cat until I'd almost reached the food court. To my horror, the sprint had triggered a wicked coughing spell that gripped my lungs like a vice. Any cover I'd built was completely blown.
Jamison called out from his vantage point on one of the bar-style tables. "So, they sent a weak one! What fun will it be to slay a servant of the Chitauri if it's already half-dead?"
I set my shoulders and drew up to face him. "Jamison, it's Romanoff. You know me. I'm not here to fight you."
He sniffed the air theatrically. "What's that I smell? The fear of the enemy?"
"No, Rick. The enemies are gone. The Chitauri were defeated in New York. I've just come to bring you home."
"Aha! They want to take prisoners, eh?" He jumped down from the table, landing uncomfortably close to me. "Well, that won't be happening today." Smoothly, he drew a handgun from a concealed holster.
I'd anticipated the movement. I wrenched the gun from his hand, pinning his right arm behind his back in the process. "Listen to me. I know things are confusing right now, but I promise, I'll explain everything. We just need to get you back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters and get your neural pathways restabilized, then this will all make sense—"
"Sense? It already makes perfect sense," he said. He twisted away from me using an escape I'd personally taught him in combat training. "If you want to take me, you'll have to catch me first. And that would require me to let you alive long enough."
"It doesn't have to be like this, Jamison," I said, but it was too late. He'd already made a dash for the massive carousel at the far end of the food court, flipped the switch, and jumped on.
The carousel creaked to life. Slowly at first but gathering speed, raucous pipe organ tunes filled the empty mall. The carousel's accompaniment was meant to be merry, but in the stillness of the abandoned food court, it just seemed eerie.
Jamison had mounted one of the horses and was beginning to ride in circles. Why he would want to corner himself like that, I wasn't sure, but I seized the opportunity. When he was at the far end of the loop, hidden from view, I rushed onto the carousel platform myself.
The twinkling lights only amplified the dizziness I already felt, but I kept my sights on the target. I swung myself up onto a fiberglass pony. The bobbing motion of the ride was an unaccounted-for element in my plan, but I used it to my advantage. Leaping up to grasp the moving bar that connected the two rows of horses, I used the momentum of the ride to hoist my body upwards. I pulled myself upright to crouch atop the carousel's crest. Here, I could get my bearings and catch my breath, which still evaded me.
From this point, I had a clear view of Jamison. From the way he was looking around, I could tell he'd lost me in my manoeuvre. The old Agent Jamison, pre-Loki, would never have been so easily confused. It was clear that not only was he suffering from a distorted sense of reality, but also impaired executive function. I almost felt guilty for what I was about to do, but I reminded myself that it would be the safest course of action for both of us. He was volatile, cornered, and unpredictable. Temporarily incapacitating him would be a mercy.
Quick as a flash, I detached myself from the rim and landed directly behind Jamison's horse. He whipped around to face me, but my widow bite gloves were already on his neck. I connected the electrodes to administer a nonlethal shock. His eyes went wide, then blank as he slumped towards me.
I positioned my arms under his to catch him and lower him to the platform, but the adrenaline rush I'd been operating under suddenly gave way. My heartbeat pounded like a marching army in my head, and my legs ceased to support me. Jamison's dead weight joined my own as the world faded to black.
~.o.0.o.~
Dreykov scowled down at me. "I give you the finest training in the modern world, and this is how you repay me? By collapsing during an assignment?"
"No. No, please. I'll do better next time. I'll do anything you say." I was shouting, but my words came out only as a breathless whisper.
"What makes you think you deserve a next time after such a pathetic display of failure? Give me one good reason I should keep you alive, little girl."
"It was a one-time lapse, владелец (master). It will not happen again, I swear."
Dreykov smiled cruelly and raised a fist. I braced for the strike that I knew would meet my cheek.
"Thor, report." The words came from Dreykov's mouth, but the voice did not belong to him.
"The archer is resting in the recovery room. The small red one is still in the throes of illness. She appears unconscious but agitated." This voice was deep and booming. Very familiar, and not from the Red Room.
"Current temp?" asked the first voice.
"One-oh-three even."
Sounds of tongue clicking. "Still too high."
A hand brushed my face. "Natasha, can you hear me?"
"Где я? (Where am I?)" I asked in Russian. I choked on the words, triggering a painful cough that wrenched me upright. When my vision cleared, I saw the face of Bruce Banner staring concernedly at me.
"You're back at headquarters. You collapsed right after you knocked out Jamison."
Ah, yes. Jamison…the mall…the carousel. It was all coming back.
Steve put a hand on my shoulder. "You have pneumonia, Nat. That's why you've got the oxygen and the IV."
I hadn't even noticed the cannulas before he mentioned them. Reaching up to feel my face, I discovered there was indeed a length of flexible tubing secured beneath my nose. Even that tiny effort felt costly, and I slumped back against the pillows.
"Where's Jamison? And the children?"
"Jamison's already being evaluated by Dr. Cho. She expects he'll make a full recovery. The children have all been taken to local police, and many of them have already gone home."
"Already? How long was I out?"
"About six hours."
Banner looked up from whatever he was doing on his computer. "Your oxygen sats were below 80, Nat. I honestly don't know how you were still out there fighting."
"Not very well, clearly," I said wryly.
"I'm serious, Nat," said Steve. "From the way your lungs looked on Banner's scans, it's obvious you've been ill for several days. You shouldn't have gone on that mission. Why didn't you say something?"
His words surprised me—not because they were out of character for Steve, but because they contradicted the whole narrative of my life. How could I explain to the nearly invincible supersoldier the price of weakness? "Because I thought I could do it," I said simply.
"You have to speak up when you're compromised, Romanoff. You put yourself in needless danger. Not only that, but you endangered me and Barton."
Despite his gentle tone, I could sense the frustration in his voice. "Everyone came out alright," I justified.
Bruce and Steve exchanged glances. Uh oh.
"What?"
"Barton dislocated his shoulder pretty badly pulling you off the carousel," Steve said. "You were about to fall from the platform, and he didn't have time to stop the motor."
"Oh." Guilt as heavy as Thor's hammer smacked me in the gut. "What's his status now?"
"Tore a couple ligaments, so they had to operate. He's out of surgery now, came through just fine. Even with Stark's accelerated healing tech, though, he won't be allowed to shoot for at least a month."
"Wow. Gosh…I'm so sorry." Words began to pour out of me, as if their flow could absolve the shame I felt. "I'm so sorry for letting you guys down. If I had just gotten Jamison back to the car—hell, if I'd just gotten him off the stupid carousel—"
Steve put a hand on my knee to stop me. "It's not about that. This isn't the Red Room, and no one is here to grade you or penalize you. You're part of a team now, Nat. Being an Avenger means you always have backup. In order for that to work, though, you've got to actually be accountable to the team. We'll always cover you—you just have to let us."
I inhaled slowly through my nose, welcoming the cool stream of concentrated oxygen that crackled through my lungs, then released as deep of an audible sigh as I could without coughing. "See, this is the annoying thing about having ninety-something-year-old friends. They're usually right."
The captain chuckled. "I don't know about that. But I am definitely right this time." His right hand fiddled with a nearby wire, presumably from one of the heart monitor electrodes attached to me. "Plus, pre-serum Steve was way too familiar with the hospital scene. I'd prefer to keep all of us out of them as much as possible."
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story. I would appreciate your honest feedback if you have a moment.
Sorry for another medical story so soon after the last one—I promise I do know how to write more than sickfics, LOL. I do have a couple of more serious stories in progress, including some Trek content!