Finally, the moment you've all been waiting for….drum roll….Natasha vs. Georgia!
Be warned: there is quite a bit of foul language in this one. Well, you know, more than usual anyway.
June 12th, 2014
Georgia and Clint were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over Georgia's legs. A rerun of their favorite TV show, How I Met Your Mother, was playing on the television screen courtesy of Netflix. It was the Slapsgiving episode, the one in the series of episodes where Marshall wins a bet against Barney and gets to slap him five times. On the show, the New Yorkers were gathered around Ted's dining room table about to enjoy their Thanksgiving feast when Marshall stood up, his slap-hand burning in anticipation. Barney released a shriek of terror and Ted, Robin, and Lily looked on in horror.
Georgia suddenly turned to her husband. "Hey, I just realized that Agent Hill looks just like Robin."
"Yeah?" Clint's gaze narrowed as he focused on the TV. He studied Robin silently. Then, "I don't see it."
Sometime in late March, 2013
He was sitting in the conference room aboard the Helicarrier, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new base in the Mojave Desert still undergoing renovations. Clint listened intensely as Director Fury outlined their latest mission. While doing so, he simultaneously surveyed the room. The usual suspects were present and accounted for – Toby, Benji, Agent Bennett, and Agent Maria Hill, Fury's right hand now that Coulson was under the radar and training that task force of teenagers. Clint withheld a scoff. Fucking teenagers. His gaze shifted toward the window. Even that douchebag Yates was there.
Just looking at that little shit made his fingers twitch for his bow. Honestly, he didn't understand why Fury insisted on grouping them together. Fury knew just how deep Clint's loathing for the punk ran. Clint's gaze narrowed in thought. Maybe that was it. Maybe Fury really did understand Clint's hatred for Yates and hoped that Clint "accidentally" let the unsavory agent get Killed in Action.
Well, maybe not killed, he gave it a second thought. But seriously maimed or permanently injured. Just enough to keep him out of the field and set him up for an early retirement to get him out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hair.
Clint smirked. That must be it.
As Fury wrapped up the briefing, Clint couldn't help but notice that all the usual suspects were present par from one – Natasha. The others filed out of the room, one after the other, headed for the Quinjet, their guns loaded, a manila folder tucked under their arms. Clint stopped just inside the door.
"Something on your mind, Agent Barton?" questioned Director Fury, eyebrow raised over his good eye, the unpatched one.
"Just wondering where Agent Romanoff is, sir."
"Agent Romanoff is taking some personal time. She'll be back in the field next week. Now, I suggest you get going. Those hostages won't survive forever."
Personal time? Natasha had never taken a personal day. Ever. Which meant she was working a mission without him. Not that he minded. The operatives often went their separate ways in the field. In fact, more often than not their assignments kept them apart. It wasn't until Fury enacted the Avengers Initiative that he and Natasha started seeing more of each other. But, then, why wouldn't Fury just say that?
A bad feeling tingled down Clint's spine. Something was up. Unfortunately, Clint didn't exactly have the luxury of time to figure it out just yet. There was a Quinjet full of agents on the tarmac waiting for him, the engine already running. He'd simply have to investigate later.
Clint nodded his goodbyes to the director and as he slipped from the conference room, Fury called to him, his words an afterthought. "Oh, and, Agent Barton? Keep a close eye on Agent Yates."
"Anything in particular I should be looking for?"
Fury frowned. "Nope. I just don't like his smile."
Clint smirked. I knew it. "Yes, sir."
Meanwhile in New York:
She knew the moment she opened her front door that something was amiss. Call it instinct or intuition, but Georgia knew that something was wrong. She dropped her bag just inside the door and paused, her right foot half in the hallway. Her eyes scanned her living room and what she could see of her kitchen. Everything was perfectly in place. Even the curtains to the terrace doors were impeccably straight and closed. Which was weird, because she'd been in a rush that morning and distinctly remembered hurriedly slinging the curtains shut after enjoying her morning cup of coffee on the balcony. Shouldn't they have been at least a little crooked? Shouldn't there been a sliver between them, the evening light of dusk spilling through the crack?
Her brow furrowed and she reached into her pocket, fingers wrapping around her cellphone. She stepped into the apartment, her right foot dragging on the carpet hesitant to leave the safety of the hallway. "Hello?" she called out. Maybe it was just Clint. Or her sister, Allie. "Anybody here?"
The door swung shut behind her. "I'd say so."
One abrupt pinch to the neck later, and Georgia was crumbling to the floor, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, the world fading black.
She woke up in a…was this a van?
Everything was dark. There was a single light directly above her head and the panels of the vehicle were dark and silvery. There was a desk across from her, bolted into the door of the van. On it – a computer. A laptop, more specifically, and beside the laptop, a hunting knife. Her head was pounding. She saw all of this through blurry vision. She was secured to a chair against one of the van's walls, handcuffs around her wrists and ankles. Steel, she assumed, based on their shine.
"Good mor'nin, princess."
The voice was male and Irish, the same voice from her apartment. Somewhere in the back of her mind, silenced by her terror and panic, was a joke about leprechauns that was wildly inappropriate at the present. Georgia's throat clenched. She gasped, "Who are you? Wh-"
"Who are you?" he repeated her, sliding out of the shadows. He was on a chair, too, one that had wheels. He rolled over to her, his fingers, gloved by black Kevlar, gripping her chin to force her to stare into his eyes. There was a scar just above his left eye on the bridge of his nose and his chin and cheeks were covered in dark stubble. "Why are you doing this? What do you want? …the questions are always the same. Doesn't anyone have any creativity anymore?"
"Why don't you go fuck yourself?" The question flashed through her mind but Georgia was sarcastic, not suicidal. She held her tongue and tried to fight back the tears welling in her eyes. "Where are we?"
"Deary, we're in a van." He leaned back in his rolley chair and tapped the van's wall. The knock echoed through the vehicle's compartment and the man grinned at her. "And we're all alone. Go ahead, scream if you want. Give it a go. No one will hear you. We're too far out in the woods, you see. Won't be disturbin' anybody but the moose. Still, I'm not one to piss off Mother Nature with some whiney bitch's wailing; the van's soundproof."
She eyed her captor, the water that gathered in her eyes threatening to spill over. "Last time I checked there weren't moose in New York City," she whispered.
"Oh, but, dear, we aren't in New York City, are we? We crossed the Canadian border twenty miles ago, sweetheart. It's just you, me, and the Ontario wilderness now."
Georgia brain was swimming. How had this happened? How the fuck had she been kidnapped? Trapped in a soundproof van in fucking Canada? "How did you-?" she shrieked, damn near hysterical. But he swiftly cut her off, whipping out a small, clear cylindrical tube with a needled point, "Tranquilizer dart. Though I suppose I could've used other, less sophisticated means."
He cracked his knuckles to emphasize his point, grinning like a fox.
"What…?" Georgia took a deep breath and pulled against her restraints, praying that by the grace of God they broke and she managed to break free. "What do you want with me?"
"I want to know who you're workin' for and what you want with Clint Barton."
Georgia wasn't surprised. She realized the moment she woke up in the van that this was about her apparently not-so-secret boyfriend. Guess dating an assassin really did have its drawbacks. Georgia shook her head. "I don't know who that is."
The Irishman grinned. His lips spread so wide that Georgia thought they might slip off his face. His teeth were perfect, pearly white and straight and set by nice, pink gums. Clint, too, she'd noticed, had great dental hygiene. Great hygiene period, actually. Maybe it was a trade secret for those who dealt with seedy shit like murdering and kidnapping. He leaned forward, the grin never leaving his mouth, and tapped her knee twice. "I've got t'be honest, I was hopin' you'd say that."
He stood, abandoning his chair, and walked to the end of the van, his shoulders drooped so as to not bang his head on the vehicle's ceiling. He knelt near a rectangular, silver case in the corner. Flipping open the locks, he dove into the case and Georgia's heart fell to her stomach and then rocketed back up to her throat. She felt like she was going to vomit. "Wha-what is that? What are you doing? Please, don't hurt me. P-please. I swear I don't know what you're talking about, just please don't kill me."
"I'm not going to kill you, sweetheart. No'yet, anyway." He stood, a strange object in his hands, and approached her. He set the box at her feet and attached the wires to her fingers, wrists, and arms. She squirmed while he did so, trying fight against him, but her efforts were useless. He was much stronger than she was and her restraints much too tight. She whined and cried and pleaded but he ignored her. He turned to the laptop and entered a few keystrokes before returning to his chair. "This-" He pointed to the box with the wires at her feet. "-is a lie detector. But it's had a very special modification. You see, every time you lie to me, those little wires there will send electrical pulses through you. Electroconvulsive therapy, that's what your people call it. But let's call it what is it – torture. If you play ball with me and answer all my questions honestly like a good girl the pain won't come. But if you lie to me, I will torture you until your flesh melts and your heart stops pumping. Do you understand?"
Tear fell in little drops from her eyes, dripping down her nose and lips, to pool on the collar of her shirt. Georgia gave a shaky nod. "I-I understand," she whispered. And she really did understand. If she wanted to survive, she was going to have to think her way out. She was smart. She could do this.
"Tell me what you know about Clint Barton," the Irishman demanded.
"Who?" she asked. It was a question, not a lie. The lie detector's electrical pulses remained dormant.
The man swiveled around in his chair, typed away on the laptop's keyboard, and suddenly an image of Clint manifested on the monitor. "This man. Tell me what you know about him."
"H-he…he told me-" Think, G. Think. She thought back to that first day in New York at 'Snice coffee shop. The weather must've been cool because she remembered wearing her red scarf and it must've been around Halloween because it was before she'd gotten contacts and had still been sporting her glasses. She thought about her first reaction to Clint. She'd immediately been attracted to him, to his classic All American looks. She could tell right away that he was strong from his hands, rough, working hands that gripped his coffee cup lightly. He was so attractive with those clear, soul-seeing eyes and proud jaw. So attractive that he was intimidating and she nearly backed out of asking to sit at his table.
"He told me his name was Aaron."
Her captor raised an eyebrow, his scar lifting slightly. "Aaron…what else?"
"He said…he said he worked with Stark." Her words were Clint's verbatim. The night of the Stark Gala, he'd confessed his true identity but not before trying to play it off. "I, uh, I work with Stark."
"Tony Stark?"
"He's my boss. I met Aaron at t-the Stark company annual gala in November. W-we hooked up," she explained, her breaths coming quickly, her tears never stopping. She kept waiting for the pain, for the shock. Thankfully, she seemed to be playing her cards right and tricking her way out of the test. She technically wasn't lying.
"Do you have a habit of that? Hooking up with total strangers?"
"Not really," she whispered. Her lips quivered around her words and when the man leaved forward, his gaze scrutinizing her, she held her breath. "Please. Please take this off. I'll tell you whatever you want to know but I can't think straight, not with this thing on me. I-I'm-"
"Oh, but you're doing such a good job, deary. No shocks yet." He leaned back in his seat, his foot tapping a rhythm-less beat on the floor of the van. He was so fucking calm. Almost cheerful. Just another day in the office for him. "How many times?"
"W-what?"
"How many times have you and 'Aaron' fucked?"
Georgia flinched and shook her head rapidly. "I-I don't know. Um…we've been seeing each other on and off since November." There was the first night, then that weekend they did it like, eight times, and the other weekend when they did it six times, and a few one-timers here and there. "M-maybe…maybe two o-or three dozen times?"
The man with the scar let out a low whistle. He gave a full, bright smile. "Hot damn, Barton's been busy."
Georgia winced when he let out a deep laugh, the sudden loud noise beyond startling. She craned back in her chair and tugged at her restrains. She was being to drown in her own panic. "Please, let me go. I don't know anything, I promise. I just-I just want to go home."
Her capture leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So was he a good lay?"
"That's enough."
Georgia's head whipped forward as the van's door was suddenly yanked open, a blinding light spilling in from outside. Georgia winced, her eyes slamming shut. She couldn't see the slender but curvy redhead standing at the door. The newcomer nodded to the Irishman. "I'll take it from here."
The Irishman looked a tad disappointed and he sighed. "Damn, it was just gettin' good."
The second the man slipped from the van, the woman slid inside and slammed the door shut behind her. She claimed his rolley chair, her legs crossing at the knees, her black suit stretching more easily than it looked like it would. She fingered the knife on the desk for several moments, not speaking a word. Then, she took the knife by the handle and held it, point down on her knee, and said, "Who are you?"
"My name is Georgia Downes. I-I work for Stark Industries. P-please. I don't know what's happening o-or what you want me to tell you. But-"
"Are you a spy?"
"What?! No! No. I'm not a spy. I-I don't even own a gun. I can't-what? A spy? No."
"How did you manage to get so close to Agent Barton? I've known Clint for a very long time. He has defenses. He has walls. He doesn't trust. At all. But somehow you've got him wrapped around your little finger and I'm supposed to just believe you're just some harmless little citizen? Bitch, please." The redhead leaned forward and let the tip of the knife fall against Georgia's chest. "I will only ask you this one more time. Who. Are. You?"
Georgia's eyes fluttered shut. She took a deep, quivering breath. She couldn't open her eyes. She couldn't look into the face of the woman who was most likely about to kill her. "I'm not a spy," she whispered. "I'm just…I'm just a RP rep."
Her world was still. She froze, waiting for the sting of the knife or the white hot pain of electric shock or, at the very least, a good slap across the cheek. Yet, nothing came. Slowly, she peeked her eyes open, her vision blurry, but from tears, not from the tranquilizer. Her adrenaline had caused the dart's effects to wear off long ago. When she blinked, water dropping from her eyes, she saw the redhead leaning against the desk, knife in her lap, arms folded across her chest.
The woman was studying her, her elegant features stone. She blinked once, then twice. Then, the corners of her mouth dipped in a subtle frown. "I don't think you're a spy," the redhead finally announced. "You have zero hand-eye coordination and vertigo problems. You're easier to read than a children's nursery book. You have no skills of heightened awareness, can't tell when someone's on your trail. It was more than easy to break into your apartment and apprehend you. So, either you're the best damn spy since, well, since me and you're playing us all, or you're just a civilian with a magical vagina. Because I haven't seen Clint this brainwashed since Loki made him his bitch."
"Loki?" Georgia frowned. The foreign name was familiar to her; Clint had often cried the name out in his sleep, fighting against past horrors in his dreams. "Who-? Wait, how you do know I have zero han-"
"This isn't the first time we've met. I've been shadowing you for two weeks."
"Oh, my God," Georgia gasped. "You're the woman from the market!"
Last Friday, while grocery shopping at Chelsea Market, someone had bumped into Georgia, causing her to drop her purse, her belongings spilling out over the floor. A passerby had stopped to kindly help Georgia collect her things. This woman was the "kind" passerby.
She felt violated and terrified. She had been followed. She had been watched and she had been taken from the safety of her home. All because Clint was a volcano in the sack and happened to have the same taste in food and movies as she did.
A fresh batch of tears stung her eyes and she thought of her family, her parents and sister, of her friends from work and college, of the Chinese delivery guy who knew her by name. Would she ever see them again? Would she ever see anything other than this van?
"I'm not going to kill you so you can stop crying any time now."
"I'm sorry but I don't make it a habit of getting kidnapped so pardon me if I'm a little emotional," Georgia scoffed. Was this lady fucking serious?
The woman raised a single eyebrow. She smirked slowly and reared forward. Georgia flinched and dug back into her seat, trying to put the maximum distance between her and the psychotic redhead. But, rather than punch or claw her, the woman snagged the wires attached to her skin and ripped them off. Georgia let out a yelp, bits of skin and hair yanked off her arm. "Are you-"
"Letting you go?" The woman smirked. "Yes. Oh, and, just so you know, this lie detector isn't electroconvulsive. Lie detectors monitor heartbeats and I can practically hear your heart racing from here. You would've been fried by now."
"That's…not comforting," Georgia whined. She fought with the cuffs, a bad feeling tingling the back of her neck. Was she really letting her go? Or was there something awful waiting for her outside the van? Was there some Canadian bear waiting to shred her to pieces or a maniac with a machete ready to hack her to bits?
A dozen terrifying scenarios ran through her head but when the redhead un-cuffed her and slung open the van doors Georgia was met with a sight she never would have expected.
"Clint?"
Her boyfriend stood, his face contorted in such fury that he appeared two seconds away from exploding from his own anger. Clint's hand became a fist of pure rage. He reared back and his arm snapped forward, whipping passed Georgia's head, to punch her redheaded interrogator in the nose. There came a satisfying crunch of bones, a burst of bright red blood gushing from her face. "How fucking dare you, Natasha!" Clint roared, he launched forward, as if to attack her and a squeak caught in Georgia's throat. Clint stopped, his eyes darted to her shaking frame and his face crumbled in anguish. "G…"
He reached for her, hands cupping her elbows, and she fell into him. Her feet hit the pavement – wait, pavement? Weren't they in Canada? But one glance at her surroundings told Georgia that they were, in fact, not in Canada; they were simply parked in the alley behind her apartment building. Her head spinning, she cried softly into his chest, her voice scratching and clawing at her throat, as she repeated, "Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God, you're here." How fucking happy was she to see him? Never had she been so glad to see someone in her entire fucking life. Finally, she was safe.
Her fingers desperately grasped his shirt and she spoke, her lips trembling. "You know, I've put up with some pretty weird shit from past boyfriends but this takes the cake, Barton."
Clint cupped her face, showering kisses over her cheeks and hair. "I'm so sorry, G. I'm so-Christ. This will never happen again. You will never see any of these people ever again. Fuck, I'm-God, G, I'm so sorry, baby."
His arm wrapped around her shivering frame and he guided her to the sidewalk. His body between her and the S.H.I.E.L.D. van, Clint glared at Natasha. The Black Window was slumped against the side of the borrowed vehicle. She clutched her broken, bleeding nose. "We are through. Do you hear me? This is over, Natasha. I told you. I told you she was off limits. You had no fucking right to do this to her. Stay the fuck away from her, and stay the fuck away from me. Because I swear to God, Natasha, if you come near her again, I will kill you."
June 15th, 2014
"All I'm saying is, Agent Hill looks exactly like Robin Scherbatsky."
Several jaws dropped around her, her friends' eyes growing wide.
"Holy shit," Natasha shook her head in disbelief. "You're totally right. How have I never seen this before?"
"They could be twins," murmured Bruce. "Lily's doppelganger is a stripper. Robin's is Agent Hill."
Georgia snickered. "I think I'd rather take the stripper."
Tony smirked as Maria Hill strutted by, oblivious to their conversation. He shouted to capture her attention and informed her of Georgia's discovery. "You have a twin, Agent! A Miss Robin Scherbatsky, also known as wife of the greatest man who ever lived, Barney Stinson-"
"He never lived," corrected Bruce. "He's a fictional character."
"Bit your tongue, Big Guy," instructed Tony. He grinned at Agent Hill. "I knew you looked familiar! Naturally, I just assumed that we'd slept together sometime. Maybe in college. That's when I went through my brunette phase."
Agent Hill pursed her lips. "Unfortunately not." Her pursed mouth twisted into a smirk. "And I mean unfortunately for you. Because even in college I had standards."
Georgia guffawed, doubling over in laughter. She pointed a mocking finger at the billionaire. "Dude…like, burn."
After that miserable stint in the van, I figured I should end the chapter on a lighter note and this little bit about the greatest show on television How I Met Your Mother helps tie the ending back to Clint and G's conversation at the beginning of the chapter.
So there you have it, folks. The big Natasha/Georgia showdown. Or the star t of it at least. Obviously, Clint's shit at keeping his words cause he, G, and Nat are like one little happy family but we'll just have to wait to see how that plays out.