**October 16th 2009**
Clint stifled a yawn as he slipped through the window of Giulio De Felice's humble home, several generous miles outside of Naples. The sun wasn't ready to rise yet, the sky outside an inky black and smattered with stars. It was far too early for people to be awake, Clint thought, and he wasn't alone in that sentiment. The security guard posted at the front door had dozed off at about 3AM and hadn't moved a muscle since.
Clint kind of envied the guy.
He edged his way down the hallway towards the living room on the top floor. The entire house consisted of five main rooms and a renovated attic. All the essentials for its single inhabitant with no extravagant ballrooms or pricey private theatres. It was all very minimalistic and homely, kept clean thanks to an elderly housekeeper and protected by a basic security detail. It was simple and snug and everything you would expect from a man trying to keep a low profile.
De Felice had more than a little unwanted attention on him at the moment. He'd retreated out here with the intention of waiting it out. Everyone would forget about it in a few months and he could move back into his mansion with its thick stone walls and it's 24hour CCTV.
Unfortunately for Mr. De Felice, Clint wasn't the type to forgive a rapist and apparently his clientele wasn't either.
When the job came in Clint had done research of his own, more than he normally did anyway. It was more because the guy was a high profile politician than anything else. Clint didn't usually get involved in petty political hits; they were too publicised, too unpredictable and too bitchy for his taste. But this guy. This guy was an exception.
Clint could've done this hit from afar, but he had wanted to do it this way instead. It felt more personal somehow, and this prick deserved a painful, intimate death.
As soon as he opened the door Clint was slammed by the stench of stale sweat and vomit. Bottles of alcohol, both empty and full surrounded the man passed out in an armchair. A snore like a foghorn emitted from his prone form and Clint wrinkled his nose in distaste.
De Felice's unhealthy relationship with drink was well known, and his recent split from his wife was even more so. He'd lost his kids in the legal battle that he barely fought and most of his cash had been thrown down the drain in the form of whiskey. His lacklustre security precautions were a surprise to exactly no one.
All in all, it would appear the guy's life was going down the gutter. And damn, Clint was about to make things a whole lot worse.
He slipped his 9mm pistol out of the holster at his thigh; a present from Nat that he used far more than he'd expected to. And without a second of hesitation he aimed at the guy's head-
-and was promptly hit by a lorry.
Clint went flying to the side; slammed into a solid brick wall by a force more powerful than anything he'd ever experienced before. He ducked when a fist came swinging at his head, a plume of dust and plaster raining down on him when it punched a hole in the stone.
Clint swore and fired at the bastard's head, still trying to comprehend what in the fuck was attacking him. The crack of gunfire bounced off the walls, Clint's ears aching when his hearing aids amplified the sound, but his target was gone. Disappeared like smoke. Clint stayed where he knelt, wary.
The room was dark. No sunlight on the horizon to shine through the window and offer Clint a hint of a shadow or a glint of metal. This was a shame, because he'd heard the metal. The hollow clang and hair-raising screech of metal grinding against stone. It didn't make any sense, but he knew he'd heard it.
To Clint's amazement De Felice was still fast asleep. Far from phased by a gun going off right beside his head, he'd actually fallen into a deeper sleep; his snores raising another rebellious octave.
And hell, no wonder he could sleep like a baby. He was being guarded by a mother fucking ninja-ghost. What in the fuck did he have to worry about?
Breathing hard, Clint reached out a fumbling hand for a light switch, flicking it on.
And then he only had a moment to take in a man dressed all in black with a muzzle clamped on his mouth before a fist was flying towards his face.
The guy was tall and muscular which should've slowed him down but he moved faster than Clint could even see. It reminded him of Nat and the power hidden in her slim frame. Though if Clint had thought Nat was strong, this guy was three times that, no problem.
Ducking out of the way, Clint fired several consecutive shots; two at the dude's knee caps and three at his exposed forehead. It would be impossible to dodge one without falling prey to the other and Clint was betting on knocking the dude off his feet so he could make a quick escape. Clint was no match for this level of skill and he knew it.
But when the guy deflected all his bullets with his fucking arm with the speed of the fucking Flash, Clint realised just how out of his depth he really was.
"Dude," he yelped, his jaw hanging open in shock. The moment of distraction was all the guy needed. He punched a hole clean through Clint's chest. Or that's how it felt.
He could feel the bones of his ribcage crushing under the force, shattering like glass as he was flung backwards into a bookshelf. The impact knocked the breath out of him and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Clint tried to suck in a breath and bit back a scream.
Breathing was agonising. That was bad. He couldn't stay here. Clint wasn't going to wait around to be killed by fucking Terminator over here. Fuck no.
His ego could take the hit better than he could survive another punch, that's for damn sure.
Clint knew he wasn't fast enough to outrun a dude who could dodge fucking bullets Matrix style. Which left only one escape route.
He closed his eyes in pained resignation. This was going to hurt. A lot.
Scrambling to his feet, Clint used a wild, uncoordinated hail of bullets to mask his escape as he made a mad dash towards the window. It was a large rectangular thing with white planks of wood splitting it into quarters. This would hurt more than he'd thought.
Clint fired two bullets ahead of himself, smashing weakening holes through the structure before he dove through it, head first.
A hand clamped around his ankle, stopping him dead.
Clint let out an alarmed shriek as his momentum was cut short with a jarring jolt, very near wrenching his fucking leg from his body in the process. Arms pin-wheeling, Clint thudded into the side of the building with a cry. He dangled from the metal arm that wrapped around his leg like a vice. Looking up, a face of nightmares stared down at him, it's makeup slathered eyes glinting with animalistic hunger in the early morning sun.
Clint yelled and kicked it in the face. When that didn't work, he shot it in the face instead.
The metal clasping his ankle disappeared to deflect the bullet and oh god. Clint was falling, falling very fast, and wow, he really should've planned for this.
He tried to do that tuck and roll thing that Nat told him to do one time. Wait, was that even for falling? Or was it for fire? Goddamnit there wasn't time for this shit.
The drop was only two storeys; Clint had fallen further than that, and survived. Still, the landing wasn't any more comfortable than it had been then. He almost snapped his spine when he slammed into the unrelenting grassy plane below. He lay still for a moment, shock freezing his body in place. His head was a constant thumping pain, reminding him once again that gunshots and hearing aids do not mix, but that was the least of his problems.
He tried to move and instantly stopped with a pained wheeze. It hurt too fucking much, his ribs ground together under his skin and a stabbing pain erupted in his chest that made him whimper. A sharp, searing burn shot up his arm, throbbing in sync with his heartbeat. Clint prayed he hadn't broken it. That was the last thing he needed.
A shot rang out, a bullet flying past and pinging off the ground not three inches away from his face. Clint jerked away with a cry and black spots consumed his vision for a moment. When he came round he recognised the shot as one meant to warn, not to kill. Which was...fucking weird.
Broken glass from the window dug deep into his palms as he pushed himself onto his stomach and dragged his body out of firing range of the window. An old woman came running out of the house, having seen Clint fall past her window, and she clucked around him like an agitated hen. Her hands, wrinkled but steady, rolling him over onto his back.
She didn't seem too worried about Clint being an intruder in her house. Rather she wiped at the droplets of blood on his face and pawed gently at his hair, a concerned look on her kind face. She obviously had no idea what to do in this situation, her eyes full of suppressed panic. But Clint supposed, if he was going to die on her lawn, she would make sure he was damn comfortable.
And Clint appreciated it, he really did. But he wasn't dying any time soon and he needed to get the fuck out of there.
The woman didn't appear to speak any English, which was an issue. A pretty fucking pressing issue when a angry dude with impossible strength could come down to murder Clint at any moment.
"I- I need a phone," he croaked out, speaking far more painful than he remembered it being. "Please."
To his amazement she nodded, stood up and picked her way across the glass ridden grass before disappearing into the house. While she was gone Clint kept his eyes fixed on the window he'd just flown out of, the face with the mask now gone. Clint could feel an unfamiliar panic grip his heart and his breathing picking up which hurt. It was kind of funny, but he'd never been scared of death before. It sucked ass.
He just didn't want to leave Nat on her own, that's all.
He'd promised he'd make them both breakfast tomorrow. How the fuck was he supposed to do that if he was too busy being dead?
The old lady came running out of the house, quite deft on her feet for a woman who had to be pushing eighty, with a phone in hand. It was one of those cordless landlines and Clint took it with a grateful smile.
"Thank...you," he said in a strained tone, the simple movement of taking the phone sending a jolt of pain through his chest. The phone was new, clean and unblemished. It almost felt wrong to touch something so pristine with his dirty, blood streaked hand.
She gave him a smile and went back to checking him for injuries, doting like a worried mother. The sentiment wasn't one he was familiar with. He tried to shake off the feeling and dialled Nat's mobile as fast as his shaking fingers would allow. She picked up on the second ring.
"Yes?" she snapped, sounding preoccupied and irritated.
"H-hello to you too," Clint bit out in as normal a tone as he could manage. "You busy?"
"Yes," she replied, and Clint could hear gunfire in the background of the call. They'd been doing independent hits for the last few weeks and most of them went pretty smooth. It was obvious this was not one of them. Clint felt bad for calling at all. "It's not a good time. What's wrong?"
"Oh y'know, Terminator tried to kill me. Same old, same old," he said, huffing a weak laugh that came out as more of a wheeze. "Why is everyone else super strong...'s not fair." He let out a high pitched pained whine when the old lady pressed a finger to his ribs. "Fuck. Gonna- gonna have- have to start powerlifting to- ow - keep up."
"Are you injured?" Nat asked, her tone serious and, if Clint didn't know any better, holding a note of concern.
He let out another pathetic breath that might've been a laugh in a past life. "When- when am I not?"
"Where are you?" Gunfire almost drowned her voice out altogether and Clint closed his eyes, hating that he was distracting her like this. He was a grown ass man; he could get himself back to the fucking motel no problem. Well, probably.
He wasn't even being attacked anymore and this kind Italian lady would help him out. Chances were, he'd be fine. Yet, here he was, putting Nat in danger for no fucking reason. Not that she would care much about his injury, he was sure. But a phone call in the middle of a gunfight was an annoyance she shouldn't have to deal with. Stupid idiot.
"Hey I- I gotta-" He hissed when the old lady made to pull him into a sitting position, shaking his head and wildly gesturing at her to stop because fucking no. "-gotta go. I'll see you later, yeah?"
"What?" Nat snapped, bewildered by the whole conversation. "Do you need me to come-" Four crystal clear gunshots crackled down the line followed by dead silence. Nat's calm, controlled breathing echoed down the speaker as she settled herself. "I'm done here. I can come and get you. Just tell me where you are."
"No, no it's fine. I'm fine," Clint said, keeping his voice as even as he could though his teeth were clenched tight. "I'll find my own way back."
"Why did you call me then?" she asked, confused and, by the sound of it, somewhat annoyed by the whole thing.
Just wanted to hear your voice was what came to mind, dancing on the tip of his tongue. Clint felt a sickening rush of embarrassment make his cheeks flush and his stomach churn because, oh god, it might be the truth. He shook his head in disbelief, mouth gaping open but no words coming out. Where the fuck had that come from?
"Hey no, you're- uh you're breaking up." He let out a cough that racked his ribs but cleared his head. "I'll meet you at the motel," he rushed out before he ended the call, his heart thudding painfully hard against his cracked ribs. He handed the phone back to the nice Italian lady who still had that soft, kind smile on her face.
"I'm sorry, thanks. Could you call me a cab or something? My- my ride's not able to make it," he wheezed, hoping his blush wasn't too noticeable. He'd already suffered through more than his fair share of humiliation today.
She gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "No problem," she said through a thick Italian accent. "Would you like an ambulance?"
Clint felt himself pale at the thought. "Rather not, no. Uh, taxi's fine. Or wait; do you have taxis in Italy?" At the unimpressed look on her face he groaned. "'m sorry, ignore me. Just delirious from the-" He gestured down at his body, unsure how to describe the amount of pain he was experiencing right now. "Wouldn't have some pain killers on you?"
She smiled and gave him a somewhat patronising pat on the head before shuffling her way back into the house. Clint, for his part, tried not to pass out while she was gone.
Twenty minutes later when Clint was bundled into his complimentary taxi cab he took one final look back at the attic window. The familiar anxiety that came with being inside a car was already beginning to twist his stomach into knots. He needed to distract himself, calm himself down.
It didn't help.
That haunting face stared right back at him, shrouded in shadows so thick it took Clint a few moments to pick it out. It didn't appear to want to attack him, just watching as he left. Clint was almost tempted to stay with the ninja dude if it meant he wouldn't have a panic attack on the drive to Naples.
He had to take out his hearing aids before they left, the amplified noise making him antsy and skittish. He was hot all over and his chest was burning, he was tense and exhausted and terrified for no rational fucking reason. He needed to pull himself together.
Clint turned back towards the front, balling his good hand into a fist and trying to calm his breathing.
He didn't relax until the car rolled to a stop outside his motel and he fell out the door in relief. The driver gave him a funny look when Clint paid him the fare. The dust caked on his skin, his clothes sliced to pieces and his refusal to speak the entire journey more than earned it.
Clint wasn't surprised to find he didn't give a damn.
Natasha was already there when Clint made it into their room, one hearing aid in and his injured hand clutched to his chest. She was making a cup of coffee, looking just as beaten into the ground as Clint felt. Wet mud clung to her clothes and hair and a bruise was already swelling at her right eye. She didn't appear to have broken any bones, but Clint spotted the uneven way she walked when she shuffled to the side, letting him at the coffee machine.
"You're limping," he pointed out, guilt curling in his stomach when he thought about the phone call earlier. Was she injured then? Or did she pick it up while he was talking and he never even noticed?
Whatever the injury was it didn't appear to phase her. She gave him a careless shrug. "It'll heal."
Instead of trying to find a clean mug in this shithole, Clint grabbed the coffee dispenser and drank straight from it with a satisfied sigh. Nat wrinkled her nose and smacked him lightly on the arm. "You're disgusting, Barton," she chastised, scoffing at the shit eating grin he sent her way.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand. "C'mon, cut me some slack. I nearly died today."
She gave him a tiny smile and Clint had to fight down the surge of happiness the small expression sent through him. "You nearly die every day, Barton. It's one of your talents."
Clint gasped in mock outrage. "There are posters all over the place that say I'm the greatest sharp-shooter known to man! I'm very talented."
Nat raised an eyebrow, drawing Clint's attention to the streak of grime that marred her forehead. "What kind of posters?"
Clint took another gulp of his coffee and held her gaze steady. "Circus posters. I had an outfit and everything," he said with a smirk, waiting for her to scoff or to laugh at him for it like most people did.
He wasn't ashamed of where he'd come from, he saw no point in it when the circus had made him the person he was today. And while shit had gotten pretty fucking ugly near the end there, he still loved that place regardless.
She didn't laugh. No circus freak jokes or a biting remarks about carnies. She didn't even poke fun at how he had a costume to wear while he danced like a performing monkey all those years ago.
Instead she gave him a curious look, leaning forward and setting her coffee on the counter. Clint noticed her hair was singed on the right side, the curls now uneven and scorched black. He wondered how the fuck that happened, but didn't ask.
"How old were you?" she asked.
He shrugged with an almost wistful smile on his face. "Started at eight, went on 'til I was like sixteen. Had a bow and arrow and everything. It was a pretty sweet gig."
She gave him a small smile back. "Sure sounds like it."
A comfortable silence stretched out between them. Clint spent it taking long, loving sips of his coffee and trying not to fall asleep on the kitchen counter. He shifted a little and winced when an agonising jab of pain shot through his ribs, snapping him out of his thoughtless reverie.
"Hey, by the way, I- I kinda need to ask you a favour," he said slowly. Natasha eyed him warily, one eyebrow raised.
"What?"
"Yeah, y'see...about the job I was doing..."
As retribution for making her go out only two hours after she'd got home, Clint cooked them both a large homemade bowl of pasta Bolognese. His cooking skills were a little rough and he only had a few meagre ingredients but Clint made do with that he had.
The result was edible enough and they both lounged on the couch with full stomachs, content after weeks of eating nothing but fast food. Nat mentioned that it was a crime they were not eating pizza whilst in Italy. Clint grumbled that of course the one time he makes dinner she complains about not ordering in. She laughed at that, not meaning a word of it.
That evening Nat set out again, freshly showered and decked out in clean clothes that didn't have a single rip in them. Clint couldn't exactly say he owned an outfit of such a description. Still, he let her borrow his hoodie when it became clear hers had been burned beyond recognition. She looked small and inconspicuous in the oversized jacket, which was perfect. It also hid the gun equipped with a silencer hidden in her pants better than could be hoped.
While he sat on the couch, a large packet of frozen peas strapped tight to his burning ribs, Clint knew Natasha was killing Giulio De Felice on his behalf. He did his best not to feel too bitter about not finishing the job himself, he'd asked after all, but it was irritating.
Clint tided himself over with gruesome fantasies of that rich bastard with a bullet between his eyes, staring up at him in shock. It worked better than it should have.
What if Nat was caught by the man with lightning fast reflexes and enough muscle to make Arnold Schwarzenegger weep? Could she survive such a formidable attacker? Clint shivered and didn't allow himself to entertain the possibility any more.
When Natasha came back and she told him De Felice was dead, Clint felt a tightness in his chest loosen that had nothing to do with his fucked up ribs. Apparently there had been no sign of a Terminator of any kind.
Clint ignored the rush of relief that ran through him and thanked her for her help. He'd promised her half the cash, so it wasn't exactly out of the goodness of her heart, but still. Clint adjusted his pack of peas a little and pulled out his burner phone to inform his client that De Felice was dead. He wanted a damn raise after this mess.
While he was there he checked for any new jobs he'd like to take up. Natasha had disappeared into the bathroom to clean herself up after her second job of the day. She was probably seconds away from passing out and he couldn't blame her. "Hey Nat! How does a trip to Helsinki sound?" he yelled, just to be an asshole.
He only just managed to duck the shoe she threw at his head.
