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Chapter 4: It All Falls Down
Coulson mans the comms from the quinjet while his two assassins are sent trekking through miles of sand. It's hot as the sun begins its descent. Minimal words are shared between the trio and there's a definite lack emotion when anyone does speak.
They are in range of the prison by nightfall. Coulson alerts them to run recon for about an hour, then infiltrate.
They spot a decent hill within observation range and settle in there. Nothing out of the ordinary appears.
Natasha has refused to look at Clint, her face is stone as always on a mission but to study her face as Clint had been doing, you could see a flash of worry or self-pity.
Sitting in the sand, Clint inches closer to her. Then wraps an arm around her shoulders in a friendly manner. She instinctively moves away. "What are you doing?" She whispers.
"It's a form of comfort, most people would conclude."
"I gathered that Barton, why are doing that?" she being rubbing her wrists.
"Because I wanted to." His answer was so frustratingly simple she almost wanted to dive back into his arms. But she wouldn't, she would value what professional behavior meant. Even if this was in reference to a man who could appear so innocent she almost wanted his undivided attention. But she wouldn't, she would sit in the dry sand with him until Coulson gave them the all clear, and then storm the prison to their immediate death.
Coulson, noticeably quiet during the exchange, perked up in the comms. He rambles on about security posts and other important but bland things. Clint has his eyes trained on Natasha taking in any and all signs of discomfort.
They're given the all clear, the go into No COMM mode and make their way to the prison. They scout out a dark zone of the building. Romanoff motions for Clint to lookout while she scales the building. It's an old brick building that she can free climb with ease. Down below Clint and his trusty bow and quiver stand daring anyone to challenge him.
Natasha is halfway up when she spots a glimpse of a something shiny or dark from the raised security post at the entrance of the prison guard about seventy yards away. The item is easily identified when a red light emits above the barrel of the automatic sniper. The lighted dot fix itself on the chest of Natasha. There's no one manning the sniper making it impossible to make out during recon. She gestures wildly to Clint who motions for her to jump.
And she does, not before hearing a loud crack break the silence. She realizes that she's no longer jumping, she's floating. Or maybe she's unconsciousness or dreaming. Times slows she ponders Clint and French toast, and Fury's Cadillac. Then the Cadillac drives away and Heathers takes back the French toast and it's just Clint. Clint yelling, boots running, and sand whirring she hears it all. Oh and the alarms ringing.
Prison alarms. Mission. Clint! Her eyes open, itchy and red. Sand is everywhere, filling every sense. But there's also debris and smoke clouding her surroundings. Her back doesn't want to move and her brain doesn't want to focus. She forces it to command her body to move. Everything aches and blurs. Something is in throat and she's vomiting before she realizes it.
After several pathetic tries, she's on her unbalanced feet. Her brain won't work properly she can't remember where she is or why a building is on fire and people are running in chaotic masses.
Her body finally begins to obey and she begins moving. With at first hesitant steps, she scolds her muscles into a jog then a run. Granted, she stumbles a few times as her mind can't seem to register balance. But soon she finds her way to the burning building. She tries to recall the faces of the agents she's been seen for but her thoughts are too jumbled.
Among all the inmates and guards running for their lives she spots a face she knows as familiar, the target she assumes. Her mind stumbles then spits out a name, "Haraen Munnings". Her legs begin to move and before she realizes it she's tackled him. He scrambles away from her with a look of terror. His sun tanned skin is creased with wrinkles and scratches. According to the report, Munnings is only 32 but here he looks to be in his late fifties and starving.
Natasha tries to explain that this his rescue mission and he needs to follow her to safety but the surrounding chaos around them drowns put all noise and now a round of gunshots go off and the screams get even louder. Munnings resist her soundless pleas to follow her and tries to free himself from her grasp. Although particularly weak, Natasha pins his wrist to the ground in an iron hold. Panic takes over in his eyes and he swings aiming for her temple. The assassin narrowly dodged to blow, everything was working slower in her head, and she knew that even when she landed a kick to Munnings' chest. He reels back but doesn't lose balance he retaliates with a successful blow to her head. She knows she's losing consciousness when she delivers a weak punch to his gut.
He knees her in the kidneys and she collapses to her knees. His hands settle firmly on Natasha's throat and her lungs commands her to make choked pleas for air.
There's a lack of noise but something bright and white is screeching loud enough to bother her. She tastes metal, sticky, warm metal. Her vision blurs as an arrow embeds itself into the neck of the man hovering above her and suddenly the pressure is gone.
"I have four dead agents, one dead asset, and another agent in critical," Fury closes his eye and paces in front of his desk, "Now I really don't care what that mission report says, I want to know from all of you why I have a list of dead and injured agents and assets all of which the work of other SHIELD agents."
Christian Demorie, Alec Sanden, and Clint Barton all stand in awkwardly unified and stiff row. They're still marked by dirt, soot, and blood but all things considered, they're alive.
"Let's begin with the explosion. Demorie? Sanden? Care to weigh in?"
"We had to go into deep cover mode after we were compromised during infiltration. We created the explosion as a distraction to complete the rescue mission. We never requested an extraction team or put out a distress signal." Demorie begins to rant then immediately ceases when Fury raises a daring eyebrow in his direction. The young agent finishes with a quiet, "sir".
"Taking into account that you're fairly new field agents, I'm going to assume that you realize that protocol dictates if extraction point is missed an agent is given 24 hours to make some sort communication to SHIELD or extraction is sent. But seeing that you gathered that setting off an explosion in a prison was an acceptable idea, I can see why you may have forgotten that detail. In any case, your juvenile thinking costs the lives of the four-man extraction team that were in the building desperately trying to rescue your sorry selves as well as threw another agent off the of the building which landed her in critical." The two younger agents bow their heads in defeat. Fury continues, "In addition to an Iranian prison bomb and all the dramatics, somehow an arrow still managed to kill the asset," he turns sharply to eye Barton, "if your next words isn't you admitting that you've missed… well I hope you're a god-fearing man that starts praying right about now."
"Munnings was is the process of murdering another agent, I took offensive action."
"Don't child me, Barton. Your partner was injured during the explosion, why weren't you with her in the first place?"
Clint who had his head up until this point looks ashamed and torn, "It was chaos and I couldn't find her. There were people screaming from the building and I couldn't leave them there to die."
"Ok, so after your impromptu rescue mission, you come outside in time to witness Munnings choking agent Romanoff? Right, and then you decide, you being the world's best marksmen, to aim for a fatal shot rather than a knee or arm or something."
"My partner was holding on by a thread, I took invasive action to eliminate the threat."
Sanden perks up, "To be fair, sir, according to the report both Agent Romanoff and Munnings were probably in equal states of delusion."
"Don't quote the report at me, Sanden. Now I can either deem this entire failure as one unfortunate event after another or I can find some severe way to punish all of you for your immature actions. While I decide which, none of you have been cleared for active duty by your psychologist so figure things out, you can schedule a reevaluation no sooner than a week from now." Fury pauses and takes a seat at his desk, "You're dismissed."
All three agents remove themselves from Fury's presence. Clint wastes no time marching himself down the hall toward the medical wing. Behind him he hears Sanden and Demorie audibly sigh and high five each other. "Idiots," he thinks and continues to Natasha's infirmary room.
A doctor with a distinct British accent calls Clint over the moment he steps into the wing. "Agent Clint Barton, correct?" Barton nods, "I'm Doctor Wilsons I've been assigned to your partner, agent Natasha Romanoff." He flips through some pages of a clipboard he's consulting. Wilsons' blond hair is slicked back to accompany his very young features. "Well her condition has improved greatly overnight. She's breathing on her own and expected to make a full recovery."
"Will she be awake soon?" There's a bit of desperation in Clint's voice.
"She's under heavy medication, we're set to lower the dosage tomorrow morning she'll wake a few hours later. But you're welcome to see her now."
Clint nods and grudgingly trots to his partner's room. A small smile breaks onto his face when he sees her, no more tubes or pale gray skin. She looks healthy, peaceful even.
He pulls up a chair beside her and listens to her soft breaths and tiny movements. Natasha is fine and that's important. That's all that matters to him at the moment. She's been here nearly seven months and has made remarkable progress. Professionally, she's barely old enough to be a field agent, most 23 year olds are just finishing their training. However he doesn't care about her professional status as much as he wants her to be happy. All those months back he brought Natalia Romanova, a mask of a woman, no personality because she never had the chance to develop one. But now, character was forming. Traits that were hers not decided by some harsh Red Room thug.
Her personality certainly didn't disappoint. Clint has witnessed her be girly, humorous, and compassionate. He eagerly stood by waiting for her to discover another trait to add to the list.
While Clint lost himself in thought, a whimper from Natasha's bed bought him back to the present. He turned sharply to see his partner scrunch her face and whimper again. Her right arm is wriggling above her head and her left hand is scratching at the wrist roughly. Her body jerks and she whimpers again digging her nails deeper into her skin.
Clint is on his feet alarmed by the sight. He pries her left hand away from her wrist and gently examines the skin for marks. The look of discomfort eases as soon as his hand grips the area in question. Clint squeezes the wrist with a bit of pressure and a pleasant sigh of relief escapes her lips. The archer sits back down without letting go. He uses his free hand to reach over to push aside pieces of her impossibly long, fiery hair. He absentmindedly begins to softly caress her cheek it's so soft and smooth his mind hardly registers the action. As soon as it does, however, his hand reels back in punishment and he scolds himself. He looks down at her wrist that he refuses to let go he shakes his head and whatever primitive thoughts were flying into his head. He leans back and shuts his eyes, waiting for when he'll have the courage to stand up and leave.
It's two in the morning when wakes. A nurse interrupts his slumber while making her rounds. His hand is still wrapped around Natasha's wrist as she sleeps soundly.
He releases the grip and stands up he turns and leaves the room immediately. If he doesn't get out quickly, Natasha's returning whimpers will glue him there.
He makes his way to his dorm where he showers and throws on some gray joggers. He grabs a duffel bag and fills it with a few personal items. His room is dark and the moonlight from the small window washes over his bare chest and conflicted facial features. He doesn't want to leave, he can't go but he must. He stalls by tidying up his area then when he's finally run out of things to fuss over he pulls on a black t-shirt and swings his duffel bag over his shoulders and walks out of the room.
Natasha wakes that afternoon to an empty sterile room. A doctor is soon replaces the silence, a young, handsome doctor that has introduced himself as Dr. Wilsons. He asks her a list of questions and examines her wounds.
The doctor catches her glance at the doorway while he applies pressure to her bruised neck. "If you're waiting for Agent Barton he left in the middle of the night. Probably wanted to get some rest, he'll be back soon I'm sure." Dr. Wilson smiles encouragingly at her. "Everything looks in order, miss. You have a severe concussion but you'll make a full recovery."
Natasha nods, after not saying much the entire time. The doctor smiles and leaves. She sits, and waits.
Clint exits a small quinjet and is greeted by a green prairie with a few rolling hills. He sighs contentedly and begins his trek.
The sun is still high when he a farmhouse comes into view. He pulls a key from the bag and lets himself in.
"Laura, I'm home."