A/N: We've hit the double digits! Woo-hoo! I shouldn't be this happy about this, but it's the first time I've gotten this far. I know it's been a while, but I had no Wi-Fi in the cabin on the camp. I typed this baby up, though, and I have begun next chapter, too, so that update will be faster than this one.
There is a secondary ship in here, but I hope non-shippers of Pepperony will forgive me for it. I figured it made sense with the Iron Man 3 ending. It will only be prominent in this chapter, I promise. There's no direct interaction.
Disclaimer: As you can probably tell by the lack of this storyline in the movie "The Avengers", I don't own The Avengers or any associated characters. I just like to pretend really well.
Silent Spider: Chapter 10
New York City, New York, United States of America
- Later that week
The whole ordeal was damn extravagant, queerly and eccentrically so. When taking into consideration who had planned and financed the entire thing, maybe it wasn't so strange after all. He was an eccentric man, Tony Stark, extraordinary to the point of narcissistically infuriating, yet just like every other rich guy when it came down to his wealth and accompanying personality. That was Clint's assessment anyway, and he struck to it as he leaned his head backwards to gaze upon the gold leaf ceiling held by the white marble columns aligned on opposite sides of the hall, each pillar wrapped with shiny colored paper coils like liquid confetti.
Extravagance didn't cover the appearance or atmosphere of the ballroom. Balloon-like spheres of colored glass hung from the ceiling, giving it the appearance of a massive bubble bath, supported by silver and lavender tablecloths, balloons, confetti, and even giftwrapping. Clint wouldn't be surprised if an interior decorator had been hired. He thought most party-attenders ridiculously overdressed, but then again—only Stark would have a dress code for an infant's birthday party, even if it was her first.
The girl in question was currently out of Clint's sight, but that did not worry the archer the slightest. Hadley had plenty of aunts and uncles, if not by blood then by merit, and half of them alone would be enough to frighten off even the toughest of armies. Not to mention her horribly rude, tactless and overprotective father whose reputation alone would, hopefully, warn off most potential boyfriends. Clint had to crack a smile at that notion. Despite Stark's eccentric (and occasionally scientifically hazardous) tendencies, Hadley was a lucky girl with parents who loved her. It was more than what Clint had had (then again, what child could claim to know half of the eastern seaboard's superheroes by the age of one sole year). He quickly shrugged it off; he shouldn't be comparing his childhood to that of the Stark heir.
Clint wasn't envious of Hadley, though. He hated being the center of attention, and it seemed Stark's need to be just that—the center of attention—had been passed unto his child, who was giggling joyfully in glee. Tony stood by her, encouraging her as Hadley's stubby fingers tore the starry wrapping paper apart to reveal presents that received exuberant reactions of no alike. It was easy being a child, easy being selfish and rewarded with exactly what you wanted, Clint bitterly thought.
It took no genius to see that he was a fish out of water. He recognized little of the people here (most having been invited to fill a crowd, Clint suspected, although he knew them all to be genuinely celebrating the girl, as Tony would have invited only those he trusted to celebrate his daughter's first birthday). He'd donned the generously provided tuxedo and shaved, but the general receptions were puzzlement and disbelieving unsettlement. He knew better than to take it personal—and even if he did, it was with good reason. He hadn't been fair towards his teammates when he'd left. In fact, he remembered a loud argument with Steve right before leaving; and that had been Steve. The others hadn't understood what losing Natasha had meant; sure, they'd lost a teammate, the Black Widow, and Natasha, but he'd lost Tasha. Explaining had been pointless. He'd blamed them for not understanding. Today, he knew he'd blame them for not understanding, too, if they were to find out his latest discovery.
So he played along, attending the girl's birthday party. It had been a while since he'd socialized (his personality seemed to contradict the very definition), and a while since he'd been on American soil. It was good to be home; he couldn't deny that, but it was as if returning to an old dorm with all furniture and personality replaced. He wasn't the joking Hawkeye they'd known. He'd been invited out of courtesy and friendship, not for his mingling and partying skills.
He skimmed the crowd, taking in the breathtaking gown-wearing woman and handsome men in tuxedos. Men cajoled and laughed, reminiscing; women talked, chatted and spilled secrets; couples snuck away in a corner to dial down the public displays of affection, or danced shyly; whilst the youths wolfed down incredible amounts of food from the equally extravagant and delicious buffet. The smells from the long table were mouthwatering with everything from salmon to roasted chestnuts and barbequed legs of lamb, fish and chips, French fries, sauces to die for, Italian pastas, salads with feta cheese and peanuts, carrot sticks, prawns, spaghetti, meatballs, entrecotes, crackers, garlic bread, omelets, spiced chicken, T-bone steaks, rice dishes, compotes, pancakes, Belgian waffles, cheesecake, muffins, and much more. Clint had been full before he could reach the seemingly distant end of the buffet. He was certain of one thing – Tasha would have loved it. Not just because of the food or the people, or the dancing, but everything, the atmosphere, the attention. You always looked so much better in the spotlight.
She had once, in a moment of uncertainty and would-be death, confided in him that she loved dancing, any kind. He'd looked at her, perplexed, and inquired when she was able to do it. Being a spy meant sticking to the shadows and remaining unseen (that was what he thought then, anyway). She'd smiled so wistfully and never brought up the topic until he'd, upon surviving, taken her. God, he'd been clumsy; he shouldn't have, but she made him. Few people didn't pale in comparison. She was a natural, so beautiful to look at. The circus had taught him showmanship, and equipped with his bow he could perform wonders and make it look so easy (although it wasn't, hadn't always been) as if everybody could do it. That was his gift and he'd spotted her looking sideways at him when he did it. Circus didn't teach you Nat's kind of grace and elegance, though.
His mood darkened when he thought of how she'd come to that kind of grace. He liked to think it hadn't been something fostered by her trainers, the child terrorists. He liked to think that whoever Tasha had been before she'd wound up there had been equally talented and graceful. He liked to think those things so that he wouldn't have to wonder what they did to her at the early days of childhood where imprinting was done best. Her training wasn't the first of its kind he'd stumbled across, but it was the first whose ramifications he'd witnessed up-close; the first whose victim he'd cradled at night when its nightmares terrified.
Clint forced his thoughts to turn brighter, away from the frowning kind that made him look as if he wanted to strangle someone. His grip tightened around the glass and he putted it away, exhaling to control his thought pattern. He was thousand of miles from Natasha; thinking about what had been done to her a long time ago wasn't going to make this party any easier.
He was Clint Barton, enigmatic sniper of S.I.D. and at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s continuous disposal. He had contemplated demanding a retainer fee, but knew that no matter how much he'd grown to tolerate and even, sometimes, appreciate S.I.D., he'd always be considered one of their assets by S.H.I.E.L.D. You didn't get to do what Clint had done and walk away as if having repaid the debt to society. He had blood on his hands, innocent blood, and a decade's worth of service in S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't enough—hopefully, would never be enough—to wipe it off. These people knew that, although some pretended not to, overlooking the past transgressions of Clint Barton for an evening of pleasant conversation and the celebration of Hadley Stark's first birthday.
Clint had heard about it in the news, of course; the birth of an heir to the Stark empire had made the media abuzz with stories. It mattered less who the mother was—he'd wondered if the late Maria Stark had been as overlooked in the days following Anthony Stark's birth—and more if the babe had shown the brilliance of her father. Obviously it was more than that; stock and shareholders discussed the impact, board members were interviewed, staffers talked openly of what changes had to occur. Nobody had expected Stark to start a family and have children, possibly due to his former womanizing and antisocial ways, least of all after Afghanistan and Iron Man. Clint had been in a pub in Ireland tracking a target when he'd seen it on the news. It was a nice thought: that even superheroes and renounced villains could get a second chance at family, at peace. If Tony Stark could get the happy ending, maybe Clint's eventual happiness wasn't so farfetched.
He shook his head. At one point in time, he might have believed that he and Stark wanted the same thing. Clint had accepted a long time ago after a heated argument with his then-girlfriend that he wasn't going to be a father. At that point he'd been afraid he'd become an abusive shit like his father; now, the reasons piled up. Sure, other agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. had families and he envied them for it, but he wasn't about to put a child through the nightmare of having to wonder if its father would return, or having to lie when the inevitable question about what he did for a living came up. Plus, he could never put a civilian through that, and hardly picture himself starting a family with one. Once he'd dreamed of beginning something that could spawn something like that—God, he'd been naïve—but the tough ways of life had changed that. No, Clint didn't want the illusion or the real deal. He wanted to have someone to return to who would never judge him for what he did, question the motives of his organization, or ask when he'd be home. He was too messed up for that sort of games.
Real people got to play house and picket fence; shades like Clint and Natasha got to face the real problems of the world. Once that had meant having each other's backs. Now, he wasn't sure what it meant. He'd been one breath from panicking when Fury had called him to his office. That man had an eye, so to speak, for reading intentions and minds. He was the badass spy of spies. Clint understood his curiosity regarding the invitation. Normally, he'd have turned it down in "a semi-polite way" if it wouldn't mean offending the world's richest know-it-all and alerting Fury to his antisocial patterns—who was he kidding? It was pretty obvious. Another reason why he'd embraced the chance to travel to America had been the need to get away from Europe and see the situation with Natasha with new eyes. That was his style; he saw better from a distance.
"Agent Barton!" someone called out.
Clint spun around in the direction of the feminine voice and connected it to the woman wearing what was blue dress that probably cost more than Clint earned in a month. It suited her rosy cheeks and strawberry blonde hair, even her swollen belly.
"Miss Potts," he greeted, forcing a semi-genuine smile, as she walked up to him. He had nothing against the perky CEO and even admired her patience. She had single-handedly housetrained Stark from what he'd gathered from Natasha and stood by him through hell and fire and engulfing viruses. Plus, it took guts to marry Tony Stark; guts that she evidently had. "Congratulations," he added and gave her his best sheepish smile.
"Missus," she corrected with a smile that carried no blame. "But call me Pepper, please. Or Virginia, although I can't promise I'll respond to it."
"Pepper then," Clint replied. Most people didn't give the strawberry blonde enough credit. She was naïve because she was a civilian, but she was also the woman who daily dealt with fierce executives and vice businessmen. She was diplomatic and pragmatic where Tony was difficult and insensitive. The couple complemented each other nicely. With Hadley turning one year and another one on the way, they were doing a fine job of portraying the American family (granted, neither of them were particularly "normal", but they made pretending seem feasible if not easy).
Pepper beamed shyly. Clint had no idea how it was possible, but it was cute and endearing, if he'd been into that kind of thing. He wasn't, current paramour in evidence. No, Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanov were both strong women but they had more differences than similarities. Maybe that was why it was Potts whom Stark had chosen—not saying that Clint would have forgiven Stark if he had fancied his partner. Clint had been annoyed in the beginning at having to work with one of Nat's former targets. Sure, he could look the other way, but he'd never had to goddamn work alongside one of them, and a ridiculously rich one of them at that. His concerns had been quickly subsided upon seeing (and being amused by) Stark and Nat's animosity and subsequently Stark's completely ignorant infatuation with Potts.
"How long?" Clint asked, gesturing towards Pepper's pregnant abdomen. He'd always been shy around Potts, as she tended to react as a civilian (at least until she overcame the shock and turned on what Tony had called 'Potts mode'—others simply called it pragmatic diplomacy—which was definitely a consequence of having been around and forced to deal with Stark for so many years. Clint was still wary, but had found out that underneath his initial reluctance, he actually liked Potts as a person, even if he'd avoided her.
"I'm almost four months along," she confessed with a blush he knew to be of comfort and not of genuine embarrassment. It took more to unravel someone so well-tuned to the world of business.
The next question came naturally. "Boy or girl?"
"Twins, actually," Pepper replied and laughed at his look of incredulousness. She used his moment of recollection to change the tables. "How about you? Are you seeing someone?"
Clint had forgotten how perceptive the former personal assistant was, or more precisely, how disarming her questions and subtle comments were, although if by intent or mistake was debatable. He actually stiffened in response to that question but was able to shrug it off casually (at least he hoped so). "Not really. I'm not in the superhero business." Anymore. I never was.
"Not the flamboyant kind, anyway," Pepper said, and he traced a note of resentment in her voice. Clint knew better than to trace its origin. The emotion was gone as soon as it had flared.
"Don't have the option," he replied indifferently. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't like Hawkeye running around as a vigilante, not one bit. That, coupled with his recent dalliance with Natasha, would validate a termination order for (almost) certain, the almost depending on Coulson and Fury's personal thoughts on the matter and the Council's amount of awareness. "I'm not exactly what you call a people person. No offence," he told her.
"So people tell me, yet we've had this conversation for three minutes without offending or antagonizing me. It's beating a lot of Tony's records."
"Tell me, Pepper, why are we having this conversation?" he asked curiously, his paranoia getting the better of him. He knew and yet didn't loathe that she was speaking to him out of some form of pity. He'd made a mark of himself, standing awkwardly by himself by not feigning conversation. He appreciated it, though. She wasn't the worst company he'd had to endure, but she wasn't Tasha, either.
"Well – Clint – we are conversing because that is what is generally accepted as the thing to do at parties, even birthdays. It's called mingling. I'd thought a man of your training would know that," she said cheekily, managing not to be condescending, a gleam in her eye. There was more to Pepper Potts than what met the eye. "That, and I really needed to sit down and this seemed like a good place," she admitted with a slight groan.
… And she could be blunt, too, it seemed. He gallantly pulled out the chair he'd been leaning against and offered it with gentlemanly mannerisms. "I might not play well with others at these sort of events, but I can take a pregnant woman's hints."
Pepper chuckled and gratefully accepted the chair, nursing her back. "This dress is killing me," she confessed. "The dress code was not my idea."
"St—Tony's?" Clint guessed without needing to. "He has a flair for the extravagant. The wallet for it, too," he noted without resentment. "Your daughter seems to love it, though."
"Hadley's definitely his daughter," Pepper agreed amusedly, exhaustion tingeing her facial expression. The weight of twins couldn't be easy on the usually slim and slight-framed woman.
"Let's hope she inherits her mother's understanding nature and patience, then," Clint replied with a smile. It wasn't all Hadley had inherited from the Potts gene pool. Red strands of hair adorned the tiny head in pretty curls. "I have to admit, I almost didn't come."
Pepper cocked her head to the side. "What changed your mind?"
"Mostly the opportunity of seeing Fury puzzled by my response. I'm not good at these things. It was always—." … Natasha's thing. He trailed off and swallowed. His heart sank, and he could tell the strawberry blonde had realized what he'd been meaning to say, too. After all, she'd made a note of getting to know the woman behind the Natalie Rushman act. He cleared his throat. "Anyway. I almost saw genuine shock on the director's face. Scout's honor," he vowed.
Pepper chuckled at his words and gave him a hearty smile. "Nevertheless, I'm glad you came, Clint."
"Thanks for the invitation," he said. He didn't mean it, but he was glad for the opportunity to travel home, even if it didn't feel like home anymore.
"You're welcome. Phil mentioned you did work in Europe," Pepper said, ever the socializing conversationalist. She made it a question although it wasn't. It was strange to hear someone else address Coulson as 'Phil', but Clint couldn't hate the mother-to-be for it. He didn't have the right to be jealous.
"Yeah," he replied non-committedly. "I'm on loan."
"Really, is that so?" Pepper continued.
Berlin, Germany
Meanwhile
By the time she had ascended the stairs to the mezzanine overlooking the private banquet fundraiser, she had already identified three of the allegedly six-man team she was supposed to be (meaning: hired to be) examining. It was her opinion that determined whether or not they would graduate unto riskier Leonum jobs. It was her… insinuation that determined their continual service and contract. From what Natasha had already seen, she doubted the team would be up to the par set for operatives.
They were legendary thieves, their target group spanning across Europe. They had no name for themselves, but Desta had taken interest in them and voiced a desire to see if they'd be as successful in graduating unto more dangerous and punishable offences. Tonight's crime was sabotage—something which Natasha had specialized in for the past three months when not required to fix botched jobs like Sylvio's. She'd been assigned to them for the past two days, but only tonight would she see their faces, officially being introduced after this game of examinations. They were six—all of whom hoped to graduate, but the odds were lessening with what Natasha witnessed tonight.
They were not Nikolaevna's only job. An obsessive, now ex, Japanese intelligence officer by the name of Takahashi Masao was snapping at Desta's heels, figuratively speaking. In the beginning it had been a minor annoyance, but Takahashi was getting closer to discovering the impact the Leonum Tarpeius had on Japan's export tendencies and financial decay. Suffice to say, Desta had rung her and she'd flown to Berlin within the hour on a dual mission. Whilst there, he'd added, she might as well make sure that the Leons' Japanese enterprises remained undetected, or at least misinformed. Takhashi had gotten fired from Jōhōhonbu—Japanese defense intelligence—for his frenzied accusations about a group that, according to most law enforcement agencies, did not exist; a myth, really. He had even been diagnosed with a psychotic breakdown, which had helped quieting most of his discoveries, but hard evidence could not be ignored and their contact within the Japanese exporting department could not cover up the private files Takahashi kept. He was paranoid—and perhaps with good reason—but Tarpeius' dispatched operatives were better than that.
Currently, her group of thieving sextuplets were scattered across the floor of the high-end banquet; a couple of diplomats were present, but not all important to mention by name. Natasha had done a thorough job of making sure who was on the guest list for personal reasons—most of which involved her past with several agencies such as Jōhōhonbu—even if it remained pointless. She had survived a hell lot worse through paranoia, and it was part of what had ensured her survival on numerous occasions.
Classical jazz played from a live band. The atmosphere, and thus, party might have been labeled cozy if it hadn't been for the six people in amongst the partygoers who'd sworn to Desta that they could kill for him; for Leonum Tarpeius. Tonight was graduation night, and Natasha would be judge and jury and possibly executioner if they got into real trouble. It wasn't to be expected, as the lieutenant who'd briefed the group had assigned them what Natasha's former employers would have called a low profile target. Natasha wasn't supposed to know who the target was, but had come across the person's name when she'd done her background checks. The real trick was to get out of Berlin without alerting the taskforce whose current job was to "locate, identify, and terminate the recent threat to European metropolitan cities". It was naïve, but if they caught a Leon, the threat would grow very real—depending on the operative, obviously. The part-German taskforce was backed by Interpol, who had been growing irascible since the Leipzig incident. Apparently, they didn't like finding Polish college students and dirty cops and felons dead in the streets.
The sextuplets would make a fine addition to the growing hundreds of organized Leons. Clint had been right in his assessment. It was organized crime, but unlike anything they'd brought down previously. Natasha had always favored the strong and Leonum Tarpeius was like a child with growing pains, few weaknesses, fewer by each day. It was foolish to believe that Desta was its only leader, but equally silly to belittle his importance to the organization. Natasha was no newcomer but kept discovering new things and branches. Desta had entrusted her with recruitment of Leons into a group whose main purpose would be sabotage—the ruthless kind. Spolia Opima, he called it. 'Spoils of war'. As his entrusted courier, it had been easy to use it as guise for the recruitment process. She had been tasked with picking out Leons, those with the best potential, for a new unit. The request had unsettled her momentarily. It was a task she'd performed in Red Room, too, and she had wondered, with hitched breath, if Desta knew. He had given no indication.
Confining the Spolia Opima plans to a compartment in her head, she focused on the task at hand: seeing if this group had potential for Leonum Tarpeius, for following Desta's requests without question. Sure, small uprisings were accepted, but constant rebelliousness and undermining was not. Take Alfredo, for example. He was on the list for the Spoils, too, but he had taken a liking to undermining her but not the orders she relayed from headquarters. It was a fine line he walked, but aside from being an asshole, he was a perfect candidate for Spolia Opima. She'd overlooked their animosity for the sake of Tarpeius and hoped he would do the same.
If not, well, she had her methods. She wouldn't tattle on him like a scorned child, but she suspected her word weigh more, if only slightly, against Alfredo's, who had been in Vienna for two months and subsequently not met up with Desta the entire time, per Desta's lack of request. She kept Desta informed of Tarpeius' workings and potential weaknesses. He listened and considered her suggestions, not always performing the adjustments if he believed them to be unbeneficial. She never actively tried to bring Tarpeius down, not even given her former allegiances. Sure, she'd been an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., but that did not mean she was above what she was doing. People shouldn't forget where she was spawned, what she was trained for. Docile wasn't a permanent state. She'd never been righteous. She knew the flavors of vengeance and vendettas far better than justice.
Justice was something untainted by the desire to see the guilty burn, their life melting away in front of them, succumbing them to a state of sheer insanity and emotional turmoil until there was nothing left to hope for but the begging cries for death. Justice didn't get personal, but vengeance did. Justice was good for the uncompromised, but in today's world, nobody was uncompromised. Justice was a kind idea in an unkind world. There were no saints, only sinners, the people who pretended not to be, and the rare callow people who'd soon be ripped apart by the world of chaos and damnation.
Suffice to say, Nikolaevna never dealt with the third kind of people. Karolina Koppel might have been one of those, but she hadn't known her for long enough to get a read on her. She pretended not to be bothered by the sonogram she'd found in the student's purse; not to be bothered by what her training her made her. She'd ridden herself of insecurities and doubts, but then Clint had come back. He was like a filthy parasite she wanted nothing but embrace. He threw her off balance and made her do things she didn't want to by simply being him. He made her second-guess breathing, for fuck's sake!
She scanned the room once again. A woman wearing a red cocktail dress made a seemingly random touch to a gent in a blue shirt; nothing to be concerned with to the average passerby, but Natasha had been in the game too long not to see the gesture as a subtle message, an update, a voiceless sign. They weren't necessarily bad at such gestures, because the sign was understood and the woman moved on, as if looking for another flirt. The pair was both members of the group along with four other men. The woman was the only female of the group, and maybe that was good. Natasha had spotted the two other men upon entering. They had assessed her and deemed her a non-threat to their objective, which was true, but she was anything but harmless. She wouldn't interrupt their sabotage mission unless they failed.
It was rather simple. The sextuplets—for the lack of a better term; if they joined Tarpeius, they'd have a moniker bestowed on them instantly, for better or for worse—had been assigned the task of singling out a boasting benefactor to a private intelligence network and disrupt his laptop, and thus, the intel his organization had gathered on Leonum Tarpeius and half a dozen other groups, so that the identity of the perpetrators would remain undisclosed. Also, it never did harm to force debts upon potential allying criminal syndicates. From what Natasha knew about the man, it was a fairly easy mission as he was incredible vain, incredible self-satisfied, boastful, and rather arrogant. He was practically asking for it. Question only was, who of the sextuplets would get access to his laptop first? He carried the security flashdrive on his person at all times—a sign of his extreme wealth and influence.
As she mentioned, he asked for it. Tarpeius hadn't asked the group to kill him, so she didn't pity him much. She only pitied his arrogance. Arrogance got you killed, but so did love. She was uneasy making that statement, taking recent events into considerations.
Is this love, Agent Romanov?
She visibly shivered as she remembered the question. There was no one in her vicinity to notice, though, and for that she was grateful. Loki had hit a nerve with his question, but rules about fraternization had kept the two agents from the prospect of a relationship. Back then, she hadn't been able to, either, but things had changed after New York. Coping with what Loki had done had taught them to appreciate each other, and from there, it had grown. They weren't pretending to be something they were not. They had still been agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., able to compartmentalize emotions when their jobs required them to be. Now… now she wasn't an agent, but something far worse in that equation. They couldn't pretend S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't there like an ominous shadow.
She swallowed hard. She shouldn't be thinking about this now. She was supposed to be watching the game play out accordingly. She found the blue-clad man approaching the target and sighed in relief, embracing the distraction. This she could deal with. This was tangible, unlike the undefined emotions she had towards Clint. This was something she'd dealt with at the age where other girls still played with dolls and made mud cakes.
They still work when they're apart-but will that change soon? Natasha, keep telling yourself that...
I hear the sound of reviews being typed. Hope you liked it. Probably didn't see the birthday turning out the way it did. You want Clint to interact with the Avengers? He wasn't very nice to them.