A/N: I'm so sorry for the lack of updates! It's just, and I hate saying this, I've been busy with my new classes and the IB, and preparing my cosplay for the Genki convention.
UPDATE: I went to Genki, my first convention!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything linked to the MCU. Not these characters, prior story arcs, characters… nada.
Silent Spider: Chapter 16
Rome, Italy
There were times when Clint Barton thought he was a total jerk, and then there were times when Clint Barton thought his partner was a goddamn asshole. He'd forgotten that aspect of his partnership to Natasha, and he'd felt it firsthand three days ago. His sorry ass still couldn't believe it was real and had actually happened.
"Barton, do you see the Minsk report—?" The agent in question—one of Leclerc's, by the name of Pierschke—made hand gesticulations as if searching for the right word. He looked around, presumably trying to locate the Minsk report.
Clint grabbed for the manila folder he'd put atop a pile thirty minutes ago and handed it to the German agent. "Here," he said.
Pierschke leaned against the desk Clint had been offered, opening and skimming the report. Willing to procrastinate from returning to the boring work of reviewing dozens of reported incidents, Clint watched him. Interpol was similar to S.I.D., but the taskforce operated almost independently. Leclerc certainly knew how to hijack a public building for the housing of his team. The archer had spent half the day brushing up on Leonum Tarpeius, aided by the multiple reports on the reasonably unknown group. He'd been introduced to the mostly German taskforce of which Pierschke was a member, being an ex-cop turned agent. It felt strange, being part of a unit, but he and Rosario managed. Two extra sets of hands weren't unappreciated.
Since his third report Clint had been wondering how the hell the L.T. had gone unnoticed by S.I.D., by him. Then it turned out that another S.I.D. agent had been assigned to the taskforce for the past year—an agent Clint knew rather well.
Benedetta Guido had been Jameson's condition to allowing the troublesome Hawkeye entrance to his agency, aside from a rather persistent request from Director Fury. Robb Jameson was the de jure director of S.I.D., when really, he took most orders from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Council and was left to be pissed heartless about Fury's decisions. Guido had been Jameson's condition and Clint's key. After six months of being an antisocial asshole, he'd been dragged into a meeting that was mostly scolding and been assigned Agent Benedetta Guido, two years out of training, but less green than most.
She was of medium height and weight and had been indifferent to his unique preferences of Paleolithic weaponry. She was pretty good with a rifle herself but nowhere near his caliber or his age. Inevitably she'd gone out on her own and had most recently landed in the taskforce, the only Italian on the seven-man but ever expanding team. It was due to her job as a liaison that S.I.D. had received their intel—the intel Clint hadn't considered in Vienna.
Leclerc himself, despite his easygoingness towards and among his agents, was nowhere in sight. "Where's Leclerc?" Clint asked casually, tapping the end of the pencil against the stack of papers, drumming an inconsequential rhythm. God, he missed his arrows sometimes; the sweet symphony of flight and release, a rhythm as familiar as his own heartbeat in his ears after the rush of adrenaline.
Pierschke shrugged nonchalantly and closed the manila folder. "I do not know. He left about an hour ago—had a meeting with some lunatic who claimed to know a lot about the Tarps."
Each agent had a name for the Leonum Tarpeius; Pierschke's was "the Tarps" and Clint wasn't going to be bothered by it. It sure beat having to say the whole mouthful each time. He was skeptic, though. "Lunatic?"
"Leclerc took him seriously. He might have been speaking the truth," Pierschke said. "He was some sort of intelligence officer from Asia—Japan, I think. He seemed frantic. I was there when Leclerc read his email."
Clint didn't like not knowing where Leclerc had gone—maybe due to Natasha's presence within the city, if she hadn't left already. Two of Leclerc's men were in Germany searching for her alter ego, the anonymous shadow. Clint had half the sense to report her, but something resembling affection held him back. Whatever little remorse Natasha felt wouldn't increase by penalty or imprisonment. She'd seen too much to have such mindset. As to what had prompted such mindset in him, he couldn't tell.
"Oh well, even if he is crazy, we will probably get lucky in Vienna," Pierschke murmured casually, flipping additionally though the pages before closing the report.
"Vienna?" Clint questioned, dumbfounded. He hadn't heard anything about Vienna—aside from his personal experience from there. Nothing he'd mentioned to Leclerc, of course. He'd told Leclerc what he'd told Rosario—and subsequently, S.I.D.
"Yeah, you have not heard?" the Interpol agent—although Clint wasn't totally sure he was Interpol, just that he backed Leclerc's methods and had been assigned to the taskforce—said like it was common knowledge, and perhaps it was – within the taskforce members. Clint was the rookie in their midst, and although Leclerc had meant it when he'd said he appreciated another set of hands, it was rather obvious that they considered Clint their inferior in terms of hierarchy and knowledge about the Tarps. Clint hadn't done enough to convince them otherwise. "Leclerc sent Jürgen and a crew to storm that chemical plant you reported. Honestly I don't know why he waited so long, but… he calls the shots."
Pierschke shrugged nonchalantly. Clint remembered the morning he'd told Leclerc about the Viennese warehouse-slash-chemical plant. Leclerc had been pissed when he'd heard that, having not been informed that Leonum Tarpeius had a base of operations there. It had felt strange—actively working against Tasha. Then again, she'd urged him to "go do his job". It had never felt more bittersweet. "Lemme know how that goes."
Pierschke raised an eyebrow. "You don't think they'll get the job done? These guys are good, Barton."
"Oh, it's not that," Clint rushed to say. "I just don't know if the intel is still valid. It's been weeks. I thought he knew so I didn't say anything."
"I'd say you ought to know better, but you've been browsing a year's worth of reports, so I'd rather pity you. It's not much success compared to the paperwork."
Clint felt bad for being satisfied that things weren't going well and instantly felt guilty. "Yeah, no big fish to fry. Leclerc seems pretty hooked on that woman, though." He feigned ignorance.
"Oh yeah," Pierschke said with a knowing smirk. "He's obsessed, alright. The girl gets more attention than his wife."
"Girl?" Clint repeated, mostly to himself in amusement. Natasha was more than just a girl—way deadlier, way more mature, and to some extent, sadly way too burdened. Besides, she'd been trained old school. Nothing was as cruelly efficient as old school methods to eliminate immaturity and innocence.
"Reports suggest she's between the ages of twenty to thirty years old. Pretty unbelievable but what can you say. It's a cruel world," Pierschke mused, shrugging.
"What reports?"
"Eye witness statements from Leipzig mostly. They mainly concern one of the Tarps, though, a younger girl they used as bait. Brutal, man, brutal."
"I saw that in a report somewhere," Clint said, looking about to dig in the piles and stacks of papers and manila folders. "…Yes, here it is. Leipzig, Deutschland." He skimmed the paragraph. "Wait, eighteen years old? That's…"
He paled when he couldn't find a word beyond sickening. The life of organized crime tended to make people appear older. If she'd been estimated to being eighteen, she was probably younger. Clint forced himself to ignore the sympathy growing in his chest. This girl had chosen this herself, just like Natasha had. Natasha had chosen to join the Tarps; nobody had forced her. At least, he hoped not, God, he hoped not.
A knock on the cubicle alerted both Pierschke and Clint to an eavesdropper, an additional presence within the confines of the room. The latter looked up from the Leipzig report and brightened remotely when he recognized Guido, Hawkeye's latest—and only—S.I.D. protégé.
"Hey boys," she greeted confidently, bouncy. If Clint hadn't known better, he'd have accused her of being peppy, but he knew it was more likely a product of being cooped up for too long. "Barton, wanna go grab some lunch? There's a place down the corner that serves crêpes," she tempted teasingly.
"I have to go anyway," Pierschke excused himself. "The Vienna crew should arrive in two hours' time on location. Be back beforehand," he advised.
Clint nodded as he watched the German make his departure. Guido looked at him questionably. "What was that about?" she asked, leaning on Clint's desk casually with a bored look on her face.
She hadn't changed much, she'd merely gained another notch on the belt. Experience looked good on Guido whose name flatteringly meant "life". She certainly was lively but that didn't make her a bad agent.
"Oh, Leclerc sent some guy and a crew to the Viennese chemical plant to raid the place," Clint explained while he gathered his wallet and jacket.
"You don't say," Guido replied absentmindedly with a strange look on her face as she stood. "Anyway, best to get there before the tourists do."
Clint groaned at the thought of more confused masses of people who habitually took up space—mental and physical—at most restaurants and cafes. Benedetta, a local, was amused at his irritation considering his own citizenship (to which Clint had argued that he rarely behaved like a tourist unless it gave him an advantage). "No more tourists!" he whined.
Guido winked and laughed—not a girly giggle but a real laugh between comrades. "I'm kidding, no? I know this place a couple of blocks from here. Alimento Saporito. It means—"
"—Tasty food, yeah, I get it," he interjected blandly with a light smile.
Guido blushed modestly at her moment of forgetfulness. He'd never been a natural at linguistics, but he possessed no disadvantages either—not like Natasha did. Italian was fairly easy language when you knew other Romance languages (not that there was anything romantic about them if you asked him). Still, Guido was so used to being asked what Italian phrases meant—it was easier than looking it up if she was nearby, be it work-related or not, colloquial phrases, street names, or traditional customs. It was how pulling together resources worked—if it had been archery, Clint would have been asked. However, this was lunch, and Clint hadn't asked.
"Your Italian has improved," she noted and that was it, simple and unembarrassed. With a quick swipe in the security key scanner, they left the legally seized building and headed for Alimento Saporito, Guido's candidate for lunchtime meals.
"Alcuni," Clint replied with a shrug. Some. It was the same reply he'd given Natasha. He had brushed up on his languages in the past five years, but not with fervor. Soon, they neared a cozy-looking place whose façade read the Italian for "tasty foods" according to Clint's knowledge. They sat down at the first table with the best overview—occupational habit, Clint supposed. In their six months together, they had learnt the other's habits and Guido had even adopted some from Clint, who now recognized his own. The only change was that Guido now had the confidence to entrust her habits and instincts. She checked her phone before looking up.
"I don't see any crêpes," Clint remarked after conferring with the menu. He had suspected it.
"Sure they do," Guido replied and summoned the waitress. Rapid Italian flowed from her lips, Clint recognizing only 'crespella', the Italian equivalent of crêpe. He paid attention to body language and his own assessments of the conversation rather than its topic value. After exchanging words, the waitress nodded curtly and Guido looked possibly triumphant.
"Let me guess," Clint began with a growing smirk. "They do serve crêpes, regardless of what the menu says."
Guido didn't look up from her phone, fingertips swiping across the buttons to assemble a message. "You sound so proud."
"Nah, it's totally fine, Guido, I am proud. What's not to be proud of? You're turning resourceful," Clint teased.
"Dio, Barton, you're beginning to sound like my papa," his ex protégé groaned.
"Your papa's dead," he pointed out matter-of-factly; he knew Guido to have processed the fact years ago. She hadn't been that close to her biological father, nor had he. Fathers weren't a touchy subject, never had been. Nor had it been one easily discussed.
She grimaced and put her phone down. "You know what I mean."
"Are you implying I'm dead to you?" Clint asked in mockery, feigning offense. Guido didn't bite, merely gave him a look of unimpressed attitude.
Benedetta Guido grinned and laughed heartily, laughter still strained with absentmindedness. "Anything but, Hawkeye."
After eating lunch—and crespellas, of which Guido ate two and bore witness to the consumption of five—they returned to the taskforce central in one of several Roman public courts, which had been temporarily relocated or shut down, depending on the division. Clint had no idea how Leclerc had gained access or permission to do that, but when he came back, he'd lost all opportunity. The office was abuzz, lit with life as if the tedious desk zombies had been spelled into alert. Clint doubted this, having seen magic (however real it could be defined), and grabbed the nearest clerk-looking agent.
"Hey, what's up?" he inquired, adopting a stern look as he wiped the last grease from the meal off in a napkin, which he discarded into a trashcan.
"Leclerc called," the younger man replied, voice franticly stressed as if he had no idea what he should do. He eyed Clint and Guido. "The taskforce's assembling last I heard."
The two S.I.D. agents quickly exchanged looks and unisonously walked to the conference room whose prior usage Clint was clueless as to. The group was gathered around the speakerphone, Leclerc's second-in-command closest. Leclerc's sit-rep and orders filled Clint's ears.
"… - examiner states time of death to be three hours ago. I want agents on scene. Denisov, Clegg… Barton, too. Pierschke and Guido stand by for Vienna to check in."
'What happened?' Clint mouthed at Pierschke, who caught his message and read his lips. Clint tried not to draw any parallels.
"Lunatic's dead," Pierschke replied solemnly. Clint suddenly understood the glum mood. One thing was to joke around with the sanity and trustworthiness of a flaky ex-officer; another was finding him dead, which Clint assumed was what had happened when Leclerc had gone to meet him.
The second-in-command broke in, glancing at Rosario. "What about the rest of us?"
"I need you to gear up and be ready," Leclerc growled. "Somebody silenced Takahashi for a reason. I want to know what he knew. Clegg's got investigative training and Barton knows how to hunt."
The tone said, don't question me, as if his second was about to. He wasn't.
Clint, Denisov, and Clegg geared up. Denisov had gotten the address from Leclerc, and Clint was happy to register that he didn't know it. It wasn't close to where Natasha's apartment was, and he wasn't sure what he'd have done if it had been. He was pretty sure she wouldn't accept a call by now, least of all from him. An anonymous tipper would be suspicious on both parts.
The trio arrived on the scene of the crime half an hour later and had to weave through quite the crowd on onlookers to near and dive under the police tape. Uniformed officers held back the more curious bystanders, but luckily dumpsters were 'naturally' occurring obstacles in the way of people's line of sight. Armed with his S.I.D. badge and taskforce badge, Clint was allowed through the small security checkpoints. He didn't notice the soiled ground until the soles of his shoes started to be dyed by the color of the ground—crimson.
It was the fifth thing that alarmed Clint, and he didn't include the onlookers, police tape, or uniforms. Soon, he had to play a soiled game of stepping in-between pools of blood, evidence of the horrible massacre and silencing. When Clint reached Leclerc, the senior agent had a mask of stern solemnity on, and was noting down observations on his mini tablet. The expression did not change when he saw Clint, Denisov, and Clegg arrive. "Agents."
After Pierschke's claim this morning, Clint berated himself now for not having seen the signs of Leclerc's obsession—or that it had lead to a strain on his marriage. It wouldn't be the first time Natasha's interference had caused such marital strains, although it was more indirect now than her previous approaches—something for which Clint was grateful. Leclerc gave them a brief overview.
"Takahashi Masao, former Japanese intelligence, suspended and later fired for harassment and circumstantial claims. Was diagnosed with a psychological breakdown and subsequently 'let go'. He approached me about intel on Leonum Tarpeius. His former employer called him obsessed but he obviously posed a threat," Leclerc informed them.
"This was no ordinary silencing," Denisov stated gloomily, voice darkened with dispassion.
Clint had no need for further comment. It was obvious around them. Somebody hadn't wanted Takahashi to talk. Given his claims about the Tarps, it was most likely them. Given his personal relations to one of the members in Rome, he was reluctant to make the assessment. Blood had been spilled—probably nearing the point of exsanguination, but Clint was no expert on emptying the human body of its fluids, but nor was he an amateur on the human anatomy and pain threshold.
The masculine arm that hung clichéd from underneath the corpse sheet—as someone had yet to summon a body bag, presumably because Leclerc had wanted them to see the methods of which the man had been silenced—had been brutally dismembered, garroted with some sort of weapon at the wrist where the joint laid unprotected by bone. If Clint had to give his two cents, he'd guess it was a knife or dagger of some sort. There was no saw marks from attempts or friction. He leaned down and inspected, hands glad in blue latex gloves.
"Perpetrator—or perpetrators," Clint added, considering the man's size and weight and what it would have taken to hold the man down, "used a heavy blade. Cleaver-like," he assessed as he studied the cut where the hand was missing. Blood had colored the wound and you could pinpoint where dermis stopped and epidermis began like some twisted high school biology class.
Leclerc's eyes showed nothing. Clegg inquired. "You seem uncertain as to singular or plural," he stated.
"Takahashi isn't a large man, but he's probably trained in martial arts. That means muscle and struggle. It's a good cut, takes more people to hold down a struggling man. I don't suppose toxicology is back yet?" Clint asked, popping the question before resuming his justification. "Unless you're trained good. Even at Takahashi's size and training, if you know how to take someone down, and be efficient about it, it can be done."
Denisov looked disbelieving but didn't question it. "What more?" Clint asked when Leclerc didn't seem the least assured be the assessment. In fact, he only looked absentmindedly troubled and perhaps even disgusted.
"The other hand. La langue. The tongue."
He raised the sheet so that the three agents could get a better view. Clegg paled a little bit, and even Clint could admit to feeling queasy. The work someone had done on the wrist was copied (or perhaps inspired—who was to know) on the other wrist, whose hand had now been collected in a large evidence bag on-scene. The perpetrator(s) hadn't left Takahashi alone then—at which point Clint noticed that none of the injuries were directly fatal, but merely had resulted in a fatal amount of hemorrhaging, which upon untreated, had lead to his death—and his face was a mess of blood, dirt and presumably tears. He was spitting fire in rivers of blood, or had been, until his body had been unable to sustain him no more, its precious drops of life lost on the filthy asphalt of a dirty alley.
Leclerc dropped the sheet again, but it quickly dyed red as it clung to the half-dried blood on his face. Takahashi wouldn't have an open casket funeral.
"Has it, uh, been found?" Denisov asked professionally but not even he remained cold to a fellowman's death. Clearly, Takahashi had posed a threat to the Tarps, and he'd died because of his devotion to justice—just like they could. The Leonum Tarpeius weren't playing games anymore; they'd graduated unto greater things long ago.
And you work for these people, Natasha - people who cut out other people's tongues so they won't talk.
"… won't talk…" Clint murmured to himself, contemplatively.
"Oui. Yes. As you will come to know, the work was quite efficacious. The removal of the tongue was performed with scary accuracy."
"Like a surgeon's hand," Clint supplied, maybe mostly to himself but the others heard and nodded in agreement. "Skilled."
"And unwavering, not to mention equipped," Leclerc continued. "Whoever removed the organ did so methodically and precisely in swift cuts, resulting in less struggle and, I hate to say, trauma."
"They didn't use a scalpel," the archer said all of a sudden as he remembered the trauma to the mouth. "The roof of the mouth was unhurt. They changed blades," he concluded with urge to empty his stomach contents the next time they approached a trashcan that wasn't part of the crime scene.
Leclerc nodded in approval and asked Denisov's opinion. Clint joined Clegg in silence and began to wonder. Could it be a coincidence—did such really exist? Natasha, muted by explosion, was in Rome, working for the same people who had now silenced this man eternally. He hated to suspect Natasha of having done this, but obviously he and Tasha weren't where they'd been five years ago, or even after New York. Did Natasha have the skills to remove a man's tongue without leaving gashes in the roof of his mouth? Yes. Anything but admitting to the fact would have been to discredit her skillset. Clint hated himself even more for agreeing with Leclerc's assessment. Skilled. Methodical. Precise. Once Natasha put her mind to something, she succeeded with a façade of detachment. She was eerily apt for Leonum Tarpeius.
And that was why Clint Barton was here.
Anything but admitting to the fact would have been discrediting his skillset
When they returned to the taskforce central, the office was less frantic and more composed. Leclerc was still pissed about Takahashi's state of being dead and thus unable to tell his secrets, regardless of the fact that the man had been brutally slaughtered and had his life ended before his time. Clint grimaced at the phrase. "Before his time" was something you told an agent's widow at the funeral, as if life and death were events planned before birth. Clint was a strong believer in choice. People who chose lives as agents knew life and death was something that happened to you regardless of prior arrangements. The only person who held power over you was the one pulling the trigger.
Pierschke sat by a desk, scowling as he listened to the other end of the video conference call with the raid squad's team leader in Vienna. Guido was nowhere to be seen but a coffee mug twinned with Pierschke's, so she had to be close by. The black liquid was still steaming, and a half-chewed pen laid next to it.
"Are you certain, Jürgen?" the German asked; it wasn't disbelief that marred his voice but the hope that he'd misheard, or that Jürgen's assessment was wrong.
The image of the man flickered on the screen as their equipment moved. The technical glitz was gone before it could be reported. "Unfortunately so. There's no one here. I think they were tipped off, because their hardware's still here. They grabbed whatever they could and tried to torch the rest."
"No prisoners, then," Pierschke concluded, clearly dissatisfied. He'd probably had plans of grandeur—or at least happy news to report to Leclerc—when he'd been given the orders to stand by.
"Affirmative. No prisoners. We're taking whatever could be salvaged to the locals. Although there is a lot here, it looks like the pulse got to all the electronic equipment," Jürgen reported.
Beside him, Pierschke swore. Clint took over. "Are you saying we have a mole, Jürgen?"
The man wearing the tactical uniform took a couple of seconds to make his assessment; he obviously knew what such an accusation meant. They both knew the Tarps were resourceful enough to pull such stunt, but another thing was to accuse one's fellowmates of treason. "I'm putting the possibility in my report, if that's what you mean, Barton. We hadn't briefed the locals. It was isolated and they knew we were coming."
"This will be a nightmare," Pierschke groaned. Clint could only agree. "Leclerc won't be happy."
"He's pissed enough as it is," Clint added in his own assessment.
"I'm beginning to appreciate that I'm in Austria," Jürgen quipped. "Barton, what happened?"
"Leonum Tarpeius silenced a Jap. Cut off both hands and his tongue," Clint informed them morosely. They'd know either way.
"It sounds like I should treasure the wee moments I have in this country before I return," the man who found himself in another country replied. "Jürgen out."
Pierschke and Clint exchanged gazes as the agent cut the video feed. Someone had alerted the rather large group in Vienna that the taskforce was coming. Leclerc had gone through great lengths to ensure that no one knew they were coming. Regardless, they had been alerted. Once Jürgen typed his report, there would be no stopping it. Everybody would be under suspicion. Clegg, Denisov, Leclerc himself perhaps, Clint, Pierschke, Guido, Jürgen, Rosario …every last one of them. Despite his rather questionable relationship—past tense or present, he had no idea—with Natasha, he sure as hell hadn't alerted the Viennese group about the raid. He hadn't even used his smartphone during the hours between the last check-in (where the Rome department had been told the group was oblivious to being watched) and now.
Pierschke was right. This was going to be a nightmare. Internal distrust was bred faster than mice and much more difficult to eradicate. Unless…
Clint remembered this morning. Guido had checked her phone after being informed of the raid and was now nowhere to be seen. He hated suspecting her. He'd trained her to be better. Did he have some kind of curse on him that repelled people he trusted? He scowled and slid from the desk. "I'm gonna go check up on something," he excused himself absentmindedly.
"See you," Pierschke muttered back, no less scowling at the situation. The day had been a bust; Takahashi was dead, his information gone, and Vienna had been alerted to the taskforce's presence. Leclerc would be furious. Technically, Clint shouldn't give a damn—it wasn't Jameson or Fury, but Leclerc's opinion mattered, and his mood even more so.
Clint went to locate Guido. He wanted an explanation, even a poor one. He'd taught her to run, but she never quite possessed the finesse of his hardest target, so anything but Natasha would be easy. Natasha hadn't made chase easy. She'd made it a dance, a taunting one. Guido, far less experienced if guilty, knew, should know, better than to assume him stupid. Why was she working with the Tarps?
He ran down the stairs, trying to appear casually busy and not like he was hunting. His officemates were too busy to notice, although his behavior might be labeled suspicious once they heard Jürgen's news about a mole. Clint wanted to be disproven; wanted to be called paranoid and be wrong. However, the same nagging sensation had lead to his reunion with Natasha, and he couldn't quite regret that, not even after being thrown out for his betrayal.
Only you can make me feel remorse for being right, Tasha.
He found her at the water cooler, of all things. Not Tasha, but Guido, looking every bit of relaxed, but he saw the tension in her muscles beneath that exterior, confirming his theory. Her eyes darted to him and down, apparently trying hard—too hard—to be inconspicuous.
I trained you better.
All pretenses were dropped when she saw his facial expression. She disposed of the plastic cup and met his eyes with a slightly more composed stance. It didn't matter much. She saw that he knew, and she reacted to it—not with venomous denial and fierce defenses—but with a defensive stance of someone who got caught.
"Why?" he asked, hissing. He stepped closer so that the people in nearby cubicles would only see a friendly conversation between colleagues, tense due to the investigation.
"Why what, Barton?" Her laughter was strained, her acting bad. She wasn't hysterical, but her body was betraying the cool exterior of a peppy agent.
"Vienna."
Something hardened in those innocent eyes as she realized she was caught. "Not here, Barton."
"So it was you," he whispered. "They're not nice people, Guido. This is stupid."
He felt like he was repeating every word he'd said to Natasha; the only difference was that he was more pissed and hurt at Guido, and she could talk back. Natasha invoked all kinds of strange feelings in him—feelings he'd have easily distinguished between years ago, but her current alliances made it much harder.
"Barton…" she growled in warning. He towered over her, but he heard that oh-so familiar warning of a threatened animal. Their relationship was nothing like the partnership between Phil Coulson and Clint Barton had been, but reminiscent. Phil had been forced upon Clint, too, just like Clint had had little choice when he took in Natasha. It seemed that if you recruited someone, they ended up your responsibility.
He grabbed her elbow and slowly led her to the door. "How could you possibly have thought you'd get away with this?"
Shit, he was turning into Coulson. He was literarily quoting Coulson. How could you possibly have thought bringing in the Black Widow would be a good idea? How could you possibly have thought you'd get away with this?
Hindsight was a bitch, Clint concluded.
"Guido! Barton! Leclerc wants to see you both now. Stop fooling around!" a gruff voice called out from a door which stood agape. There was no room for argument, and Clint sourly let go of Guido's arm, making sure to look utterly resentful and disappointed as he made it back.
There was the slightest of hopes when she looked down in shame in response, but Clint didn't let things like hope rule him.
Clint pushed the door open to his rented apartment and groaned as he stepped into the comfortable darkness. Today had been horrible. He'd had no chance to corner Guido and get an explanation, and he knew he'd have to report her the moment he stepped foot in the office tomorrow. Leclerc had assigned new orders and separated the two before he could even make accusations.
He practically slid into the armchair and wanted nothing but for sleep to take him. The wish, however, was overruled by his keen senses of observation, which immediately alerted him to something out-of-place. He listened but did not move an inch.
The slightest of thuds; the gentlest of movement across wooden floorboards; the minor change in the atmosphere and tension; the flicker of a moving shadow.
"What do you think you are doing?" Clint asked in broken but comprehensive Italian. He laced the question with contemptuously bored patronization. Whoever was trying to break into his apartment had severely underestimated him, and hence he took the person for a lowly burglar who'd mistaken him for an American tourist. However, as the person—she, as it turned out—stepped into the brighter parts of the shadows, he saw a face he recognized from German footage.
He recalled Pierschke's words. They mainly concern one of the Tarps, though, a younger girl they used as bait. Brutal, man, brutal. The same girl from the scrambled footage stood before him although dressed in black clothes that had aided her stealthy approach—or would have, had he not been better trained. She obviously hadn't expected to be discovered, but made no reproachful grimaces at him.
"I need your help," the girl said coldly, in English, as she sauntered to him, shielding nothing but her true intent and emotions.
"What makes you think I'll help you?" he asked while his mind assessed her. The reports had been right. She was eighteen, or something alike, but her demeanor was odd, too detached for a girl her age. He recalled the weapon still in his ankle holster.
"Because you split on bad terms with Nikolaevna," the girl said, the words flowing fluently from her lips. "And she's missing now."
"Nikolaevna…" Clint repeated, confused. Then he realized whom she meant. "Natasha's missing?"
"You know her real name," the girl realized with slightly widened eyes that quickly faded. When she spoke next, it was with determination; the kind forged in battle. "You left, but you know how to find her. That's why I'm here."
"Who are you?" he asked skeptically. "And why should I help you? You guys just lynched a man in an alley!"
"You care for her," the girl said, not offering her name, "and that's why you'll help regardless of what I say my name is, or what I've done."
"You seem awfully sure."
The girl's eyes narrowed. "I heard you leave the house three nights ago. That was not the words of someone who would leave her out to dry."
Clint raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"
"She didn't leave on her own accord. She got taken, and I'll have to find her before it's too late. I like the odds better with you helping me."
Yay, an update! The next chapter depends on a friend's input so I cannot promise you an early update as much as I can promise you it will be angsty next chapter!
I'd love your thoughts!