Here it is… da da da daa! The next chapter!
They are on the roof of his safe house when she notices the approaching Red Room agents.
"Barton, how soon will your extraction arrive?"
"Two minutes, tops," he replies.
"Good. I'll take this side," the Black Widow says, pulling a sniper rifle out of her duffel. She assembles it so fast her hands blur, then braces it on the edge of the building and sets her sights on the enemy agents. He pulls his bowstring back, aiming at the agents on the opposite side of the building, and, as one, they fire.
The two agents don't even have time to fall before the Widow and the Hawk get their next shots off. They methodically take down more than twenty agents before they hear the whir of helicopter blades.
"I'll cover," she yells over the whirring. He nods as the helicopter ladder falls towards him and she switches rifle for smoke grenades, pulling the pins and tossing them onto the edges of the building. Clint grabs the ladder and begins to clamber up.
That's when the first tranquilizer hits her. It doesn't seem to affect her as she shimmies up after him, and neither do the second, third, fourth, or fifth. The sixth, fired when she is actually in the helicopter and pulling the ladder up, does seem to slow her down a little. The seventh tranq, hitting her as she shuts the copter door, lands her on the ground, looking a little dizzy.
The tranquilizer shooter seems more afraid than brave, and with good reason. "What is she made of?!" the agent asks hysterically.
That's a good question. Clint thinks as he steps between the shooter and the Widow, who is methodically picking tranq darts out of various parts of her body. He holds up his hands. "Stop. Coulson?"
His handler stands up, brows furrowed. Coulson looks furious. "I agree that it is interesting, given that those are seven of our heaviest tranquilizers, that she is still conscious," Coulson says calmly. "But what I want to know is why she is still breathing."
Clint smirks. "I made a call."
Coulson is on a warpath, however, and a pretentious archer is not going to pull him off on a tangent. "Clinton Barton, you are not of the authority to be making this level of a call. So tell me why!"
Hawkeye smiles again. "She's an asset and I trust her."
Then he turns his back on his handler and settles down next to the Widow, who is growling at one of the barbed darts as she tries to wrest it out. He pulls it out for her, tossing the dart towards the shooter. It imbeds itself in the Kevlar of the agent's vest.
Her eyes stop looking around aimlessly and correct themselves to look at him.
"So," he says nonchalantly, "how did you heal so fast and withstand those tranqs and all that?"
She leans close to him, whispering in his ear. "Told you not to ask me that," she says. He looks at her, surprised, and she slaps him lightly on the shoulder.
The agent with the tranq gun immediately peppers her back with a full round of eight tranquilizers.
She slumps in Clint's arms, eyes unfocusing. He knows she is clocking out. He can see more tell tale signs of emotion on her face. "Help," she says quietly, and he knows she is putting her pride on hold to ask just that one thing. He is proud that he merits that from her. She goes limp, her eyes fluttering shut. Her shoulder length red hair falls across her face, and he can't help but notice how gorgeous she is.
She looks up at Coulson. "She is better than anyone I've ever seen in the field, including myself. You kill her, you lose me."
His words surprise even him the moment they leave his mouth. He's known the Black Widow for less than a day, and already he would give up his job for her? But he knows he means it, and he won't withdraw the promise.
Coulson grits his teeth. He gives Clint a very angry, dangerous look. Finally, he sighs. "Fine. It's Fury's decision. But I'm giving you all the paperwork."
Clint grimaces at the thought, but nods. "Understood."
Then he looks down at the spy, the assassin, the deadly beauty, and swears to her in his head. I will always help you. You don't have to ask again.
She wakes up relatively quickly, before the helicopter has landed. She keeps her eyes closed and her breathing slow, taking in the situation. She feels the cold metal of handcuffs around her wrists. Hmm. She thinks. If they think that'll stop me from doing serious damage, they are very, very wrong.
She cracks her eyes open, just enough to watch what is occurring. She is strapped into one of the helicopter seats, next to Barton. Opposite them are the tranq shooter and the man Barton calls Coulson. Coulson seems to be very on edge; his breathing is fast and his brows are furrowed.
She settles down, content to observe. Mostly Agent Barton. Clinton Barton, that's his full name. She decides she will call him Clint. It will be easier than Barton.
His features are strong and hardened, and she knows he doesn't have a weak muscle in his body. She doesn't, for sure, and if he is the best S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he certainly doesn't, either. His arms are stronger than a normal man, but they would have to be, because she can tell that he is much more archer than gunman.
After about an hour of careful observation, she has deduced that he showers every two days, smiles often, brushes his teeth starting on the bottom, and is right handed. There are other significant details, too. Small scars. Things no one else would notice. But she does.
She decides it is time to 'wake up.' Without further ado, she slowly increases her breath rate, finally opening her eyes and straightening up fast. She glances around, retaining an unbreakable facade of composure, and looks straight at Coulson. "I wager you've decided to play Russian roulette with me, hmm?" she asks, arching a perfect eyebrow.
"Not my call. You're going straight to the big man," the handler replies.
"Director Fury himself? I'm flattered," she says sarcastically. "You really shouldn't have."
She knows she's being stupid, she's probably ruining her second chance. But she wants to make up for showing weakness earlier, after the fifteen tranquilizers caused her reasoning to… not fly out the window, exactly… but settle into a corner. She needs to establish control over the situation.
The helicopter begins to descend. She can feel it. Coulson looks at Clint. "Blindfold her."
Clint raises an eyebrow at the man, but shrugs. She can tell that the archer has already overstepped the limits set down by his superior simply by bringing her here. She shrugs. "I don't mind. Makes sense. So I don't know where we are even if I do escape."'
She's playing with them, Of course she knows where S.H.I.E.L.D. base is. The Red Room has at least two undercover agents inside. If they haven't already figured out she has defected, they'll know as soon as the helicopter touches down.
She allows the archer to wrap a piece of black cloth securely around her eyes, tying it tight. It doesn't really matter.
When she hears the helicopter blades whirring to a stop, she is already, listening to the silence. But the instant Clint unstraps her and gently leads her out of the copter, she hears something else.
Faster than she had ever moved before, she pulls her hands, handcuffs with them, up to block the incoming bullet. She is incensed; she immediately rips off her blindfold to stare directly into the eyes of the agent who had shot at her. She frowns in disdain. The shot wouldn't even have killed her; just driven itself into her shoulder.
The agent shoots again, but this time she is ready. She whirs into action, flicking his legs out from under him, confiscating his gun, and wrapping the chain of her handcuffs around his neck. By now, all the other agents have their guns trained on her, but it is too late, and she is furious. Not that she shows it.
Face devoid of emotion, she turns to Clint, keeping the shooter as a human shield between her and the agents. Clint raises his hands. "Let the man go," he tells her. "We won't hurt you," that last comment with a pointed look at the agents ready to shoot.
She grits her teeth, but releases the man, letting him crumple to the floor. Nobody shoots.
That is, until she takes a step towards Clint.
She would have dodged it in any normal circumstance. She could hear it, knew exactly where it would hit her, too (back of the right shoulder). But she also knew that if she dodged it, it would hit him, Clinton Barton, in the heart.
She didn't even know why. She could have dodged it, should have, too. But she didn't.
She lets the bullet hit her shoulder and sink in.
Instantly, she erupts into a stream of Russian curses. Cursing the agent who shot her, their entire family. Calling them names a sailor would pay money to hear.
Clint had rushed to her side the second he realized what had happened, but she is more aware of what is happening as she turns. She grits her teeth as she realizes that the bullet has gone all the way through, but stares down every single agent.
Then she turns to Clint again. "I'm going to sedate myself," she tells him. "It should keep them from shooting me any more."
She had learned a long time ago that people have trouble shooting an unconscious woman. It was a sexist quality of people, sure, but she used it against them.
She strides past Clint, grabs the tranquilizer gun from the floor of the helicopter, and pulls out the magazine. Then she grabs another magazine from the helicopter floor. She can feel Clint moving protectively behind her, but she doesn't care. If they shoot at her again, they will have death to worry about. They seem to sense it, too. Smart of them.
She grabs her duffel bag from Clint and pulls a syringe out of the side pocket. Pouring ten shots of the tranquilizer into it, just enough to keep her out for about half an hour (not that they knew that), she presses it into her arm. Then she lies down onto the helicopter floor and lets herself relax, refusing everything her instincts and training tell her to do. The last thing she sees before slipping into willing unconsciousness is Clint's worried face looking down at her.
Getting into SHIELD now. Yay!