Without air conditioning, the air in the small guest bedroom was dense and humid. It was oppressing and slowed everything that came to touch it, a fact which was not helped by the 3 people residing in the room that night.
Clint figured the time to be around 1am, but with getting up to pull the cord for a singular swinging light bulb being the only way to illuminate the room's clock, he was happy enough lying in the dark without knowing the exact time.
Thomas, having been asleep for the last 3 hours or so, was snoring beside the archer on the small double bed. Natasha had insisted that he take the bed with Clint, she instead taking the floor where she lay now in a vest, using the duffel bag as a pillow. Nobody had felt confident enough to argue.
The bed creaked - Thomas had turned over again, and Clint was tiring of the boy's sleeping habits. He much preferred Natasha as a companion, despite the night time disturbances she brought. But he wasn't keen on bunking next to her on the floor either.
No, instead, he decided to take his chances and endure the inevitably small amount of sleep that lying on a barely-double/double-bed next to the 19 year old boy offered.
That is, until he realised that he had not managed any sleep whatsoever so far.
Thus, he decided to take a walk through the village. He swiped one of Natasha's guns from under the duffel bag for safety measures and slipped out in his boxers.
The unwelcome warmth of the bedroom was shared with the rest of the house, and Clint noticed that the sulky atmosphere had had an effect on many of its residents. Apart from the faint sound of piano from one room, the house was almost silent. He was careful not to disturb the quietness as he slipped out of the front door.
The settlement was a strangely developed one, hence the disused well out back. Most of the houses had electricity, all of them had running water and Clint could hear noises from game consoles in a few of them. Despite the size of the settlement rendering it a village, the housing was fairly advanced and the shops seemed accustomed to visitors, even if their merchandise was mainly traditional. While this was good for the residents, Clint was concerned that the popularity of this mismatched place would spell disaster for his staying there. And if there was one thing he didn't need right now, it was anything threatening trouble.
But the universe was very rarely so kind.
As he sat leaning against a small stall that stood by the shops, he noticed movements in the shadows. And so, suddenly, he found himself knocked to the floor with his gun splayed off into the distance.
Thomas had heard the commotion outside. He'd awoken when Clint left and was lying motionless in the bed, wondering whether he should get up to assist him or not. On occasion he'd hear Natasha whimper, something that was he had not expected from her in a lifetime. It scared him, almost, but it scared him more so when he considered what she could do to him if he tried to wake her up.
He'd heard the stories.
When there was further crashing outside, Thomas decided upon himself to investigate. Reaching over the side of the bed, he fished around for his prosthetic leg, and then got up to head outside. The tiny square window of the room did not allow for much natural light, and he cursed quietly as struggled to find the door.
He found Clint struggling with hand to hand combat against a squad of darkly clad men and women. Neither party had opened fire - especially since Clint's only firearm lay a few metres from his reach - but both sides were struggling to keep the upper hand. The boy didn't recognise the division - his father had taken him and his family to pretty much every part of Spain and he'd seen the majority of groups, illegally involved or not - but this was not one of them. So who the hell were they?
"Mr Barton!" he shouted on impulse, but as soon as the words had left his lips, he realised the mistake he had made.
No weapon.
No protection.
No intel.
Shit.
Being a skinny 19 year old amputee from southern Spain, Thomas did feel qualified to fight a dozen or so trained individuals. Instead, he dodged the oncoming attacks to get closer to Clint. An arm locked around his waist; another around his ankle (it appeared to Thomas that his employer was rather skilled at pacifying a good deal of an opposing force) but he struggled free until he was about a foot away from the archer - and inches away from the gun. First pulling it to his feet, he kicked the weapon towards Clint before he was dragged back again.
"La ventana!" he prompted, hoping that the assailants didn't know any Spanish.
"A la ventana! Natasha!" his screams were becoming distant as he was pulled away. His employer grabbed and fired the gun, hitting the window and thus introducing the village to the attack. But despite the commotion, and the warning shot, Thomas and Clint appeared to be stuck on their own.
*i*
Fuck.
Natasha felt herself jolt awake and roll behind the bed on instinct. Her sweep under the duffel bag for a gun remained unfruitful, but she removed the one she had secured under the bed. Professionalism hit her like a truck and she warped into an active state. A quick glance around the room told her it was clear and so she scurried outside.
Clint was nowhere to be seen, but Thomas was struggling against the force of the people restraining him.
Not a death sentence. She noted. Restraint.
About a dozen more men and women came as reinforcements from the shadows as Natasha fought off her attackers bare handed, not wanting to waste the bullets she had or lose the knife she treasured. She imagined Clint taking down a good few of them, and though that gave her reassurance on his behalf, she knew that she would not be able to keep going for much longer.
The kid.
"Thomas!" she yelled, briefly taking out her knife to slash at some person's leg. A barely audible Natasha! came in reply. As she cleared the distance between them, she raised her gun and started using the bullets. Head shot, head shot, neck, and, finally, a hole in the head of the 19 year old's attacker.
"Run!"
And run he did. Natasha was left to attempts of being tackled to the ground or forced still by some butch body builder with a ski mask on - with Clint still not in the picture. As she broke free, she realised that to keep going would only drain her energy.
There's too many and it's too god damn early in the morning.
So instead, she ran, the mob comically chasing her as if she were a character from Looney Tunes. There was one person up ahead, looking full on ready to throw himself at her in attack.
Oh no you don't.
As he lay down a small metal contraption that unfolded itself into a wide metal disc, he widened his stance. Natasha sped up, determined to take him down, and as she launched from the ground, ready to swing her legs around his neck, she -
Blinked out of existence.
43 hours before the incident
France, Northern Hemisphere
50.5, 2.0
The spy reappeared in a small but high ceilinged cylindrical room, where she proceeded to crash into the wall about 1.5 meters off the ground. She fell to the floor in pain and surprise, her face locked in confusion.
Natasha took a moment to stand up and look around. Everything seemed to be made of concrete, something that seemed to explain the aching feeling in her bones at that place in time. There was a singular door that looked like it was made of steel if not stronger, and a small light was embedded in the distant ceiling. Apart from that, there was nothing in there but the lingering smell of vomit.
Coupling over, she began to realise why.
The acidic taste burned her throat as she brought up the little food that she had managed to eat over the last 2 days. Her head spun with nausea and she dropped to her knees, exhaustion suddenly washing over her entire body.
"Bon matin!" greeted a voice at the door, and she shakily stood back up.
"Je suis en France?"
"Oui, mais tu peux parler l'anglais si tu veux. Ca va?"
Natasha took note of the informality of the wording, but didn't reply.
Pressing one hand to the walling opposite her for support, she tried not to throw up again. She hadn't felt this sick for years - had they drugged her? How had she gotten to France? Was it a cage, a prison cell, a car boot - what? It must have been mobile or how else could she explain 'waking up' 1 and a half meters off the ground? And she had been subject to almost every tranquillizer and sedative under the sky. None of them had ever done this to her.
"You know," began the oddly gruff sounding woman, this time in English. "It's rude not to engage in small talk."
Natasha's head swirled as if she were massively jet-lagged.
"I can't say I apologise for all the commotion; you were meant to just be dragged off in your sleep. There must have been some miscommunication somewhere along the line. Anyway, you can see that teleporting has a few nasty side effects."
Teleporting?
"That's why whoever you guys didn't kill will be heading back via jet."
'You guys'. So you got Clint too.
The spy tried to respond. "What is this? Who's your employer?" The words felt odd in her mouth. Everything tingled, and she was struggling to keep upright.
"My dear, you should really rest before you try to interrogate us. We are not your enemy."
"Who do you-"
Natasha let out a gasp as she felt a pain in her side. Her head was hung and her eyes forced shut to try and stop her vision fading. She grabbed her left side with both hands now, letting herself fall onto the wall.
Fuck.
The woman at the door laughed. "Side effects."
With some recollection of being dragged over but little else, Natasha found herself lying on her side on the concrete floor of another small room. She slowly sat up, her head and stomach feeling empty and light. Clint was sat opposite her in better clothing - in fact, she also seemed to be wearing something more professional than the clothes she was sleeping in.
"So this is fun."
Clint glanced over to her, the briefness of his attention suggesting that he had known of her presence for quite some time.
"You okay?" he asked, sharpening what appeared to be her knife. The movements he made were rough but not loud.
"When am I not?" she responded, subtly pulling up her trouser leg to indeed see her ankle strap bereft of knife.
"Well when I find you barely breathing in some Norwegian warehouse with 3 broken ribs and several bullets in your abdomen for one."
"That was one time." argued the spy.
"Of many." retorted the archer, his face stubborn and slightly sullen.
"I'm beginning to think you'd prefer me in that way." she commented with a sly smile. Clint's face was bruised and his nose looked like it could be broken. She did not want to think about him folding over in pain and spewing sick in a concrete cylinder - but the image came to her mind as he sat sulkily at the edge of the space.
"Strike team delta is made up of two people - nowhere does it say that both those people have to be in a reasonable state of health."
The conversation ceased for a while and Natasha took some time to appreciate the coolness that the room offered compared to the stuffy guest bedroom of the village house. She was not immensely surprised when Thomas entered the room - apparently a lot less nauseous than herself and her partner. When he closed the door behind him, he noticed the confusion on his friend's faces.
"Don't ask me, apparently kids are a better at it."
"Everything alright?" Clint seemed concerned.
"I think I lost a bolt off the old leg."
"We have got to get you a new one of those. I'll talk to Stark. How far did you get?" enquired Natasha.
"Almost to the city."
"Nice going."
The boy shrugged and came to sit next to the spy. Clint was sat stubbornly and wasn't making eye contact, something that was less than inviting to Thomas.
"Should I talk to him?" he asked Natasha.
"I wouldn't."
"Alright then." He sighed, sinking back against the wall. He fidgeted for a bit, struggling to decide whether or not to pose a question. "Do you love him?"
In response, Natasha laughed, but it was a strange laugh, as if she didn't believe in what would follow. "I owe him a debt. That premise extends down certain alleys that neither of us have the ability to explain. But it's not love." The wording felt wrong in her mouth, and not because she was recovering from the trip to France. With all her covers blown, Natasha suddenly found it difficult to settle on definitions and answers.
As Thomas was looking rather sullen, she sat up to ask him a question.
"Any lovers 'round your way?"
"There is someone."
"She pretty?"
"It's - it's not a she."
"Oh right. He pretty?"
"He's okay."
"See him often?"
"Father doesn't know. Not often enough."
"Damn. You planning to go back for him?"
"What?"
"You've got some choices ahead of you, kid. We've all got to set some grounding somewhere, and you've got to start building up pretty soon. So, are you going back for him?"
Thomas looked innocent and slightly shaken. He took a moment to think.
"I guess."
"Good." nodded Natasha. "Stick to love."
Well I hope the French was satisfactory - at least I didn't use google translate!
This chapter didn't quite turn out how I wanted it to though, so I hope you guys thought it was okay.
Thanks for reading!