It was nearly one in the morning when a dark figure, dressed in thick furs, crunched through the icy snow approximately five inches deep through the woods to a slippery road. Her sea-green eyes scanned over the white oblivion as she walked, or rather limped, closer to the road. Her left foot dragged slightly, and in her left hand she held a long, thin stick that she used as a makeshift staff for support.
A sudden gust of bitter cold wind blew off her hood, revealing long, flowing curls of a deep red, reaching her lower back. Quickly she gathered her hair, twisted it into a bun, and then slipped her hood back on.
While she was distracted with her hair, another figure emerged from the brush on the other side of the road; his short, brownish-blonde hair was messy and stuck up, open to the below freezing temperatures. He had a quiver strapped to his back, and a thin bag carrying a bow slung over his shoulder. He smiled when he saw the woman, watching as she attempted to tame her mane.
Feeling the presence of another life form, she glanced up. She was tense, only for a second, and then she continued her slow gait towards the waiting man. They didn't say a word when they met up; they merely nodded, then turned east, walking in the middle of the ice covered road as best to hide their footprints.
After a few minutes of silence, Clint Barton finally spoke up. "How's the ankle?"
Natasha Romanoff looked up at her partner. "Fine; thanks for your hat; it stopped most of the blood."
Clint smiled. "I think that was one of our better missions," he said, watching as Natasha looked around, checking to make sure they weren't being followed.
"I do admit; I've missed the snow. Only problem is that it will make cleaning up the blood a lot harder."
Clint shrugged. "Coulson will get it; he always does. Speaking of Coulson, how far is the base? Five miles? Those Russian mobsters will figure out pretty quickly who took out their weapons dealer. I mean, arrows and widow's bites are like our signature."
Natasha let out a laugh, then flipped around, making sure they were alone. "Yeah, Barton, you're right. I know I want to put as much distance between us and those mobsters as possible. They're going to be pissed. I don't feel safe out here. We're exposed on this road; an easy target. And I'm out of bullets," Natasha sighed as a little town came in to view in front of them.
"Gosh, Nat. How many guards did you shoot to get out of the armory?" Clint asked, slightly bemused. Natasha lifted the corners of her mouth, her eyes glinting mischievously, and then she glanced up at the stars, pretending not to hear the archer's last question.
A large crunching noise and yelling rode the wind and reached the ears of the assassins'. Stone faced, Natasha and Clint began quickening their pace. Soon, the two reached the small town, and Natasha began to look at house numbers, trying to figure out where the safe house was.
Clint noticed her right hand was wrapped around something in her pocket. "I didn't know you still had your knife; I thought Shlotzki took it when you entered Rixerloff's room."
"He did. This isn't a knife." Natasha pulled out three icicles, hard, and extremely sharp. Along with the icicles, she held a chuck of ice that had one edge shaped down to a point.
Clint looked up at his partner, his eyes wide, wearing a faraway look on his face. "Just like Quebec," he smiled, taking an icicle from Natasha and slipping it into his pocket.
Natasha put the chunk of ice and one of her other icicle back in her pocket, but kept the remaining icicle in her right hand, fully exposed now. "You and I remember Quebec very differently," she said, pulling on Clint's arm, forcing him to stop.
She flashed a seductive look, and then leaned into his ear. "There is a truck that is going to come around the corner in 23 seconds. Let them see us, and then we'll step off the road and wait for them to pass by, okay?" Clint nodded, ashamed of himself for not noticing the incoming vehicle. He leaned in closer, about to kiss her, when they were hit full on by the blinding lights of the truck.
Acting shocked, Natasha looked up, grinned sheepishly, then grabbed Clint's hand and pulled him over to the side of the road. As the men in the truck drove by, one of them rolled down the window, and cat-called at Natasha. Clint flipped them off, and then turned back to their original path, pulling Natasha. She laughed, and then trudged on behind Clint.
"House number is 503. We should turn on the next road on your right," Natasha explained as she caught up with Clint.
He nodded, grinning at his partner. "I hope Coulson has the heat on. I'm just a little too cold to be healthy."
"Don't worry Barton. I'll warm you up." She winked at him, and walked, twisting her hips ever so slightly, leaving Clint standing there, dumbfounded, frozen, and staring. Clint shook his head, then chased on after her.
Just as he caught up with Natasha, gun shots rang through the crisp, frigid air, and without looking around, Natasha and Clint took off, running as fast as they possibly could down the road. Luckily, their boots were specially designed to grip to ice, so they actually got traction as they sprinted to their safe house instead of slipping and falling flat on their backs.
"I don't see it!" snarled Natasha as she slowed, the numbers on the houses becoming closer to their desired number.
She stopped completely, scanning the numbers on the houses. Clint came to rest a few steps ahead of her, not even slightly out of breath, but the little puffs of air coming from his mouth were dense and white. His sharp eyes glanced over the dark houses, studying their numbers.
"There." He pointed at a small, dirt road, in between houses number 505 and 501.
Natasha sighed. "Coulson just had to pick the creepiest, darkest house there was, didn't he?" growled Natasha as she made her way to the path. Clint followed in step behind, grinning at Natasha's uneasiness at the dark road.
They strutted silently up the path, drawn close together by the feeling of great darkness closing in on them from every side. It suffocated them, making them feel tiny; unimportant to the world of shadows. They kept their nerve by reminding themselves they lived in shadows; shadows were their life. Trees, high and dense, sprung up on both sides of the path, closing the two in. Natasha stayed by Clint's side, gripping so tightly to the icicle in her hand that it began to melt. Her limp became increasingly worse, and she leaned on her staff more than ever. Clint noticed, and supported her by wrapping his arm around her waist, taking some of the weight off. They walked in this awkward way, until a small, dark figure loomed from a patch of clear trees.
The house was rather small, and didn't look modern enough to support a heating system, much to Clint's displeasure; he nearly cried with relief, though, as he saw a faint light flickering in the single window, a sure signal there was a fire blazing inside. To Natasha, it meant that Coulson was awake and ready to send in the clean-up team to erase all evidence, and hear every detail of their latest mission. Natasha leaned away from Clint, and she made her way steadily to the door on her own, with Clint at her side.
The first thing they felt when they walked in was warmth. It was a two room little shack, but there was a fire place, currently holding roaring flames. Clint moaned in delight when he walked through the door, kneeling before the fire place, shoving his hands in front of the flames. Natasha slumped into the nearest chair and began pulling off layer after layer of jackets, scarves, socks, and gloves. Eventually she removed her boots, revealing a bloody foot, wrapped messily in a torn hat.
"Welcome back Agents," came Coulson's voice as he stepped out of the shadows.
Both Natasha and Clint jumped, turning at the sound. "Hey, Phil! Thanks for the fire!"
Coulson scolded Clint for using his first name. "How'd it go?" he asked, deciding not to chew Clint out.
He glanced around, and found Natasha using a scrap of her clothing to staunch the blood. "Not good?"
"It was fine, Coulson. We nailed the guy, and tossed all his current shipments into the river. Mind, we had to cut a hole in the ice first, but it was worth it. Nat injured her foot a little, but she's alright. Right Tash?"
Natasha glared at him. "I'm fine. It was okay, actually better than Switzerland went," she elaborated.
Coulson smiled; Switzerland had been a difficult one. "Cold Barton?" he asked, laughing quietly as Clint put his hands directly above the fire; the flames were almost licking his skin.
Natasha wrapped up her foot, and then joined Clint at the fire. "It was cold, sir," she whined, cuddling up against Clint.
"It's not that bad. You two are just weak."
Natasha and Clint shared a meaningful glance.
"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry! It's cold! Too cold! Really, guys, let me in! I'm sorry!" came Coulson's pleading calls from the other side of the door.
"I'm sorry Nat, do you hear something?" Clint asked as he watched Natasha leaned forward to take the boiling water off of the fire to pour into mugs with hot chocolate mix.
She brought a confused look onto her face. "I don't hear anything."
They both shrugged and drank their hot chocolate, pretending not to hear Coulson's yells.