Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and everything else associated with Marvel.
A/N: Thank you so much, AmorphousExplorer, for the advice!
Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.
Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!
Song Inspirations
"The Party" - St. Vincent
"French Navy" - Camera Obscura
Chapter 17
Coulson had his back to them, fixing his collectibles inside the glass shelf behind his desk. He had heard them enter, waited for Romanoff's deliberate drag of a chair across the tile floor to die down, before turning to face her. Her Widow face was on. If only she'd used that face instead out there in the mess hall.
Clint, damn him, sat next to her with an why-aren't-you-talking face on. The nerve, like he wasn't part of this. Coulson sat down too, frowning at the way Romanoff propped her foot up on the edge of his desk and rocked her chair on its two back legs.
"What do you want?" He asked. His throat dried at the sight of the expectant faces in front of him.
Romanoff scowled at him, then flew out of her seat and headed for the door.
Coulson pinched himself under the desk. I asked her to come, for goodness' sake. He opened his mouth to call her back, but Clint had grabbed her wrist and shoved her back into her seat with a rough yank. Coulson swore he heard knuckles crack. Romanoff crossed her legs, her arms; frowned so big her eyebrows just about crossed, too.
"Ok, ok... Rogers. The research," Coulson started. "You're aware of Phase -"
He heard a faint " waste of time" pass her lips.
He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, regretting having blurted out at the mess hall. "You know you're a... special case for S.H.I.E.L.D." He took his hands off his eyes to look at her. "You know you're not supposed to be here."
She shrugged.
"Barton would've gone clear off the threat list if he'd completed that mission without fail. It was his last monitored assignment, or would have been."
Clint played with a snow globe, no doubt feeling uncomfortable at the sudden twist of subject. They all knew which assignment it was.
"So they monitor all our missions? Every single one?" Romanoff asked.
"Fury sends the footage to the Council for surveillance. Be thankful, he talked 'til his teeth fell out to make sure you're in, Romanoff. You and Barton."
She stayed quiet, still except for a slight continuous nod. Clint stared into space.
"He's really sticking his neck out for you, I hope you appreciate that," Coulson said.
"Nobody sticks their head into business better than you, Coulson," a new voice replied. "Scoot over, chickadee."
Clint parked his chair closer to Romanoff's. Coulson vacated his seat before the newcomer could sit down.
"Director Fury, you can have my chair."
"Thanks, but I'm fine here," Fury said. He settled down next to Clint. "You, Coulson, need to lay off."
Coulson straightened his posture, still standing. "Director, maybe we can find another pla-"
"Maybe you need to stop telling everyone when and where to speak." Fury motioned at Romanoff pointedly. "You spilled your coffee by table A-3, Coulson."
"I apologize."
"I mopped it up for you."
"Thank you, Director."
"Whatever." Fury reclined in his seat and took the snow globe off of Clint's hand. "Back to the point, I can't have you working on Frostbite anymore."
Coulson froze. His jaw slackened, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry?" He asked, hoping he had heard Fury wrong. But the uniform... I've spent so much time on the uniform...
"You heard me loud and clear. I'll have Blake carry on your progress."
"Agent Blake is facilitating P.E.G.A.S.U.S," he countered.
"Sitwell then, or Geller. Or me. Someone who's not biased as hell and drooling buckets onto the observation room windows."
"But Direc-"
"Look at you, Coulson. Look at you." Fury stabbed a finger at the air in front of him. "You've been neglecting your team for some fantasy boy. You let Barton get away with his fucked up spine, let him go on a mission in his state. And you know who it was that attacked them in Oakland? Romanoff's old classmate, yessir. Did you bother asking? No. You let them loose like a coupla kids while you spend your time bein-"
"Director, please." Coulson made sure he only looked at Fury. Red Room's crossing paths with them again? He didn't expect any better from Romanoff, but Barton didn't breathe a word on it, so Coulson had assumed it was nothing concerning.
"You ain't stopping me from saying it. You're bailing your duties to be Rogers' personal fashion designer." Fury leaned over for Romanoff's attention. "You hear that, miss?"
Coulson's neck flushed. Romanoff's face remained prim as ever, thank God.
"Well, nothing to defend yourself with?" Fury asked with a smug smile.
"I've done work with Dr. Sheerin on the formulas, and the testing process."
"Sheerin got his ass over less than twenty-four hours ago. You didn't show up in the labs' registers. You were nowhere close." Fury offered Clint a stick of gum from his pocket, then took one for himself, chomping on it loudly. "They didn't even start taking cell samples yet. 'The formulas and the testing process,'" he mimicked. "You're stretching it a little."
Coulson gave up. Fury was thorough as usual with his snooping. "I'll look into the attack in Oakland," he offered in an attempt to salvage what little he could of the situation.
"No need for that. Vasilieva's working for the same guys that tried to take away the Destroyer in New Mexico." Fury looked at his watch. "Coulson, Frostbite is off-limits. Do whatever else you wanna do. I don't care if all you do is sleep and eat, just take a break, you need it. I'll have you gone until further notice. Your behavior is absolutely unacceptable."
"Sir, are you implying I-"
"Yes I am. Take these two with you, too." Fury flicked a hand towards his agents. "I'll look into your uniform design. Oh, and drop by Stark Tower later today, we've got a consultant and we're gonna use him. Have Stark make suggestions on the jet prototypes. After that, get the hell out." A pat on the shoulder for Barton, and Fury lifted himself up. "I want at least ten bullet points from him."
"So what do you boys wanna do?" Natasha asked. "Looks like we've a lot of days to kill."
"Coulson done fucked up." Clint stretched back from his seat at shotgun to grab a handful of potato chips from her. She brought the bag closer to him to prevent him from twisting his back too much.
"Oh, please," Coulson mumbled. He purposely jerked to a halt at the next red light.
Clint smiled and shook his head, half in amusement and half in pity. Coulson had walked out of a skirmish to run into the front lines. He thought getting yelled at by Natasha in front of a lunch line was bad? His boss shaming him in front of his own subordinates was worse.
"Barton's got a drawer of travel guides," Natasha suggested.
She'd put her grudge against Coulson past her, for now, at least. At the moment she lounged along the length of the back seats, playing some game on her phone and destroying Coulson's snack supply like barn mice.
"You two know this whole world inside out already, what do you need those for?" Coulson asked.
"Those guides have all the nice places, Phil. We don't go to a lot of nice places." Clint stuck his head out the window and squinted against the wind blowing into his eyes.
"Yeah yeah. Fine. After we get Stark over with."
From the distance, Stark Tower looked brand new with its fresh paint and letter lights, or as Natasha put it, "his ego slapped on the top of his stupid building." Once your gaze traveled down, though, you'd get an eyeful of the remnants of the MetLife building that Stark had bought. The construction site was drenched in a heavy, soggy fog of dust and smoke that made their eyes water.
Clint shut the car door, and looked back at Natasha, who was still nailed to her seat with a hand on her phone screen and another rummaging through a box of candy. "Nat, you sure you don't wanna come?" He asked.
She took one look at the structure in question, wrinkled her nose in disdain, and told him to get lost.
Coulson took them up the elevator to one of the furnished upper floors. They bumped into Potts, who looked half asleep despite her crisp attire and posture.
"Oh! Phil, how are you? And... guy from Malibu? Am I remembering correctly?"
"That's agent Barton, have you two met?"
"Acquaintances." Potts smiled at Clint.
"We're looking for Mr. Stark for consultancy," Coulson said.
A wisp of discord shadowed Pott's expression at the mention of Stark. "He's two floors up, in the kitchen, I think."
In the kitchen. More like spread out over a counter surrounded by an army of food wrappers and Red Bull cans. Stark flicked at some figures on the tablet in his lap, a Snickers in hand. Clint kept by the potted plant next to the elevator, leaving Coulson to his business.
"Sup, hotshot," Stark greeted.
Coulson waved a response with his Briefcase of Doom, earning himself a chocolate-muffled groan.
"Director Fury wants you to look over the new enhancements for our Quinjets." He rested the case on the space next to Stark, then walked over to the fridge and poured himself a glass of juice.
"Hey hey hey. What are you doing?" Stark frowned at how Coulson made himself at home. He prodded the briefcase like it was a dead cat. "What's this?"
"Class is not dismissed until you have ten bullet points of feedback." Coulson poured another glass and handed it to Clint.
Stark cracked the case, removed the USB inside like it was explosives and inserted it into his tablet. A hologram of a Quinjet and a data table materialized and hovered above the screen.
"Equipping new missiles and cannons? You guys havin' a rough time?"
"It's good to be prepared."
"Coulson, I'm not doing this." Stark ejected the hard drive. "You know I don't do weapons anymore."
"We just want your thoughts."
"My thoughts are that you take this to someone else and leave me alone."
"You're our consultant, Stark, you-"
"Fine. Jet is perfectly well-equipped as is. Repeat bullet point nine times." Stark zipped up the briefcase and threw it down by Coulson's feet. "Class dismissed. Now get out of my house."
"There he goes again."
Coulson stretched his neck, trying to see who Romanoff was pointing towards.
"The one in the striped blue shorts. Fell on his ass three times in the last five minutes. That kid right there." She took a sip of her coke, and swished it in her mouth.
Coulson squinted down at the sand and waves. The Cretan sun hung high in the sky and sprinkled glitter over the Balos Lagoon. A mob of half-naked bodies ran and splashed in the water; at least five wore striped blue shorts. Romanoff said something else, but he could barely hear her wispy voice over the wind.
Laughter. Coulson turned away from the scenery to find her teasing smile on Clint. Her partner pretended to be unaffected and mopped up the last of the sauce on his paper plate with a piece of bread. The corners of his eyes crinkled up anyways. Romanoff's buzzing resumed—Coulson caught the words "Miami" and "monkeys". He looked at her in curiosity.
It was strange to see her this way.
Clint skidded down the pile of rocks they perched on to throw away his empty plate farther down the dirt trail. Romanoff turned her eyes out to the swaying sea and hugged her knees.
Coulson guessed he'd never put himself in her shoes before, looking for trust and commitment only to find out they've kept her at arm's length the entire time. To this day, he didn't know what to make of Romanoff's motives and reasonings. What kept her here with an agency like S.H.I.E.L.D for so long?
"I'm sorry. For keeping so much from you," Coulson said.
She shrugged. "Barton. Did you... the Council, do the same thing for him?"
"Yeah."
"He seems rather unaffected."
"We told him from the start. He knew he would be in the dark about certain topics."
"I wouldn't have minded the early notice, too, y'know?"
Coulson kicked the pebbles by his feet down the hill they sat on. "He thought it'd create even more of an off-putting vibe for you. S.H.I.E.L.D didn't exactly pull a convincing Welcome-Home party." He remembered Clint hammering him about the issue, although having barely more than a glance of Romanoff since bringing her in two months prior, but still felt he was somehow responsible.
"I wouldn't have cared," she answered.
"Barton didn't know that."
"Well," she started, but never got to finish her sentence. Clint was climbing back up. She gave Coulson a hard look, like he didn't already know that their conversation would stay a secret. "We should go," she said instead, to him and to Clint, and skidded down the slope without a backward glance. At least she waited once she ran into the white sand.
The afternoon sun was still fairly high up, and they lingered by the water's edge, letting the tide wet their shoes to cold, heavy burdens. Barton and Romanoff were fine with the idling. The occasional bump of their shoulders, the stray fingers brushing over each other's clothes, Coulson saw it all, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to butt in. He wondered if they behaved this way all the time, having never seen them much outside of missions. Maybe it's because he was there, or maybe that's just how far they always got, but he didn't see anything more than the sprinkled little touches for the past few days in Crete.
Coulson slowed his steps to let the other two pass a good eight or nine feet in front of him. Clint looked back at him in concern, and Coulson waved him on.
He had too much on his mind to enjoy the salty breeze and blue depths, the cloudless sky and the beach like a pile of flour. Fury had made a big show of revving up Phase Two, but Coulson knew where his mind really laid. The dramatics served little more than to pacify the Council. The Avengers Initiative was put on hiatus after the New Mexico incident, with the Destroyer to study and more realistic defenses needed for the world. Guns and lasers outweighed freak soldiers. With Stark ruled out, Thor worlds away, and their other... candidates unstable, Fury had to lock up his dwindling drafting list. Instead he was forced to focus all energy on the Tesseract. At least to the Council's eyes, that's what he did. His superheroes dream were hot coals that shot up into flames when the Captain was found.
The Captain. Steve Rogers. Cap Salutes You For Buying War Bonds. Coulson smiled, remembering learning the news of his discovery from Blake a day after Tea Party With the Destroyer. What a week. Of course that had caused another uproar against Fury for diverging from the initial defense plans. No one wanted to hear that Fury's hoarding Captain America for his hopeless, chicken-scratch Avengers Initiative. The greatest discovery in the past seventy years to go into a wildcard team that would most likely fall apart before the test run. It was hard to accept.
Project Recovery was as small and quiet as it could get, but the news leaked anyways. Valuable news, too. With Rogers alive and reachable, his serum-altered DNA could be isolated, the sequences cloned, and with some time, mass-produced enough to upgrade a crop of S.H.I.E.L.D elites to possess at least a quarter of Rogers' proficiency. The formula they produce would never have the same success rate as the original serum, given that it was a game of dice whether the transgenes would insert itself into the recipient cells' genome, but Fury wasn't after that, unlike most people. To him the project was a way for S.H.I.E.L.D to take in Rogers with a somewhat valid excuse. And it worked. Despite the aftermath of previous attempts at remaking the Super Soldier Serum, the Council lapped up the idea like it's the only good thing to come out of Fury's brain.
In his musing, Coulson had lagged farther behind. His agents stood waiting a good twenty paces away, by the start of one of the many gritty trails leading out of the lagoon. Clint pulled out his phone to take pictures of the view. Romanoff had her arm loose around his waist.
"You're so quiet," she said to Coulson, a challenging look on her face.
Coulson ignored her. In the midst of all that's rushing by, a few touchy-feely hands didn't deserve a tenth of his concern. He'd roast them later; when Rogers woke up, Phase Two progressed, efforts directed back to watching Banner...
He watched Romanoff lead Clint up the hill with his hand in hers, arms swinging, hair whipping freely in a show of unrestraint that had nothing to do with her life, in S.H.I.E.L.D or anywhere else. She would always be contained, subtly or less so, the leash pulled taut or loose. That kind of girl would never feel free.
The sun, hot even for Crete's sunny days this time of year, thawed something inside of Romanoff. Coulson saw it in the way the heels of her shoes grazed each other as she walked. He saw it in the way the floral print on her shirt fluttered to life with her springy movements. A smile held bright on her face. Once, she pointed out a man in the distance with a shirt design suspiciously like Captain America's shield, and made Coulson smile, too. She didn't often make people smile.
Not once did she mention her distrust of S.H.I.E.L.D's activities. Even though Coulson would have told her willingly.
By some unspoken agreement they found their way into a bus. A nauseating mix of chattering tourists, humming engines, and sweat hung stagnant in the cramped space. A boy threw little bits of paper at the girl in front of him, who squealed in irritation. A woman struggled with the windows above her seat in an attempt to tease a breeze into the AC-less, heaving metal box. Coulson flipped through Clint's copy of Lonely Planet Crete (Regional Guide) and dog-eared pages with promising pictures as he went along; their ride hurled and shook too violently for him to read more than three words without losing track. Romanoff followed the streets outside with a lazy gaze and dozed off after a while. A sheen of perspiration turned her skin to luscious honey under the glow of the heat.
Clint shifted her in his arms. After a few cautious glances at the beady tour guide two seats away, he tore off the map from the window behind him, folded it with one hand, and fanned it over Romanoff. Still, he was bound to get caught in a public vehicle where you could see every seat down the aisle standing up. The guide straightened her cap and squeezed past somebody's backpack in the walkway. She loomed over Clint, hands on her hips and not on the handrails despite the bus' roller coaster mode; stuck there on the floorboards like old gum. He stared back, collected and firm, clutching Romanoff's suspiciously tenuous form. Coulson put down his book in surprise. Clint seldom looked for trouble. Intrusive, butcher's wife type of women reigned the top of his mile-long list of people to avoid.
This confronting look on Clint, who couldn't hold a conversation for more than minutes; who never spoke up and quietly followed orders. Clint who had once told Coulson, "Thanks for dealing with my shit for bringing Romanova back, Phil. I'd rather have Fury kick her out than have him yell at me."
Coulson would be less surprised if Clint had shot the guide on spot.
Remarkably, she left him alone.
Romanoff bit her lip and picked the lint off Clint's jacket with feigned interest. She was awake the entire time.
Back at their hotel, Coulson sat down for another texting episode of Late Night S.H.I.E.L.D Gossip With Agent Sitwell. Sheerin was a whirlwind in the labs cooking up his experiments. Once they set up all his machinery, the first batch of the formulas would be finished and tested. They would fully defrost the Captain tomorrow. Fury had finalized the uniform, with heavy influences from the model Coulson had lovingly worked on between lunch breaks and shaved out of his sleep hours for. Prototype weapons made from the Destroyer's remains were cropping up, with a gun nicknamed Revenge stealing the spotlight. So much had happened in the three days he and his team were off.
He turned to Clint, who sprawled on one of the two beds in the room, tossing a knife into the air above him and lazily catching it. Coulson knew he wouldn't miss and stab himself in the heart by accident, but still kept an eye out.
He'd seen him with that plaything—all he did was twirl it by the point on a surface like a spinning top and chuck it around like a ball—a few times during their time out. A strange possession for him, it was too ornamental, with its dainty appearance and fancy engravings on the hilt. It fitted him as much as a diamond necklace did on a stray rottweiler.
"Sweet knife," Coulson commented.
Clint caught his toy neatly and set it on the nightstand. The yellow light from the lamp reflected off the steel blade and made Coulson squint.
"Romanoff's," Clint answered the unspoken question.
"I never figured she'd grasp the concept of 'sharing is caring.'"
"There's a lot you never figured, Phil."
Clint pushed himself off the bed. For a moment Coulson thought he was going to Romanoff's next door, but he just walked to the sliding door and looked out to the porch. The knife had returned to his hand.
"Guess I'll hafta have faith in whatever you do then, buddy," Coulson said.
Thanks for the read!