A/N 1: Because I had so much fun with Oxycodone Days, I decided to continue it. It isn't essential that you read it first, but some of the characterizations and motifs will make more sense if you do. This story was heavily influenced by the "Hurt Locker," because I really liked Jeremy Renner in it
A/N 2: There is a slight crossover in the next few chapters with G I JOE, but nothing that you would have to know its cannon to enjoy.
Into the Fire Chapter 4: Take Cover
Wednesday June 13th 10:35 pm – Stark Tower New York City, USA
Steve pushed his way into Tony's favorite lab, almost being muscled out of the way by pissed off Agent Morse, as she groused and shoved past him. Gunnarson hadn't even bothered to move from the couch, where he was watching some stupid action movie that didn't seem to have a plot. Only Bruce and Lt. Colonel Rhoades were in there with him. Steve immediately tried to ignore the billionaire's whining, as he entered. He didn't have to get very close to see that Stark was completely drunk and trying to make Rhodey eat coconut cake. Again with the coconut cake! Tony had been obsessed with coconut cake for the last 6 weeks. Ever since Clint had made it for Bruce's birthday, 2 days before he left. The agent had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen with his guns dissembled and spread out for cleaning on the table and the makings for the best fajitas Steve had ever eaten working on the counter. He had also asked Betty what Bruce's favorite dessert was and had made a coconut cake from scratch for his fellow Avenger. He wasn't going to lie, it had been delicious. But since then, Tony had been on an insane quest to find a coconut cake that tasted as good as the one Barton made.
That wasn't the only thing that had been off the last month and a half. The Avengers as a fighting force had become less effective without the pair of agents. Steve had never realized how often he relied on Natasha to watch his back for him as he shouted commands or to be able to shimmy and squeeze into places no adult man could reach. Without her there was no one to subtly weave in and out of the enemies ranks, silently taking out the leader. Barton was just as sorely missed for his eagle eyes and almost inhuman ability to calculate trajectories and patterns. Everyone had grown too used to hearing Hawkeye's calm voice saying something like, "their moving left and fanning out to catch you in a pincer, Cap, better have Iron Man thin them out." Or being able to say, "Hawkeye, I could use some help," and by the time you were finished with the sentence, there would be an arrow or a high caliber round sticking out of whatever was plaguing you.
They had tried fighting without anyone to fill those gaps and it had been an abysmal failure. Cap had gotten hurt twice with no one to guard his back. Tony had nearly been killed with no one to clear the way for him, and the Hulk had run amuck. It had been so bad they had had to call in Thor for help. He was good at fighting but he was like another Tony, all brawn and no finesse. Not to mention he was very easily distracted by things and often went off plan.
With his suit, Tony could see as well as Barton, but he didn't have the patience or the tactical, military knowledge to be able to anticipate an enemies moves. He never realized before how important it was to have another military officer on the team. It never occurred to him how often Hawkeye took over command when Cap was busy or couldn't see what was going on. He was so nonchalant about the whole thing, he had never registered it. Without that, there had been gaps in their plans that had caused major issues.
But worst of all had been the Hulk. One would not think the loss of "Pretty Lady" or "Magic Man" (so named for his penchant for entertaining the green titan with juggling, card tricks, and sleight of hand) would make that much of a difference but it had. Hulk had more than once taken off trying to find Natasha because he thought she was lost or in danger. That had been bad enough but he had been uncontrollable without Barton around. Clint carried a specially made adimantium tipped arrow with enough tranquilizers to drop the Hulk in 5 seconds flat. He had only had to use them twice, which one would think would make Bruce's alter ego not like him but it was the opposite. The Other Guy was destructively unhappy not having Hawkeye around as a safety net for him. Bruce suspected the Hulk was just reacting to his own feelings but no one was sure. What they were sure of, was that the Hulk had caused more damage in the last six weeks than the prior 6 months.
Obviously, Fury had noticed and between him and the SHIELD director, they had decided to bring in two other Agents to fill Romanov and Barton's shoes. For Natasha, they had sent Agent Bobbi "Mockingbird" Morse, a perky blonde that could talk geek to her heart's content with Stark and could fight fairly well. She however wasn't as good as Romanov and lacked the other SHIELD agent's independent, manipulative mind and thick skin. She seemed to dislike her predecessor with a flaming passion. In fact, she had pointed out that she had a scar under her chin where Natasha had almost slit her throat, if not for Clint's intervention; apparently, just because she had asked Barton out for a drink. However, she held Clint in freakishly, stalker like, high esteem, causing Tony to postulate that the two of them must have had a fling at one time; since she had been at SHIELD longer than either of the other two. Which then always led to commentary about, "how in the hell Barton managed to bag such beautiful women considering he had a face like a catcher's mitt and the personality of a police dog." She was frequently annoyed to the point of tears by Tony and was clearly afraid of Banner. She was a solid B but not an A+ like Black Widow. Her only saving grace was that she tended to wound rather than kill.
Then there was the other one, John "Gun" Gunnarson, from Boston, MA. He was another soldier, a Navy SEAL rather than Army Delta Force, sent to replace Clint. He was very tall, blond as blond could be, and about as smart as a box of rocks. When asked about the agent he was replacing, his comment was a tap to his chest and, "I have much love for the Hawk, he's saved my bacon more than once. And his partner is wicked hot, not that I would go for her because she's like all kinds of crazy but hot." Steve couldn't generally fault his skill because he was a first rate marksman, even though he had missed and shot Steve in the shoulder. He was nice enough, in fact he was much more personable than Barton. He talked, laughed, wanted to hangout and go to the movies, he really liked movies, and generally seemed like a good person; even if he did think things like exploding eyeballs were 'cool'. His biggest down side was that he was just so damn stupid. He could hug a roof and shoot targets almost as well as Barton but forget finding patterns or taking command. This guy was a grunt, not a leader. These were the two agents Romanov and Barton had suggested instead of them to go to Syria. He had to agree with Hill, Gunnarson was not smart enough to fool anyone.
Even with the two replacements and Thor, they were still not as affective so Tony had suggested they ask his friend Air Force Lt. Colonel James Rhodes, code name War Machine, for assistance. Rhodes had agreed, which had helped quite a bit. He had filled the gap in helping Cap decide the tactics. Sadly, it also seemed to have given Tony license to fall apart even more than he had been. Stark had been in a bad way since they had gotten back from Iraq, though if he were honest with himself, even before they had returned. He was drinking to the point of passing out almost every night. He was taking stupid risks in battle and he was pushing away his team mates and friends with cruel, cutting words. He had cheated on Pepper, which explained why she was in Malibu and he was here. Even Bruce was almost at his limits with the man and had snapped at him yesterday, "to get on some fucking meds!" whatever that meant. Tony's mental breakdown, being the reason Jarvis has asked for him to come down to the lab.
"Tony, I'm not hungry and if you shove that spoon in my face one more time I'm going break your fingers," Rhodes spoke calmly, breathing through his nose.
"Come on Rhodey try it," Stark then pouted, "it isn't the same. None of them are the same." He reached for his bottle of whiskey and Steve snatched it away from him.
"I think you've had enough for tonight, Tony," he said kindly.
"Captain, you wanna try some coconut cake, it sucks," she smiled and grabbed a handful of cake and shoved it towards Steve.
"No, thanks, I'm good. But I think you need to hit the hay."
"No, I want cake, I want good coconut cake. Why can't anybody make it right?" he slouched, and then popped back up, "maybe we should fly to South Carolina to find some. Jarvis, get the Mark VII ready."
"Belay that order Jarvis," Rhodey called. "Tony, for once in your miserable life, do what you are told. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!" Tony stared at him for a minute then slumped against his friend.
"It's not the same, Rhodey, why can't anyone make it the same?" he mumbled as Rhodes got him up and led him over to the couch in hopes he would fall asleep.
"I know, man, I know." He leaned over his friend, pulling a blanket over the drunk. "But try to pull yourself together, they'll be home soon." Tony was snoring by the time Rhodes turned around to face the two men.
"Is he going to be alright?" Steve asked, getting really tired of Stark's childish behavior. They all missed Romanov and Barton. He hadn't had anyone to run with, train with, or talk over tactics with since Hawkeye had left. Not to mention they were all getting sick of take out or Bruce's badly made stir fry.
"He'll have one hell of a hangover tomorrow but he'll be fine," Rhodes answered, reaching out and taking the bottle of expensive whiskey from Steve. "If you'll, excuse me Captain Rogers, now I need a drink."
Steve watched him leave and turned to Bruce who looked just as helpless as he felt. Banner straightened up a few things on Tony's work table and picked up the cake, heading towards the door, but not before he moved a trashcan and a bottle of water beside his friend. Steve took one look back and followed the doctor. Bruce led him to the communications room, apparently also remembering that Steve was supposed to talk to Natasha tonight. He settled down and started eating the cake.
"Want some, it actually isn't bad at all," he offered and Cap shook his head no. He had to agree with Tony, none of them had tasted the same as Barton's. "I'm not sure what all the fuss was about Hawkeye's cake was? It was good but it didn't really taste like a coconut cake at least not a traditional one," he said between mouth fulls. "Normal ones have cream frosting like this, not that chantilly frosting he used."
"Yeah, Tony does seem pretty obsesses with that cake," Steve answered, noticing that Romanov should be contacting him any minute to give him a report. It wasn't strictly necessary, this mission only peripherally involved the Avengers but he was worried about his friends and wanted to check up on them. Apparently Banner felt the same way.
"I know why Tony is focused on the idea of the cake but not the flavor. If he wanted to get obsessed over one of Barton's dishes, his homemade French Dip sandwiches would be a better choice. I would kill and or die for one of those," Steve snorted at him, but didn't disagree. Clint was one hell of a cook and house keeper now that he thought of it. He was getting tired of their being dishes in the sink and dust on things without Hawkeye there to compulsively clean everything. The guy was a bit of a neat freak. "You think that is part of the reason Natasha likes him so much, because he's a good, little wife?" Bruce joked, almost as if he could read Steve's mind.
"I don't know, but you may have a point," he smiled at his fellow Avenger, just has Natasha finally buzzed in. "Hi Black Widow, I've got Banner here with me," he told her.
"Hi Steve, hi Bruce," she answered back. Steve wondered where she went on an Army base to get enough privacy to speak so freely but he didn't bother asking. "So how are things going there?"
"Not bad, Tony is still freaking out about coconut cake, and I think he might have a mild case of alcohol poisoning. Oh and SHIELD gave us some replacement agents, a Gunnarson and a Morse," Bruce answered her, finally discarding the rest of the cake.
"Good luck with all that," she sniped. "Gunnarson's nickname is 'SS,' which he thinks means 'Super Swede' but it really stands for 'Stupid Swede.' And Morse, is a dim-witted cunt that is only alive because she's has luck on her side," she practically growled at the end. He looked at Bruce, surprised at the venom in Natasha's voice. 'Hell hath no fury,' Banner mouthed and smiled. Maybe Tony was onto something about Barton and Morse having a thing.
"How are you guys holding up?" Roger's asked. It had been 2 weeks since he had last spoken with her and he had only seen the official reports of battles and terrorist rings Barton and his team had broken up.
"I'm still miserably hot, hate the Army, and would kill for some quality vodka. Clint's not back yet. He gets back in tomorrow. I hope he has good news," she trailed off.
"We all do, Natasha, we want you guys home, safe and sound." Rogers told.
"Yeah, and besides we're all starving because Barton isn't here to cook and we're wallowing in our own filth because he hasn't clean the kitchen," Banner joked and was rewarded with her laughter.
"He is quite the domestic," she teased.
"We figure that must be why you like him so much. He convinced you to join SHIELD with a lasagna, tiramisu, and neatly pressed socks." Banner continued.
"Clearly."
"How did he convince you to join then?" Steve asked. He had always been curious on why she had defected on Barton's say so.
"You seriously have never heard this story?" she asked, sounding vaguely shocked.
"No," they both answered and Rogers started eating cake as he listened to her.
"I had decided to leave Red Room and was chased to the Airport in Kiev. I had bought a ticket to Berlin but stole a ticket to Dubai off a business man. When I landed, I checked into a hotel and didn't feel anything out of the ordinary. The only person that even looked at me was a French father, talking to his wife and playing with his kids in the lobby, at least I thought it was a French guy with his wife and kids. Turned out it was Barton chatting with a total stranger to throw me off. He was smart and kept his hands in his pockets. I would have been able to ID him as an assassin in a heartbeat, if I had seen his hands.
"Anyway that night I was in my room and two Red Room agents had tracked me and attacked. I went to fight back but before I could, they both dropped, their heads blown open with a high caliber rifle using ceramic shells designed to be armor piercing. They were nasty things, they fragment and can't be seen in an x-ray or MRI. They almost assure a kill, even with only a gut or chest wound. Of course these two had been popped right through the brainstem, insta-kills.
"What I thought was odd, was that there were two shots fired but only one hole in the glass. Whoever made those shots was beyond good. I ducked and heard my burner cell phone ring and answered it. I heard someone whistle at me like a dog and say, 'I see you Black Widow.' I of course freaked out and dropped behind the couch and he said, 'you really think a couch is enough to stop a 50 cal?" I asked him what he wanted and he said, "follow the yellow brick road," and shined a laser pointer letting me know his location. It was a roof top three quarters of a mile away.
"I grabbed my gun and took off towards him, assuming I would kill him and be gone. I figured out pretty quick it had to be Hawkeye, the marksmanship and the ceramic coated, high caliber rifle rounds were a dead giveaway, even without his bow. All of Red Room's intel on him just talked about him as a long range killer so I figured I would break his neck and be done with it. Turned out the intel was wrong and he put up one hell of a fight. I tried to seduce him, he laughed at me. The whole time he kept telling me he could get me out. He could give me someplace safe," she paused. "I don't know, something about him just made me believe he could do it," Steve could hear the smile in her voice. "Even if on the way back to the SHIELD base he freaked out because he was afraid Coulson would Court Martial or murder him because he had never disobeyed a direct order before.
"It's odd, when I think about it. I randomly picked one guy in that whole airport to steal a ticket from and ended up in Dubai. If it had been Bangkok, I would have faced Lee; Paris would have been Gunnarson' Sydney would have been Brandt. But I ended up with the one Agent that looked past the dossier and saw a person and the one handler that respected his operator enough to trust his judgment," she paused again. "Anyway, we went back, became partners and I spent the next 9 months in the Friend Zone trying to get in his pants," she laughed.
"That makes more sense then," Bruce cut in.
"What makes more sense?" she asked.
"Why you fell for him. Come on, let's face it. Tony has a point that Barton is neither particularly handsome, intelligent, or charming. He is at best average in every way except his physical prowess for killing, his eye sight, and ability to compartmentalize. Yet one of the most beautiful women on Earth is completely smitten with him. But what you just said puts it all in perspective." Banner commented and winked at him. Bruce was purposely baiting her to get her for some reason.
"Why does knowing that he tried to kill me make us more understandable, exactly?"
"Not that he tried to kill you, though that really shouldn't surprise me, but that he tricked you into falling for him. Think about it, whether consciously or unconsciously, he did the one thing that no one else had ever done with you, he said 'no'. He made you work to get him in bed, and you had never had to do that before. He made you get to know him as a friend and a person and a partner before you knew him as a lover. It's actually genius, which leads me to believe he didn't do it on purpose," Bruce finished and Steve was stunned at the rather clinical dissection of his friends' relationship.
"It wasn't that cut and dry, he was sleeping with someone else at the time and Clint is nothing if not loyal," she defended herself.
"Was it Morse?" Banner asked, eyes twinkling.
"Yes, it was, actually. That stupid bitch thought he cared about her but she was never anything more than a fuck for him. He wouldn't even let her in his room much less in his bed," she crowed and Bruce winked, clearly having reached his goal of finding out if Mockingbird and Barton used to date. He was just as nosey as Tony, just more subtle about getting his answers.
"I see," Steve reeled them back in. "Well, if you can call us after Hawkeye gets back in and let us know how he is doing, ok?"
"Sure, Capt, I will. You guys take care," she signed off and Steve turned around to look at a very satisfied doctor.
"What? Tony was going to keep annoying the crap out of Bobbi until he found out. This way I can confirm it for him and he can move on before she bashes his skull in or worse he cracks a joke about it in front of Natasha," he explained and Steve couldn't argue. He didn't remember the Howling Commandos being this high maintenance.
Thursday June 14th 5:35 am Desert outside of Damascus, Syria
Clint took a drag off his bummed cigarette and tilted his head up to look at the last of the stars. The sun would be up soon and chase away the clear, night sky. He had to admit, he loved the desert at night, when he wasn't being shot at. He'd give his men a few more minutes to sleep before he roused them for the march back to the boarder and a ride back to Baghdad. So far they had managed to break up a Hezbollah sleeper cell, find two illegal gun manufacturers, a prescription drug ring, and someone trying to counterfeit Louboutin shoes. In a way it disturbed him that he could pick out the designer but they were one of Nat's favorites so he made note of how they looked. They were supposed to have red soles, or so he had heard. Maybe he should have snagged her a pair so she didn't kick him in balls because he started smoking again.
He hadn't bothered to wake his relief, why should two people not get any sleep? He was exhausted and looking forward to getting back to base. He was tired of being shot at, cursed at, nearly blown up twice, and shaking snakes and scorpions out of sleeves. He missed Tasha and was hoping she would knock the shit out of him for something, just so he could feel. Yesterday, they had found a group that was selling arms and he had fired and killed a kid that couldn't have been more than 16 without thinking. He didn't like that he had started killing without thinking again. It was so easy to do with a gun, in the heat of combat. That was one of the many reasons he preferred his bow. Knocking, aiming, and firing were deliberate movements that required thought and focus. Not like pulling a trigger. Ending a life should be harder than pulling a trigger but it wasn't for him, not anymore.
He looked up, when he heard Beachhead approaching him. His sergeant dropped down beside him, leaning back on his pack and stared. Clint tried to ignore him but it was hard. He snuffed the end of his cigarette out and stared back. "With all due respect, sir," he started and Barton interrupted him.
"Beachhead, if you have to start a sentence to your commanding officer with, 'with all due respect,' you probably shouldn't say it."
"Noted, sir, but with all due respect, who are you?"
"I'm Captain Pierce, why who do you think I am?" he tried to laugh it off.
"I ain't sayin' you ain't Capt. Pierce, but I've seen you fight and I've seen you shoot and you don't fight or shoot like a your average Ranger." He continued, clearly flustered enough that his accent got even stronger. It was taking a lot for this man to question his CO. He was a good soldier, Clint hated lying to him.
"What do I fight and shoot like, then?"
"Between us, sir, like you're Special Forces. I've also seen the way the guys from Delta Force watch you. You're one of them, aren't you?" he finally spit out his question.
"If I were, I couldn't answer that question, now could I?" he shot back.
"So if I asked you, what would your answer be?" He pressed.
"I can neither confirm nor deny currently or previously serving under 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta," he answered and looked his staff sergeant in the eyes. If the man had half a brain he would realize he just admitted to being Delta Force.
"I see," Beachhead sighed.
Clint would have felt worse and maybe thrown him more of a bone but movement caught his eyes back towards the city. It was too early in the day for heat lines to distort things so he pulled out binoculars and watched a truck, a jeep, and a limo drive out into the desert. "That seem odd to you, sergeant?" he handed the binoculars over to Beachhead.
"That it does, sir, that it does. You want us to intercept?"
"No, we are here for fact finding, not interfering with the populace. But I think we should help them with that flat tire they have," he smiled, tugging his hat so the brim faced backwards.
"What flat tire?"
Clint flopped onto his belly, pulling out his sniper rifle and attaching a silencer. He aimed and fired, taking out the front wheel on the truck. "That one," he winked as he sat up, removing the silencer and slipping it into a pocket in his pants. Since the sun was mostly up, he pulled out his sunglasses. His vision was shit in super, bright light. The SHIELD docs said it had something to do with not enough cones and too man rods in his eyes, same reason he could see so well at night but was color blind. By midday, unless he kept his sunglasses on, his vision would turn into a horrid, yellow blur that gave him a massive headache. Why oh why couldn't his area of operations been the jungle instead of the desert?
"That was a hell of a shot, sir, we're over a mile away and a moving target?" he whistled, "just the type of shooting I would expect to see from a Delta Force sniper," he turned a cheeky grin on Clint and took off to rouse the troops. Max, the bomb dog, being the loudest to complain about waking, with a groan that sounded like moo as he stretched.
They covered the distance towards the vehicles quickly. They were nearly there when Max alerted his handler, Sanders, that there was a bomb close. Clint really hoped this was their break. He signaled for most of his men to stay back and he slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked towards them. Beachhead grabbed him, though. "Sir, are you sure you want to go up there alone, we don't know what they have in that truck? If you won't take back up, let me do go."
"You suddenly learn Arabic?" he asked, annoyed at being slowed down. Beachhead shook his head 'no.' "Then looks like it's me," he continued toward the car, rifle away from his hands but his left hand very close to the Markov pistol on his thigh. He smiled and shouted in perfect Arabic, "you look like you have a flat, need any help changing it?" he asked as he saw the passenger side window of the limo lower and the muzzle of a gun peak out. Without realizing he had even done it, he drew his pistol and fired, spraying the shooter's brains all over the driver. "I was afraid that was your answer," he said as he dropped and bullets started flying.
His men were good and quickly got control of the situation, even if the jeep had already turned tail and ran. However, when he opened the back of the transport truck, there was a missile that was clearly armed. "Well fuck," he breathed as he looked at it, the timer at 2 minutes. "Ellison," he called their EOD specialist, "what do you suggest?"
"I suggest we fucking run sir. I've never seen anything like that before," the kid seemed rattled and Clint couldn't help the sigh that escaped his mouth.
"I have," clear everyone back to 500 meters, ASAP, and give me your screw driver," he held his hand out and climbed into the truck. He was going to be cutting it close. On average it usually took him around 2 minutes to disarm one of Stark's weapons and he had 1 minute and 49 seconds. He set to work removing the cover and wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry when he saw that the inner workings were nowhere near as complicated as Stark's but that the detonator was a triple rigged switch. This was the same bastard that bombed near the hotel and that rigged the bomb in Stark tower.
He quickly snipped the appropriate wires and climbed out, signaling Max and Sanders to check the other vehicle. There was one survivor a suited man from the back of the limo that stuttered in South American Spanish and carried no ID. Clint had him down on his knees to question when Private Herrara squatted beside the prisoner to help translate. Clint was about to tell him not to bother because he spoke fluent Spanish, when a shot rang out. The bullet exploded the suited man's head and lodged in Herrara's neck. Blood gouted out of his troop's neck, spraying across flak jacket and sleeves. He immediately dropped, drew his pistol, and turned his head to spy the jeep against speeding off. He returned fire, and was fairly sure he hit a passenger and maybe winged the shooter but the distance was too far for a 9 mil to be an assured kill, especially with all the dust from the tires obscuring his sight. They were at least three quarters of a mile out and quickly returning to the city. It was hard shot. It would take a good marksman to make it.
By the time he turned back around, the medic was trying to save Private Herrara but Clint could tell it was no use. The bullet had clipped his at least his external carotid artery and maybe even the internal. There was no getting back up from that. He looked down and as the medic moved his hand to try and tape down the wound, and blood pumped in an arc over his boots and pant legs. His first thought was that now he was going to have to clean his boots. His second was how fucked up it was that he was watching one of his men bleed to death and he was worried about his boots.
He knelt beside Herrara and took the man's hand. It was already mostly limp and his eyes were barely open. It hadn't even been two minutes. He looked his soldier in the eyes and said in Spanish, "it's ok, Herrara, just relax. We'll take you home." A small smile played on the dying man's lips and he closed his eyes. He wouldn't open them again.
Clint rose and continued to limo. He opened the back door, ignoring the gore and checked the bodies for identification. Of course there was none so he took pictures of the men in the front, then crawled into the back with another suited man and cut his right thumb off, wrapping it in plastic. He repeated the act of desecration on their former prisoner and tucking them into his jacket pocket. Maybe SHIELD could get a hit off their prints.
By the time he was finished, the medic was tagging and bagging Private Herrara. Clint didn't know much about him, other than he was from Orange County, spoke Spanish, and had a wife. He guessed he wouldn't know anything else about him, either. "Beachhead, we'll need another body bag to get that missile back to base. When you're done, police all the brass, even if you have to pull it out of body," he ordered and started setting charges under the vehicles. He couldn't let there be proof that American's engaged in combat in Syria.
Thursday June 14th 8:09 am Damascus, Syria
He winced as the scarf covered woman finished taping up the wound on his side. Hawkeye had nailed him with a grazing wound his lower, right ribcage. Not fatal but painful as hell. He looked over at Hazine, as she wept and wailed over the body of her brother, Adir. Barton had somehow managed to return fire, and hit him right below the heart. He had bled out into his chest cavity. He sometimes forgot how goddamn good that kid was. No one should be able to hit two moving targets, from ¾ of a mile away, with a pistol. The sand kicking up from the tires was the only thing that saved his life.
He walked over to Hazine, her beautiful, brown eyes bloodshot from crying. Her hands stained with her baby brother's blood. "Shh, sweetheart, calm down," he cooed in Arabic. He led her away to low couch helping her sit as other moved to begin cleaning the body. He took her hands and began to wipe the gore away. Blood shouldn't touch her. She continued to weep. "Please calm, down, my love, this isn't good for the baby," he touched her slightly swollen belly. At only 4 and a half months, she had yet to grow large.
"He killed my brother, she grasped his vest, you will make him pay," she said through gnashed teeth.
"I will, but we need to wait,"
"No, you will kill him, an eye for an eye!"
"Listen, Hazine, I can't kill Barton, not right now. If we do, we risk bring all of SHIELD down on us, unless I can make it look like an accident or suicide, which will be hard. Or worse, we'll bring his psycho partner down on us. She won't follow rules and won't care about international treaties. She'll keep coming until she is dead or we are," he kissed her forehead and wiped her tears away. "I know it's hard but Hawkeye, I can handle. He's one person and he trusts me. He lets his guard down around me. I can obfuscate, and confuse him. I won't stand a chance if I have to try that on Black Widow or another SHIELD agent."
"I understand," she straightened and her tears dried up. "his death will be sweeter if I can see it myself," she rose and headed towards the door. "I'll be in the lab, I need to fabricate another missile to replace the one he took," she swept away and he knew better than to bother her while she was working. He leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing his body to relax for a few minutes before he had to hotfoot it back to Baghdad.
Friday June 15th 12:00 am US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq
Clint took a drag off his newly lit cigarette and snapped his zippo closed. It was a gaudy, green camouflage number with the Marine Corps emblem on the front and "Semper Fidelis" on the back. It had belonged to Coulson. His father, General Coulson, had told Clint to keep it, when he had brought Phil's things home to his family. He had wanted to refuse but he had also wanted something from Squawks to hold onto. The General seemed to understand and pressed it into his hand, along with a photo of the three of them, when they had dragged him to a Pittsburg Steelers' game. He had pretty bored, very uncomfortable in the wide open stadium, and utterly confused at what the fuss was about. They had bought him a Steelers' jersey and made him wear it and had the people in front of them snap the picture. It was the only picture he had of him and Phil together. He kept it at Stark's tower because it hurt too much to keep it on the Helicarrier. Of course, even his grief over Squawks's death was dulling lately. He hoped it was acceptance of his loss but he was afraid it was something else.
Before his thoughts spiraled into a maudlin puddle of how much he missed old handler, he heard a visitor on the roof with him. Gator had left him a note to meet him at midnight in his "nest." It wasn't a big deal, since he had to meet Tasha anyway and the less he and Gator were seen talking, the better.
"Hey, Gator, what did you need to talk to me about?" he asked his friend, as the man stood stiffly beside him. Clint couldn't miss the way he favored his right side, he had clearly been wounded. "What happened to you, man?"
"It's stupid, laughable, actually. I was tooling around Baghdad on my bike, waiting for an informant to make a drop, and this kid runs out in front of me. I slam on the breaks and go ass over tail and take a handle bar in the floating rib," he grimaced. "Which makes the climb up here so not fun. Why can't you like leaning against cars rather than perching on ledges?"
"Cars can explode," he answered simply, feeling bad his friend was hurt. "Well, you're up here now, so what's going on?" he took another drag.
"I thought you quit," Gator motioned to the cancer stick dangling from his lip.
"I did. And when this is whole fucked up mess is finished, I'll quit again," he answered.
"Speaking of fucked up messes, I hear you brought a bomb back with you." Clint grunted non commitally, it was no doubt common knowledge by now. Though, technically it was a missile not a bomb. "You find anything interesting about it?"
"Interesting, how?"
"I don't know, it's just unusual that someone would bring a whole missile back rather than just the dangerous parts of it. That goes against EOD conventions," Gator pressed.
"I'm unconventional," Clint quipped, then mentally started at something Gator had said. "I'm sorry about making you shimmy up here. If I had known you were hurt, I would have agreed to meet somewhere else. You should have just grabbed me when I came back in or was that, when you were in medical?"
"Yeah, I was stuck being tapped up when you got back but no worries. I just wanted to let you know, I have heard rumblings of some gun runners that are shipping weapons by sea into Damascus. They are coming up from South Africa and going through the port." He looked over the base as he lit his own cigarette.
Clint wanted to question more, but let it drop. He was being paranoid from lack of sleep. All the Delta boys had the highest level of clearance, the highest trust level by the government. None of them could be involved in any of this. Gator must have heard from one of his friend's in EOD that it was a missile. Not to mention the info about the Port could be useful.
"Thanks, man. I haven't seen any South African vessels on the Port's manifests but that doesn't mean I didn't miss them. I'll have someone check them out." He noticed Gator looking at his gun intently.
"That is one interesting side arm, brother. Clearly not Government Issue," he pointed to Clint's Markov pistol.
"Not our Government, at least," he took it out, dropping the clip and clearing the chamber then handing it over to his friend. Gator raised an eyebrow at him before accepting the weapon. Clint shrugged, "there is only one person alive I trust to hand a loaded weapon to."
"Yeah and my tits aren't as nice," Gator finished as he examined the gun. "It must be a bitch to get rounds for?" he pointed it with his right hand then noticed it was a left-handed grip and switched hands.
"I had it modified so it could take 9x19mm NATO round but can also still fire the original 9x18mm Soviet ammo," he explained.
"In case you need it to look like a Russian took someone out?" he questioned with a smile, eliciting a wink from Barton. "I taught you well, Grasshopper. So where does someone like me get a piece like this?"
"Make friends with someone that goes through Spetsnaz like Kleenex," he quipped.
"What's this say?" Gator asked about a Russian word, etched into the muzzle.
"Cупруг, it means partner in Russian," he sort of lied. It was actually a joke on Natasha's part. When he had given her his purple heart, he had gotten "to my partner" etched on the back of it, in Russian. At the time, his Russian was functional but not flawless. He made mistakes and confused when to use synonyms based on cultural meaning. As such, he had used 'супругa' for partner, not realizing that it was used more for wife or lover rather than a friendly partnership. Tasha had thought it was funny so when she gave him the pistol she used the word for 'husband,' instead of the more appropriate товарищ.
"Nice," he handed it back. "anyway, it's late and I'm drugged. If I hear anything else about weapons movement, I'll let you know ASAP. If you aren't here, should I find your better half?"
"Yeah, just leave her a note and she'll meet with you. Just don't try to sneak up on her, please. I don't want to tell your daughter you got your neck snapped by a pissed off red head."
He turned to leave then stopped, "Hey, Hawkeye, I heard you lost a man too?"
He nodded in the affirmative, looked down at his nearly finished cigarette. "Private Herrara."
"I know it's hard, brother, but be happy that it is. When it starts getting easy, is when you need to worry," he said and disappeared over the edge. He examined his feelings and wondered if he should be concerned. Losing his troop hadn't been easy but it hadn't been as hard as it probably should. He felt about as emotionally connected to Herrara's loss as the idea of replacing his shoes, inconvenienced but not inconsolable. Which reminded him, he needed to clean his boots.
Friday June 15th 12:30 am US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq
After receiving the all clear, Natasha swung unto the roof to meet Clint. She had barely talked to him and hadn't seen him in 2 weeks. It bothered her that every time she saw him he looked thinner and more tired. She knew this mission was a bad idea. They should have just let Tony get whacked. She also noticed that he reeked of blood, sweat and cigarette smoke. The first two were fine the 3rd was unacceptable, filthy, disgusting habit.
"You stink," he said by way of greeting.
"I haven't showered yet," he defended himself and started chewing on his thumb nail. She hadn't seen him do that in years.
"I meant the smoke," she corrected as she stood in front of him, her hand on his cheek, running her thumb over the stubble. She refused to kiss him on the mouth, if he had been smoking, so she settled for resting her forehead against his and kissing the tip of his nose.
"Sorry," he apologized and wrapped his arms around her back in a brief but tight hug. It just highlighted to her how much weight he had lost. He tucked two objects into pocket and pulled away. She fingered them noticing that they were thumbs, gross. "See if you can get anything off those prints, please?"
"I will. The missile is already on its way to the Helicarrier to see if they can get any trace evidence," she watched him sink down and followed him to the floor. They both sat lotus style, their knees touching. This close, she could see the bags under his eyes and how blood shot they were. He hadn't been sleeping, that was obvious and dangerous. Sleep deprivation lengthened your reaction time and impaired logical thinking. Both attributes were pretty damned important in combat. But then again Clint was one of the worst chronic insomniacs she had ever met, in some ways worse than her. He was used to being highly functioning after being up for 48 plus hours. It was in fact a job requirement for a good sniper.
"I talked to Steve and Bruce this morning, they said, 'hi,'" she started. He grunted and looked at his hands. His nails were filthy and he still had on his fingerless gloves. She never had understood how he could stand to have so much of his skin covered in the desert heat He told her to leave a gun in direct sunlight in 125 degree heat for an hour and see how much she wanted to touch it with bare skin. She supposed it made sense. She couldn't help but notice a blood splatter on his uniform leg. It looked like it was from arterial spray. "So any luck figuring out who is behind this?"
"No," he answered and moved his thumb back to mouth to start chewing on his dirty nail again. She pulled his hand down and held it. "Unless you guys can figure out who those thumbs belong to," he explained the fight, and how that guy had been a prisoner but that whoever had been in the jeep had come back and killed him before he could talk. "I'm pretty sure I killed one of them and wounded another but I can't be sure. It isn't like I can go through Syria and get hospital records for anyone treated with a gunshot wound," he sighed. "Gator said he we should check the docks. He heard that ships from South Africa were bringing in weapons. If that is the case, we're looking in the wrong place."
"I'll check it out," he told him and listened as he answered Hill and Fury's questions, all the while not looking at her. That made her nervous. When they were finished, neither of them made a move to leave, both equally glad to see the other one. "Who's blood is that?" she pointed to his pant leg and had to hold his hand tight to stop him from chewing on his nails. She knew it was an unconscious stress reliever but it annoyed her and was way too obvious of a tell. He was becoming more a soldier and less a spy every minute he was here.
"Private Herrara's, the bullet that killed the prisoner went was a through and through and lodged in his neck, severed the arteries on the right side. There was nothing the medic could do," he answered. She had seen the body bag, when he returned but hadn't comment on it. What bothered was the rather clinical way he talked about losing one of his men. He was becoming colder as well, the longer he stayed here. He was turning back into the type of person that would have taken the shot when he saw her, rather than the one that hadn't. That scared her and when he finally met her eyes; she could see it scared him too.
"I'm so fucking tired, Tasha," he dropped his head and she put her hand on the back of his neck, massaging the stiff muscles. Without constant weight training, his physique was becoming that of the endurance athlete he actually was. Like all SHIELD military guys, he had to pass two Special Forces tests a year to remain on active duty. He could choose from the Delta Force test, Navy SEAL, British SAS, or Israeli Mosad. All of them required at least a 40 mile run and he had passed all four of them for 8 years in row. Just normally he also had a lot of plyometrics and weight training to add bulk. She liked him better bulky.
"I know, Clint, I know," she whispered and pulled him over so that he head rested against her stomach as she lied down. She stroked her fingers through his hair. It was crusted with sweat and sand and so greasy she was sure he was going to leave a slime stain on her shirt. But then again that is what going 2 weeks with no bath does to people. She ignored it though and ran her fingers through it, and began to tell him about what Steve and Bruce had told talked about. It didn't take long before the sound of her voice and the feeling of safety around her lulled him to sleep. She tucked her arm behind her head and looked at the stars, wondering how much she would tell Roger's tomorrow.
She let him sleep for almost 5 hours, she wished she could give him more but they needed the cover of darkness to get back to their respective bunks and her legs were pretty freakin' numb. She tapped his face and called his name, which got no response. She smiled. That was one of the funny little quirks about Barton, he could go days without sleep but once he finally fell asleep, you could roll him off a cliff and he wouldn't notice. It was one of the reasons she liked to stick close to him when he was like this, to watch his back while he was dead to world.
No longer playing it nice, she tugged on the hair at his temple and pinched his nose shut. That finally woke him. "Time to get up, sleepyhead," she couldn't hide the grin at his the way half his hair was plastered to his head and the other half was sticking up every which way because of her. He groaned and sat up. He always looked so cute like this, cranky, and sleepy. She couldn't help sitting up and kissing him.
"What was that for?" he asked. Even in his groggy state, realizing how odd it was for her to be affectionate during a mission.
"Because no one is around and I could," she stood up, immediately feeling pins and needles in her legs. Only for Clint Barton would she allow herself to be in this much discomfort just so he could take a nap. He shook his head like he understood but still seemed a little dazed. "I'll let you know as soon I hear anything back about fingerprints from the missile or from these," she fingered the severed thumbs in her pockets as she stamped her feet.
He stopped at the edge before swinging over. False dawn was behind him, and he turned and walked back to her. He stopped when they were toe to toe, and took her face in his hands, kissing her forehead. It was her turn to wrap her arms around his back. "Thank, Natashen'ka, I've missed you," he breathed into her hair. Her legs forgotten, when faced with Clint again, not the cold, emotionless soldier and not the SHIELD agent, but her partner. She had really missed him too.
"I've missed you too, Clint," she whispered back and they went their separate ways. She ran by her room and grabbed her shower supplies, wanting to wash off the sweat from spending that much time outside and the grime from Barton. Her roommates roused slightly when she entered but went back to sleep. The women thought she was having an affair with one of the other officers, they weren't wrong, so she let them think it. It gave her a good excuse to be gone at all hours of the day and night.
She cleaned up quickly and made her way off base to the apartment she used to contact SHIELD or the other Avengers. It was ridiculously easy to get in and out of the base with no one the wiser. She was almost embarrassed for the US Army but then again not that many people were as good as her.
"Hey, Cap," she dialed in and waited for a response.
"Hi Natasha, how are you? It's just me this time. We had a battle earlier today and Bruce is sleeping off his rampage and Tony is in medical," he explained. She hated to admit it, but she was bummed. She liked talking to Banner, he was clever and sweet without being fake like Stark or ridiculously nice like Rogers.
"How bad is Tony?" she asked instead.
"Not too bad. He has some pretty bad bruising on his back and he dislocated his shoulder but the docs said he will be up and around in day or two," he explained.
"That's good. Hawkeye managed to bring us back some good evidence. He captured a missile made by the same person that tried to bomb Stark Tower. SHIELD is looking into it for trace evidence. He also got some prints off some other people that were there. Hopefully we can identify them." She told him.
"Why didn't he just ask them?"
"There weren't any survivors," she told him plainly. He would understand or not, it wasn't really her concern.
"Oh," there was a pause, "How is Agent Barton doing?" He finally asked.
"On the record he's doing well. He lost a troop yesterday but brought back a solid lead."
"How about off the record?" Roger's dropped his voice.
"Off the record," she ran her hands through her damp hair. It was almost dry from the head already. "Off the record, not so good. He's closing himself off and pulling away, even from me. He's not sleeping, that's obvious, and he's acting cold, disconnect. He talked about his soldier dying like it was nothing, just another day at the farm," she confessed. She needed to talk to someone and she knew she could trust Steve to keep her confidence. Times like this she missed Phil the most. He would have listened and known what to do. He was the one that had originally snapped Clint out of being that dead eyed, killer.
"Well, Natasha, he is a career soldier, he is probably used to losing men," he started.
"No, you don't get it. Clint would care, he cares about all the people he fights with. It's not like him to be so unaffected by one of his men dying," she realized that to Cap it sounded strange. He knew Barton but not Clint. He knew the standoffish soldier/agent, whose feathers were impossible to ruffle. He only saw snippets of Clint, the guy that couldn't watch All Dogs Go to Heaven without getting depressed for a week or the one that still felt guilty over what Loki made him do. And maybe that was what was bothering her so much. She never knew Agent Barton, only Clint and now he was shutting her out and being his unflappable self even to her. It hurt and it scared her. "He's not like that, not normally," she finished lamely.
"I believe you," he reassured her. "Is there anything I can do? Maybe if I talked to him, or if I came over to help?"
She couldn't stop herself from grinning, "Sorry, Rogers, you're a little too high profile for this type of work."
"I guess, just," he seemed flustered for a minute. "Just both of you take care of yourselves. Every day on the news, there is something else about how dangerous it is in Syria and he is walking right through the middle of it." She felt herself soften towards him. He was such a sickeningly good person.
"I will, Steve. I'll watch my own and his back. Look, I need to contact Hill and see if they have anything for me. I'll talk to you later," she hung up and dialed SHIELD, hoping they would be able to tell her some good news.
TBC