A/N 1: Because I had so much fun with Oxycodone Days, I decided to continu 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 are some dark images in this section but trust me, I have a plan. When I write stories, I tend to come up with them by envisioning scenes then stringing them together with a plot or at least I try to have a plot. When I started coming up with this story, one of the scenes in the this chapter was the first one I came up with but when I wrote it, it kept coming across as too shocking or too tame. I hope I struck a balance and that you enjoy. The rest of the story is complete and will be posted weekly.
Thanks,
-Naja
Into the Fire Chapter 5: Fire in the Hole
Monday August 6th 11:59pm US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq
Natasha landed, cat quiet on the on the roof beside Clint. He didn't even look at her, just stood there smoking and staring over the camp. He looked awful, exhausted, filthy, and wrecked. She waited for him to acknowledge her but he just continued his glassy-eyed gaze into the distance. She wondered what could have happened this time, to set him so far on edge or maybe it wasn't one thing, maybe it was everything. They had been here for over four months and he hadn't really had a day off yet. It would be different, she guessed, if he wasn't also seeing so much combat, but his team was. They had actually been pretty invaluable for taking out terrorist cells. Even Fury had commented that his entire team deserved medals for their work of course they would never get them because they weren't supposed to be there. Like everything else Barton did, no one would ever know it was him.
She grew tired of waiting for him and touched his shoulder. He didn't flinch, he barely reacted at all, so focused on something she couldn't track. "Hawkeye," she called his name and he finally looked at her.
"Natasha," he stuttered, looking vaguely confused for a moment before he recovered. It worried her that he hadn't known she was there. He seemed to notice her concern and shook his head, "Hey, Widow, how are things going?" he gave her a cheeky grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes but not touching them. It was a good act, he might have fooled anyone, except her, with his Stepford smile. If a smile didn't light his eyes, it wasn't a real smile.
"Things are about the same, you find anything?" She was honestly getting tired of asking him that question. She knew he was doing everything he could to find the people responsible, but she was growing frustrated with his inability to do so. She knew it was worse for him. She would have to step carefully around the subject. She knew him and knew this was probably wreaking havoc on his perpetually low opinion of his own worth as anything other than a hired killer.
"Nothing new," he sighed and ran his hand through his dirty hair. He had just gotten back an hour ago. He hadn't even eaten yet but then again, she hadn't missed the 2 body bags and 3 wounded his team had brought back. She didn't understand why they bothered. The soldiers were dead, what difference did it make but he had been insistent, 'everybody comes home.' "I thought, I thought we had a lead but it turned out to be black market Stark Weapons. Did you manage to find anything from the names I sent you?" he questioned.
"No, none of them have been in country before last week. If they have anything to do with the bootlegs, it's only as the bankroll," she explained and watched him deflate. She sat down as Fury started to question him, in hopes he would do the same. It worked, though he chain smoked through the whole thing.
After Fury was finished, they sat in silence for a while, his eyes going back to their listless stare into the camp. She couldn't tell if he was watching something important or too tired to focus on anything specific. When she tracked his line of sight, all she found were a group of soldiers, nothing interesting or suspicious looking. She thought she saw Gator among them but couldn't be sure at this distance.
"You look tired, when was the last time you slept?" she questioned.
"What day is it?" he asked back, then sighed again, scratching at a gash on his forearm that looked slightly infected. "I don't know what to do, it's like trying to find one specific needle in a haystack only you don't know what the needle looks like. Everywhere we turn, someone is doing something illegal and or detrimental to National Security but we can't find the one set of people we need," he lifted his hand to start chewing on his thumb nail and she pulled it out of his mouth and onto her lap, like a child. "They should have picked someone else. They should have found someone better, somebody smarter." She knew it was coming but it didn't lesson the jolt at hearing him second guess himself.
Throughout their relationship, both working and person, they had a silent understanding about ways they could and could not taunt each other. He called her a whore but there was no venom behind it, more of a playful joke because he was so puritan in his views on sex. She called him a hayseed because he knew how to milk cows, ride horses, and sex chickens. But there were certain words they never used because too many others had cruelly, ruthlessly, thrown them too many times. He never called her crazy because he knew how much she feared losing her tenuous grip on her reality. He had once beaten a guy to death with a hammer for calling her a psycho, the irony of it still made her smile. She never called him stupid because that was his father's, his brother's, and most everyone else's favorite insult for him. He had once told her that Phil was the first person to never think of him as a dumb fucking carnie just because he had only had a GED at the time and hadn't been to a real school since he was ten.
"There is no one better," she defended him, even to himself. "We'll find them, Clint, we'll find them and we'll go back," she pulled him over and whispered into his ear. He didn't answer, just started chewing on his other filthy thumb nail until it was bloody. "You need to get some sleep," she pulled his other hand down.
"I know, I've been trying, I just," he trailed off and squirmed his hand out to chew on it again. She sort of wanted to punch him, if he didn't stop doing that. She stood up and went to the edge, scanning the area to make her escape. "You're leaving?" he sounded like he might cry, not that she had ever seen him cry, and her stomach felt fluttery at the idea that he missed her as much as she missed him.
She smiled at him as she dropped down, "take a shower and meet me at your barracks in 15 minutes." She gave him exactly 18 minutes, before slipping into his itsy, bitsy room. As a Captain, he was at least given his own quarters but they were small, even smaller than his room on the Helicarrier and unlike his bunk on the ship, this one only had one sad, twin bed. Oh well, it wouldn't be the most uncomfortable spot ever.
She found him sitting on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees and drab, green t-shirt clinging to his back, still wet from his shower. The yellow light made him look even more sallow and drawn, under the sun and wind burn. She locked his door, something considered gauche on base, and walked up to him. His eyes stayed locked on hers and she could easily read just how tightly he was strung. She stopped with her feet between his and reached out to pull his thumb out of his mouth, feeling both the mother and the seductress.
"Tasha," he whispered and she held her fingers to her lips to silence him. They were being monitored by voice 24 hours a day and she wanted this to stay private. He seemed to understand her and leaned forward to rest his forehead against her stomach. She ran her fingers through his wet hair and he pressed a soft kiss to her hip bone. He was the only man she had ever had sex with that did things like that, sweet, playful, little things.
She knelt in front of him, pulling his forehead down to meet her own. She ran her thumb against the hair on the back of his neck, the tip of it grazing the back of his ear. It hurt her to see him like this, so worn down and raw. He was shutting down more and more every time she saw him. Reacting less and less to things like death and combat. Clint was disappearing behind Captain Pierce and she couldn't let that happen. She had promised him she wouldn't let that happen. She leaned forward, closing the small distance between them to kiss him. It took a moment but he eventually returned the kiss, his callused hand on her face.
She pulled away, looking into his eyes. She needed to judge if this was a good idea or not. They were almost never intimate during jobs, it was too distracting. When they were working they always kept things professional. The most they ever allowed themselves was to sleep side by side but it had been four months and she missed him. She missed his scent, the weight of his hands, the feel of him inside of her. It wasn't just the sex either. She missed her bedmate, her favorite pillow, the feeling of safety of having her partner right beside her. But at the same time, he was exhausted and needed sleep more than she needed sex.
She hesitated for a breath, indecision warring with desire when he breathed her name. It was an exhalation with no sound, just his lips forming the shape of the nickname he had given her. She pulled her shirt over her head, dog tags jingling against her chest, and pushed him onto his back. She leapt onto the bed, straddling his hips, her hands already greedily tugging his shirt free of his pants so she could taste the residue of the cheap Army soap on his torso. His rough hands were gentle on her shoulders.
That had probably been one of the biggest surprises for her, when they had first had sex. She assumed he would be as rough and tumble in bed as he was everywhere else. And he could be. Neither of them was above a quick, rough, adrenaline fueled fuck to work off the last of the excess energy after a fight. But generally, when they had the time and the privacy, he was tender, almost reverent with his touches. His eyes always seeking permission before moving to the next level. Though he never said it, she could tell that at one point someone had not asked his. He always made sure she had fun, always made sure she was comfortable, always made her feel special, always made her forget all the times she had given herself to useless men for missions, always made her feel wanted and worthy rather than lusted after and possessed, and always held her afterwards. She had never known how wonderful that felt, until he had wrapped his arms around her and he had confessed he never knew how nice it could be either because she was the first he allowed to stay around him after sex.
She wondered sometimes, though was too afraid to ask, what he got out it, other than good fuck that was. But after seven and a half years, he was still faithful to her, still had never strayed unless ordered to, never cheated on her, never so much as paid attention to another woman. He had never tried to own her, control her, or change her. She knew some of it was fear of her jealous retribution, and some was his natural inability to form attachments with people. But either way, he was always there when she came back from some mission where lies fell from her lips like tears and she used her looks and body to entice the Mark. He never judged her or looked down on her, all he ever did was hand her his jacket and tell her to, "take a shower and go to bed." Then he would hold her until that hunted, dirty feeling went away. But maybe that was her answer; maybe he found the same thing she did, complete acceptance because she never judged him either. She didn't care when he came in, windblown and smelling of gun powder and death, so exhausted he could barely stand, much less figure out what he needed to do next, and so much dried blood on his boots that she had to soak the laces to be able to untie them. All she did was look him up and down for injuries then toss him in the shower, sometimes fully clothed, and make him stay there until the water ran clear. Then she would lie in bed with him and hold him until that haunted, numb feeling went away.
She made short work of her pants and enjoyed the time it took to get them both ready. She hoped he wouldn't care that she had let personal grooming slide during the mission. Frankly army bases were not known for having a good salon that could do a kitty cat wax. She took him inside herself with one thrust and it was his turn to shush her. He felt so transcendent to her in that instant that it nearly sent her over the edge. When they were finished, she forced him to stay in bed as she cleaned them up and lied down, tucking herself against him. It was amazing to feel his nose buried in her hair and feel his arm around her waist. Who would believe that the world's two deadliest assassins both loved to cuddle.
She could hear his breaths even out into sleep and allowed herself to zone out. She knew she couldn't fall completely asleep for risk of over staying the night. She amused herself by tracing the calluses on his hands with her finger tips and feeling the changes in his forearms. The muscles were even wirier than before with veins standing out against the flesh. He was rangy and thin, making him appear even older than he did before. Clint had never carried extra fat, always being muscular but he had lost that recently and looked starved and unhealthy. She supposed it worked in her favor, though. Few women ever paid much attention to him because he was plain and average looking at best but he looked pretty bad now so even fewer would. The thought didn't make her happy though, it just worried her. At least she wouldn't have to threaten to scar his face for talking to other women.
She waited till just before dawn before slipping out of his embrace. It was odd how she suddenly felt cold, even with the intense heat of the desert. She quietly slipped from his room with the same secrecy she had entered. She didn't care one wit for her reputation or that of her alias, but Clint used "Captain Pierce" frequently and his name needed to remain unsullied by dalliances with junior officers.
She felt, rather than strictly heard someone approach her from the dark and she tensed for action, though her posture remained relaxed. Before she sprang, she heard a rolling southern accent, "you scratch that itch that's been botherin' you?" She immediately recognized the voice and scent of Marlboro Red's as belonging to Gator.
"And which itch is that, pray tell," she questioned him haughtily, eyeing the rifle hanging off his back. It was a sniper rifle, custom made like Clint's. Barton had given to him about 2 years ago as a gift. Maybe it was a guy thing but wasn't a knife just easier?
"Come on now, I've been around the block enough times to recognize a walk of shame when I see one," he smiled at her over his cigarette, the embers reflecting in his brown eyes.
"Why on Earth do you think I would be ashamed?" she questioned him and his grin spread across his whole face.
"Point taken, darlin'," he conceded but pressed on, "you must have been doing him right and proper to take that long, I've been waiting out here for nearly 4 hours."
"Any job worth doing, is worth doing right," she countered but pressed on, "what did you need to see him about?"
"I can see why you're his voodoo-poonanny but anyway don't have to be him, I just needed to pass along a bit of information I heard. Seems that there is some big ta'do going on next week in Damascus. The word is that everyone on the black market is planning to attend. Figured it might be the guy Hawkeye's been looking for." He crushed his butt under his dirty boot.
"Do you know what day?" she wondered, Steve and Tony were coming back in the day after tomorrow to try and ferret out the bootleggers but there was no way that anyone but her knew that. She hadn't even told Clint yet.
"No idea, I just know that the underworld is talking and I tend to listen when it does," she grunted at him and he turned to leave. "I hope he finds these bastards soon, he's turning back into the old Hawkeye and I kind of miss the one that smiles," she concurred but remained silent.
Wednesday August 8th, 4:05 pm Baghdad Airport
Tony, swallowed the last of his water and aspirin to offset the hangover he had and followed Pepper to the door of the plane. He kept his hand firmly clamped on his suit in briefcase form to prevent it from shaking. He had zero desire to be here but even he wasn't selfish enough to not go, knowing full well that the investigation was at a standstill until they could find a way to draw out the bootleggers. He was however, selfish enough to allow Pepper to join him for moral support and to not fight Rhodey when he had insisted on coming as well. Rogers was there, of course, but Steve was in Captain mode and was clearly getting tired of Tony's shit.
He emerged into the bright midday sun and had to swallow back a wave of nausea as the landscape resolved itself. He wasn't sure if it was from stress or from the fact he had gotten drunk and partially sobered up on the flight over. He slouched beside Rhodey, who stood ramrod straight in his Air Force uniform. They were to be greeted by a military escort and taken to a secured hotel before their meet and greet with the men tomorrow. He immediately picked out Natasha's even with her red hair covered. The Capital Hill flyboy seems out of place amongst the hardened grunts that met them.
Before he could scan any further, two of the men broke from the shadows of the vehicles and walked their way. One was the size of a house, with his sleeves rolled up and some sort of tattoo on his forearm. He had Sergeant Stripes and a nametag that read "Sneeden," what a goofy name. Not that he would tell that behemoth of a human that, not without his suit on any way. He followed a shorter, lighter built man that moved like a cat, quiet and deadly across the tarmac. He was slight of build and easily ignored but he had an aura about him, and almost physical presence that he was not someone to fuck with. His face was covered with a cap and sunglasses and he had a pistol on each thigh and carried a rather wicked looking riffle slung across his back. If Tony remembered correctly, his rank insignia marked him as a Captain and when he was close enough, he noticed the name tag read, "Pierce."
Tony couldn't help the gasp that escaped him nor did he miss that Steve had done so shortly before and Pepper shortly after him. It had been four months since they had seen their resident sniper and in a word, the man looked like shit. Even under the ACUs, gear, and flak jacket, it was obvious he had lost at least 25 pounds. The bones of his face, stood out in sharp points under his sunglasses, making him look as avian as his call sign. His exposed forearms over his gloves looked like veiny beef jerky, covered bone. Also, why had he never before noticed that air of danger, nearly murderous intent, around their fellow Avenger before. He sometimes forgot that being friends with Natasha and Clint was like keeping a tiger and cobra as roommates. They were as placid as pie until they weren't and when they weren't you better get the hell out of their way. A tiger and a cobra were perfect corollaries for them too. Natasha was all growling and stalking, while Barton as all silence and death. The funniest part was that she was much more likely to start fights but he was usually the one that finished them.
So shocked, by his fellow Avenger's appearance, Tony almost missed him flicking his finished cigarette away as he approached. When had he started smoking? He had never seen Clint smoke before. The man had habitually turned down all his offers to go to some of the most expensive cigar bars in the country.
The two stopped in front of them and saluted. Rhodes and Rogers immediately saluted right back. They all stood in stunned silence for a moment until he waved behind him, towards two humvees and two cars that look like dune buggies with guns on them, "whenever you guys are ready to get out of the sun." He turned and headed back towards the vehicles. The sound of his voice disturbed Stark just as much as his appearance. There was no humor to blunt the caustic edges that reminded him of Hawkeye and none of the soft spoken mumbling he associated with Clint. This person in front of him was brusque, bordering on rude, with a clear, easily understood tone. It took Tony a moment to realize it but the cadence, pronunciation, and general tone of his speech was a dead ringer for Coulson, down to the sharp Central Pennsylvania O's.
He quickly followed behind Rogers once the shock wore off. Pepper stopped him though and whispered, "is that Barton?" He nodded his head and shooshed her. No one here needed to know he wasn't Pierce at least not yet.
He was about to climb into one of the larger cars with Pepper when Hawkeye stopped them. "No," he pointed to Rhodes and Pepper. "You two in the next one with Tokarev," he motioned to the Humvee behind them. "Beachhead," he called to the large sergeant, "you get point," he raised his voice, "and I want those 50 cals manned the entire ride. So much as a gnat hits us and I'll send you home in a sandwich baggie."
He almost flinched at the choruses of "sir, yes, sir" that were returned. He recovered though, and climbed into the transport beside Rogers, though they were separated by a man standing at the gun. The heat inside of the Humvee was almost as bad as outside but somehow worse for the smell of the solders crammed inside. He felt his stomach turn again and went to unroll his window. "Leave that up!" Barton barked at him from the front seat without even turning around. Apparently he still had eyes in the back of his head. Tony sank down and tried to breathe through his mouth as the crowded, brown city crawled by.
Stark let his mind wonder as the people and cars swirled around them yet gave them a wide berth. The looks thrown at them were anywhere from curious to condemning. People spit towards them while others shouted. He glanced over and noticed the drawn expression on Steve's face. Apparently his companion was starting to understand the dynamics of modern occupation and it wasn't sitting well with him.
After what seemed like an eternity they pulled up to a large building and were greeted by two more soldiers, one holding a large, angry looking, black German Shepherd. As soon as Clint exited the vehicle, they snapped to and saluted him. Tony tried to ignore the way the dog seemed to be eyeballing him for some reason. Dogs never seemed to like him, actually any type of animal seemed to dislike him. He still had scars from Pepper's pissy Persian cat. "Sir," the one with the hell hound called, "we swept the place and it's clean. Penthouse is good, stairwells, elevator, roof, boiler room, foundation, all good. We did find some rats in the kitchen but other than that nothing to worry about."
"Well done, Sander, Max," Clint complimented and held his fist out towards the dog, who immediately put his paw up in a modified, interspecies knuckle bump.
"Sir?" the man asked, looking down at his feet, "is that really Captain America and Iron Man?"
"The two white guys, I'm not sure who the flyboy is," he gestured towards Rhodes, who pursed his lips in an annoyed fashion. He could already tell Rhodey didn't like 'Pierce.'
"Do you think you could ask Captain America to sign Max's vest?" Sander's asked again, with a blush.
"What are you 12?" Barton snapped at him, and Tony was immediately embarrassed for the kid. He could tell Steve was about to intervene, when Clint continued, "go ask him yourself." The kid smiled back at his CO and walked slowly towards Steve politely asking if he would sign the Kevlar vest the scary looking dog was wearing. Rogers smiled back but his eyes looked sad.
"What's your name, son?" Steve asked him quietly.
"Sander, sir, and this Max," he proudly pet the dog as he handed Rogers a Sharpie.
"Where are you from, soldier?"
"I'm from McAlister, OK, sir," the kid beamed back with the same awe in his eyes Coulson used to have. Tony waited his turn but the nit never took his eyes off Steve. Apparently to the twerp, a gaudy shield was more impressive than cutting edge technology. "You've probably never heard of it. There isn't really anything there other than some prisons and a speed trap." Tony hadn't heard of it either but to be fair he thought that with the exception of Chicago pizza, there was nothing but a waste land between New York and LA.
"Do you enjoy your work here; do you like your CO?"
"Oh yes, sir," the boy grinned. "Captain Pierce is tough but fair and he treats Max like he's one of the gang. He never asks us to do anything he wouldn't do and he makes sure we get R&R when we need it. Even Beachhead said he was the first officer he'd met that was worth his feed. My only complaint is that he's a Steelers fan." That threw Tony for a bit of a loop. He had never once witness Clint even remotely paying attention to a football game much less being a fan of a particular team. Now Coulson had been a Steelers nut. He had had an autographed helmet in his office and everything. Steve just smiled at the kid's eagerness as realization settled on Tony. Pierce was Clint's impersonation of Phil. It stuck in his craw that Barton would do that. It seemed disrespectful and beyond rude to mimic the fallen hero, even down to his favorite sports team.
Tony's attention was drawn away from them towards well dressed man talking loudly and a veiled women yelling at Clint and the other solider. The soldier offered Barton some gum, his movements jerky and nervous. Clint accepted the gum and started chewing before even acknowledging the shouting couple. "What are those hajis so worked up about?" he asked the man, a sergeant with a name tag that read Ellison and a badge with an exploding bomb. He also didn't miss the way Rhodey's lip curled at the term "haji."
"You're the one that speaks Arabic, sir," the man answered.
"Yeah but do you think if I ignore them, they'll think I don't and go away?" Clint asked, finally taking off his sunglasses but squinting his eyes. Tony didn't remember Hawkeye having that many crow's feet.
"Doubtful, sir, since you talked to them in said language this morning." Ellison returned with a smirk, "but from what I can tell from the guy that speaks English, they are mad about Corporal Max."
"Well goddamn it then, I guess I need to turn around and see what they want," he finally turned to them, tucking his glasses into one of the bazillion pockets he had. "Is there a problem?"
The woman launched into a tirade Tony couldn't understand beyond her gesturing at the dog with a snort of disgust. The gentile looking man finally answered, "these men insisted we allow that filthy animal in here, into the rooms, the kitchen. It's disgusting! What are you going to do about this?"
"Nothing," Pierce answered.
"What do you mean nothing? We were asked to accommodate you and your people but were never told about dirty animals being present. This goes against,"
Clint put his hand up and cut the man off. "First off, shut the hell up. Second, we both know how this is going to end so take a minute to think whether you want to waste both our times and what little patience I have left," The man stopped for a moment but seemed to gather his courage.
"This is unacceptable. We cater to Muslim as well as foreign clients and we cannot have a dog wondering around our building and restaurant,"
The woman started screeching again until Barton barked something at her in Arabic that made her cringe but finally quiet down. Then he pulled his lips back, showing his teeth in a sick approximation of a smile. If it was meant to put them at ease it did the exact opposite, setting even Tony's nerves on edge. "I got it najis, unclean, whatever. I don't give a shit. I'm going to tell you how this is going to play out. You are going to move and give these guest an excellent stay or I am going to list you as a suspected terrorist and before you can even pack I'll be back here with a bag over face and a knock to the back of the head and you wake up at Guantanamo Bay and spend the next 8 months getting ass fucked by a cattle prod," he finished to snorts from his men an embarrassed look from Steve, and a shocked look by the couple.
"This isn't fair," the man threatened but moved to the side as Clint pushed his way past.
"Write your fucking Congress man," he snarked and flipped the man off as he walked by, heading towards the elevators. Tony followed, too stunned to do anything else. Hawkeye's somewhat tetchy attitude towards Middle Eastern cuisine and culture aside, Pierce acted nothing like Clint. Barton would have gnawed off his own arm before causing that much of a scene. He always left that to Natahsa. Nor had he ever once heard Clint actually threaten someone, again that was Natasha's forte. Hawkeye was the consummate ambush predator, he never warned before he attacked and he never attacked unless he planned to kill.
Once in the elevator, he could hear Rhodey breathing loudly through his nose, clearly fuming. There was an explosion immanent as his buddy fancied himself the arbiter of military relations with civilians. "Captain, you do realize what you did down there was handled very poorly. Threatening them, using derogatory terms, disregarding their religion."
"Yeah, I know, I just don't care," Pierce answered, seeming more interested in chewing his gum than listening to Rhodes.
"That is not appropriate conduct," Rhodes continued. Pierce was hitting on almost all of Rhodey's preconceived pet peeves about the Army, ill tempered, stupid, racist, warmongering, white trash. But in Rhodey's defense, even Clint could be described as a cantankerous, dumb, redneck, and occasionally borderline prejudice against Middle Easterners. However, he would never claim Barton as a warmonger. If anything Natasha was more apt to pick fights than Clint.
"Whatever, Pogue. It's easy to keep that view when you never leave base unless you're twenty thousand feet in the air. A lot harder to do it, when you're down in the shit every day." Pierce answered. Tony had to think of him as Pierce because he just didn't seem like Clint at all.
"I guess you have and N word you would like to call me," Rhodes moved to stand in front of the shorter man.
"Yes, nuisance," Barton answered and shoulder checked him out of the way to get through the opening doors fist. They were met by a black mass detaching from the wall, making his heart leap and both Natasha and Clint draw their guns. Even Steve jumped but Tony noticed that Hawkeye and Black Widow's breathing never changed, not even with that much of a fright. It was almost creepy.
"I see your diplomatic skills are as keen as ever, but then again I guess I don't pay you to be a diplomat," Fury smirked as he ushered the Avengers into a room, minus Rhodes and Pepper.
Once the door was closed, Clint's entire demeanor changed from hardnosed, sneering Captain, to exhausted agent. It was shocking to witness and made Tony's stomach hurt to see the blank, listless stare he met them all with. He looked around, wondering if he was the only one that had noticed, Natasha was ignoring them, standing directly in front of the AC vent but he met Steve's eyes and knew the older man had noticed too. Fury, sadly, gave nothing away as he studied his asset.
"Well?" Fury looked somewhat impatient and Clint immediately stood up straight with his hands behind his back and his feet shoulder with apart.
"Security for tomorrow is ready, only people fobbits and new from the States will be working it and no one with any connections to any of the brass. I leaked out 4 different locations Stark would be staying to see if any of them will be hit. I have the hotels reserved for Damascus. Romanov will stay with them, I'll bivouac with my men, about 2 miles away, sir," he finished, eyes trained on Fury.
"I don't like you being that far away but I guess it can't be helped," the one eyed man sighed and turned to walk out of the room, motioning the others to follow him. Clint paid them virtually no mind and followed his CO, even has Natasha finally came over and gave both him and Steve big hugs. The Director led them into a dining room with a full spread of food and drink that looked amazing, even to his hungover self. Pepper and Rhodes were waiting for them, looking as if they had freshened up.
The meal was awkward to say the least. Natasha seemed happy enough to see them but subdued in front of Fury and clearly not revealing her real identity to Rhodes. Pepper was uncomfortable, not knowing what she could or could not say. Steve seemed depressed and kept stealing glances at their two wayward predators. Fury watched everything with a knowing eye, even as Tony picked at his food and wished the whole thing was over. Rhodey glared at Barton, who completely ignored him and mechanically ate his food, without even taking off his gloves or body armor. Their resident sniper didn't make a sound other than a few mumbled 'yes, sir, no, sirs' to Fury. But worse than the fact that Clint barely made any noise, was the blank look on his face, he looked half way between deranged and comatose, the way his eyes seemed to never actually focus on anything. It didn't help either that more than once; Tony thought he was going to fall asleep at the table, elbow resting on his rifle.
As they all finished up, Stark was about to suggest that Clint go get some sleep, when the man rose, slinging his gun over his shoulder. "I need to get back to base," he headed towards the door then stopped and turned to Rogers. "The transport will be here for you at oh eight hundred, don't be late. I officially won't be guarding you so you won't see me. I'll pick you up to head into Syria at 0600 on Saturday. Have your gear packed but don't come down until I get here."
"Ok, we'll be ready," Steve smiled at Hawkeye, who ignored him and turned to Natasha.
"You coming?" he asked as he reached the door. She gave him a you must be joking look and he sighed, "sorry, I forgot, air conditioning." She waved at him, as he left and Fury just smiled.
"You do love your creature comforts don't you?" he questioned his agent as he too rose and reached into a small fridge. "By the way, a gift from Agent Barton, he asked that I bring it with me, when I showed up," he handed her a bottle of heavily chilled, top-shelf, Russian vodka. "He figured you would be jonesing for some by now."
"He's such a Romantic," she joked and immediately set out shot glasses for everyone. She handed them out then held up her glass with a call of "za vas" then downed it. A smile of pure, almost inappropriate, ecstasy came across her face as she poured another shot. Rhodey and Pepper declined, claiming fatigue, though Tony had no doubt they were just giving the 3 some space.
After 4 more shots, she leaned back and propped her feet up on the chair beside her, untying her hair. She looked as loose and relaxed and Tony felt. He didn't trust it one bit. Poor Steve still seemed uptight but then again, he couldn't physically get drunk. They proceeded to fill her in on all the gossip around the Stark tower from Gunnarson rearranging Clint's ammo wracks to Morse's penchant for not wearing a bra. Once all the joking was aside, Roger's started in on the unpleasant topic of Barton and the mission
"He looks tired," Rogers started and Tony suspected it was the understatement of the year.
"He's exhausted and burnt out but their close," she defended, staring at the ceiling.
"How close, how much longer?" Tony blurted out. He wanted his friends, his family back together.
"I don't know. Gator thinks there is going to be a big black market meeting in Syria on Sunday. There's a good chance our targets will be there or someone there can lead us back to them." She defended.
"Who's Gator?" Steve asked.
"Gator is one of Clint's squad mates, his real squad. He usually acts as Clint's spotter unless they have to go in with the assault team," she answered and Tony guessed she didn't mean one of the people they had met today. He was a bit fuzzy on the particulars of whom Barton actually worked for and where he technically reported. The most he had ever gotten out of the man on the subject was that his unit was based at Fort Bragg but he had never told him what unit. Rhodey had once called him a "snake eater" before he even knew who he was, because he wore no unit insignia or name tags on his uniform. All Tony had been able to figure out was that he was some sort of super secret Special Forces or something.
"Anyway," Natasha continued, "bringing you here, Stark, will force their hand. Clint purposely gave out four different false scenarios on your location, so depending on which hotel is hit, we'll be able to narrow down the leak. After that, it shouldn't be too hard to track them down."
"You've have four months and haven't managed to," Tony snarked.
She glared at him and Steve drew back both their attentions, "Natasha, I understand the needs of the mission, but I'm concerned about Barton. He looked rough and wasn't acting like himself."
"Of course he wasn't, he was acting like Pierce," she blew off his concern.
"Why did he bother once his men were gone," Steve countered.
"Because Rhodes was there. Rhodes has seen him seven, maybe eight times using seven or eight different names, but has never really been introduced to him. It was obvious that he didn't recognize Clint so Clint stayed in character. It just makes things easier that way."
"Speaking of characters," Tony groused, "does he get a jolly good laugh out of making fun of Coulson like that?"
"He isn't making fun of anyone, Stark," she snapped at him. "He's used Pierce for years, Squawks actually came up with the character and gave him his own home town. Clint's been to central Pennsylvania enough times with Phil to know his way around and to mimic the accent. It was all done very deliberately and with no little amount of inside jokes between the two of them. Come on, Coulson named Clint's alter ego Captain Benjamin F. Pierce for god sake."
"Why is that a joke?" Steve seemed confused, defusing some of Tony's ire. In a way, he realized that he was being a brat about his desire to protect Phil's memory. He was jealous and hurt by others that knew him better and the obvious friendship between Coulson and Barton really gnawed at his gut, especially when he thought back to Phil's funeral. Everyone from himself to Steve to even Hill were in tears, but Barton was dry eyed and stone faced through the entire thing. You would have thought he was standing through a particularly boring speech for all the emotion he showed during the service. And after all that, he was the one that gave the flag to Phil's family. Clint was the one that got his shoulder gently squeezed by General Coulson, the one Coulson's sisters clung too, the one allowed to clear out Phil's office, when Tony thought it should have been him.
Natasha laughed then explained. "Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce was a character on a show called M.A.S.H. that went by the nickname Hawkeye. Both of them could sit there for hours watching reruns of that show." She smiled sadly. "I still remember Squawks buying the entire series after Clint was shot in Afghanistan and making me watch it with them. Poor Hawkeye spent most of the time coughing, puking, and drooling on himself because he was so drugged out of his gourd he thought shoelaces were the height of hilarity."
"I see, but tell me this, is it worth leaving him here as long as it takes to find these people knowing what it is clearly doing to him?" Rogers asked her point blank.
"No, but I told you that from the beginning. However, since we've started this mission, we'll finish it." she answered him, not even attempting to spare Tony's feelings.
"I think I should talk to Fury about pulling him out," Roger said matter of factly.
"No," she answered in the same tone, "that is no one's call except for me and Clint. If he wants to finish then we'll finish. Neither of you have any right to come over here after 4 months and comment on the state of things," she snapped at him.
"Look, Natasha," Tony started, not sure what to say. "we're just worried about you two," he finished lamely.
"Then you should have listened to me, when I said we didn't want this mission," she fumed. "You two don't know shit about us or the work we do and therefore should keep your mouths shut about it. You two looked down on us, when we said 'no' now you feel guilty because exactly what I warned you about is happening? You didn't have our backs then, so I have zero trust that you'll have them now. Clint and I will successfully complete this mission and we will guard each other and you two can stay the hell out of it," she snapped then stormed off to god knew where.
They sat in silence for a moment before Tony started, "I don't think she liked us telling her what was best for her partner." He wondered how much of her outburst was the drink versus genuine anger at them for not listening to her counsel. But then again, there was always the chance with Natasha that she was being territorial about Clint. She had more than once shown it wasn't just other women she didn't want him getting close to.
"You think?" Steve snapped at him and Tony decided it was time to go find Pepper and a soft bed to nap on.
Thursday August 9th 10:19 am US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq
Gator spied his target leaning against one of the support posts, watching the spectacle on the stage. He couldn't believe his luck that Stark walked right into his camp. He sauntered up and leaned on the opposite side of the post. Without a word, a green, camouflage zippo lighter was connected with the cigarette dangling from his lips. The two stood in silence as the soldiers in front of them broke into a chorus of cheers as Captain America used his shield to redirect Iron Man's blast and hit a target.
"You enjoying the show?" Gator finally asked. After knowing Clint for so many years, he figured if he hadn't said anything yet he wasn't going to.
"Immensely," he deadpanned as he exhaled smoke. Barton liked Winstons, while he was more of a Marlboro Red man himself. He raised his eyebrow at his friend and Clint continued. "These people saved the world from an alien invasion and this is what they are reduced to now. I find it quite humorous."
"You aren't laughing?"
"No I am not," Clint answered though there might have been an undercurrent of mirth in his voice. Or it might just be Gator's imagination. Fuck, this was so much harder than it needed to be. Why of all the people in the world did the universe have to kick him in the balls and send Barton to stop him? He and Clint were close, at least as close as the kid let people get to him. And he really needed to stop thinking of him as a kid.
Gator wasn't stupid, he had figured out a few things about his friend over the years. Though Barton never said as much, he figured he must not have a family. He never received letters and never went anywhere on leave. The Army had been his home, at least until he had been transferred to SHIELD. He also suspected that something pretty bad must have happened to him to make him so distrustful of people. Gator still remembered how at first Barton would flinch if you lifted your hands up around him and how he used to keep a stash of food in the barracks regardless of it being against regulations. No, Gator wasn't part of the Psych team, but even he could tell the obvious signs of someone that had been beaten and had grown up worrying about having enough food. Though he was steadier now than he had been when they had first met and Barton had barely been 21 with eyes that made him look 90. He still remembered it had taken 2 months before Clint would talk to him and another 2 before he would joke.
All those things should have made him dislike Barton but it was the opposite. Like gentling a horse to your hand, you felt like you had a bond with them. And he felt like he had a bond with Barton. Hell, he had made the guy his daughter's Godfather after Clint had nursed him back to health as the two of them spent 6 weeks rotting in an Iranian military prison. To this day, he still wasn't quite sure how they had managed to make it out of that one alive. That was why lying to him was so hard. They had been through too much together and he felt like he owed his friend, his teammate, his fucking brother, honesty but at the same time he loved Hazine and the child she carried. He had to find a way to make a comfortable life for them and Clint's investigation was putting a serious damper on his budding arms business.
"So when is your team heading back out?" Clint's unit had been on base for 5 days. It was the longest since he had arrived.
"Day after tomorrow. I need to see these brightly dressed 'heroes' back to the Four Seasons and then escort them into Syria for some god unknown reason," Barton groused and he smiled. Baby sitting VIPs had never been one of Hawkeye's favorite assignments but he was so good at it he always got stuck doing it. As the saying goes, it takes a thief to catch a thief, well it takes an assassin to stop an assassin and Hawkeye was one of the world's best assassins. Even he was occasionally disturbed by how robotically efficient Hawkeye could be about such things. But more importantly, Clint had let slip where they were staying. If he played his cards right, he could snatch Stark from his hotel and move him across the border before anyone noticed. If not, he would have to wait till they went into Syria. It would be harder to get him then, knowing Barton would be guarding him.
"They let you in the Four Seasons?" he joked, sliding his eyes sideways.
"Through the servant's entrance," he shot back, without missing a beat and Gator grinned at him. The Four Seasons would be easy to get into, he'd do it tonight.
Sunday August 12th 4:13pm Damascus, Syria
Clint concentrated on keeping the civilians under cover as his men tried to take out the snipers. It was clear they were being pushed towards plaza and he was hell bent on preventing it. The open plaza was a kill-box with no cover and he could already hear people fleeing it. He saw Steve use is his shield to protect Tony and Lt. Col Rhodes. From the angle the bullet came, he traced back the trajectory, finding the bastard that had fired. He left his cover to take the shot, ending one of the 3 snipers plaguing them. He told them it wasn't safe to bring Stark here. Why did no one listen to him?
He dropped back down, just as Beachhead came skidding in beside him, breathing hard and looking worried, which in turn worried Clint. Sneeden was pretty much unflappable about pretty much everything related to combat. "Sir, we have a situation in the plaza," he panted.
"What kind of situation, because I sort of have one here too," there was another shot that harmlessly connected above him, embedding in the wall. This didn't add up, a sniper would have to be that bad on purpose. This dude hadn't hit anything yet.
"A situation that EOD says they won't touch with a 10 foot pole," that got his interest. "Go, sir, I'll cover you and the VIPs." Clint nodded and gave a 3 count before running towards the plaza, Natasha hot on his heels. He rounded the corner and came to a dead stop before moving into the square. In the center stood 6 children varying in ages from 4-10, all shackled down with wires threaded through their hands and feet like a sick version of a stigmata. The jumble of wires was then woven into 6 different bombs.
"Holy shit," he breathed as Tasha nearly crashed into him. Behind him the sounds of battle immediately stopped. The last sniper had either been killed or given up. He barely registered that the VIPs were nearly behind him. "Ellison," he shouted for his EOD tech.
"Sir," the man appeared looking wild eyed and jittery. Ellison was good but he was young and easily rattled until he put on the suit. Clint gave him a questioning look and the man spilled his guts. "I've never seen anything like it. It's that same bomb maker, the one with the triple switches but I can't even tell what type of weapons those are and the kids," he stopped, stuttering in horror then collecting himself. "There's a timer, I can't disarm those in time." He looked at his CO for reassurance, for forgiveness.
"Good job, Sergeant. Start moving everyone back," he said as he walked up to the bombs to inspect, Natasha close behind him.
As he approached, Rogers, Stark, Potts, and Rhodes followed. Pepper's gasp was unmistakable followed by "Oh my god," by Rogers, nothing from Stark, and "shit," from Rhodes.
Clint tuned them out and concentrated on the jumble of wires creating a mass of arcs and closed circuits in front of him. They were all triple switched and would have to be cut in a certain sequence to not blow them all up. Maybe he should just let them all blow. He examined the first in the chain, an electrified shrapnel bomb. Second was chemical incendiary, he had seen firsthand what the Napalm B derivative in those could do. Shackled in place as they burned to death from chemical fire that can't be stopped, was no way for a child to die. Third was a concussion missile, it was angled to detonate upward. Past that it didn't matter, the first 3 would kill everything within 200 yards. He fingered the wires and one of the children whimpered.
He turned to Romanov and motioned for his men to move the VIPs to a safe distance, Stark balked but Clint ignored him. He watched their back as he looked at her, "There's no way," he said, and felt his stomach drop as he admitted defeat. "There isn't enough time, I can't," he stuttered and she looked into his eyes and he knew she understood. As soon as he saw that, his decision was made, he took a deep breath and raised his head, turning back to the children. He wouldn't meet Stark's eyes, shocked and accusing, or Pepper's frightened and traumatized, or the worst, Steve's no doubt a combination of indignation and disappointment. He only looked into Tasha's, where he found acceptance, understanding.
He crouched in front of the oldest, smiling, "hello, my name's Hawkeye, what's yours?" he asked in Arabic, keeping an eye on the timer, 178 seconds and counting.
"Ali, and hawks have yellow eyes, not blue so why would they say you have eyes like a hawk?" the child tried to reach out to touch Clint's face but his hands were restricted by the wires.
He smiled again not blaming the child for the question. In Arabic his call sign could only be translated as 'eyes of a hawk.' "Because I like to watch things from high places," he explained. "Look Ali, I'm going to get you guys out of here, ok."
"So we can go home?" his eyes lit up as did the other kids. He felt like throwing up. But he savagely pushed the feeling away. He knew his choice was right and little things like emotions played no part in warfare.
"Yeah, so you can go home," he stood up doing his best to keep his voice steady and his tone friendly. "But I need you to do me a favor, I need you all to close your eyes," he asked, knowing he couldn't look them in the eyes anymore than he could Tony, Pepper, or Steve. These kids were going to die there was no way around that, the question was would he leave them to a agonizing death by chemical burns or would he make it quick and painless. He hadn't been able to catch these people, the least he could do was make sure these innocent children didn't suffer anymore. When they all had closed their eyes, he drew his pistol, fixing the silencer to the end.
"Thank you, sir," Ali smiled, turning his face to the sun and Clint fired.
He ignored the shocked screams of Tony and Pepper and jogged back behind the meager cover of the rubble. He reached the cover and checked his watch. "Seven seconds to detonation," he yelled, watching his men immediately tuck themselves down, hands over their ears. He noticed Tony staring at him, looking lost. "Stark, get your ass under cover unless you want to lose it," he shouted, and Steve pulled Tony down, covering his and Pepper's body with his own. That was the last thing he noticed before the fireworks started, and his nose was flooded with the smells of Napalm, ozone, and burning flesh. Fuck he hated the Middle East.
Sunday August 12th 4:27 pm, Damascus, Syria
"Get these civilians out of here, and start tracking back to a warehouses or convoy trucks, I want witness and anyone with a cell phone within half a mile. Police all the brass and fish out all the shells, I want it tagged, every fucking piece. I don't care if you have to dig it out of a wall or dead body," he ordered, voice deathly controlled. His men seemed to respond, standing straighter and moving with a purpose. Tony was in too much shock to even know how to react, an Avenger, his teammate had just shot 6 civilians, 6 children. This wasn't right, this couldn't be right. Hawkeye was standoffish, quiet, and pretty much indifferent to most things but he wasn't a murderer, not like this.
He could feel Pepper shaking behind him and he wanted to comfort her but he couldn't, he just couldn't seem to make sense of any of this. Not understanding made him angry and there was only one person to take that anger out on. He threw a punch at Clint, "what the fuck, Bar," was as far as he got before Barton had knocked his fist to the side and had his hand around his wind pipe, cutting off his air supply. He clawed at the vice like grip, even as he knew it was pointless. He wouldn't budge Hawkeye without his suit.
"Shut the fuck up, Stark, and go back to the hotel and await further instructions. I don't have time or men to spare babysitting you and friends any longer." He was still so controlled, so even, so calm. Tony met his eyes but immediately looked away, it was looking into a blue screen on a computer. Nothing of Clint was there anymore, no humor, so sarcasm, no anger, just icy emptiness. This wasn't the guy that made awesome omelets, kept the mansion spotless, wore Eeyore pajamas, and jokingly corrected Tony's fighting stance. This person was a stranger to him. This person was a stone, cold killer.
"Captain Pierce, we need to just calm down and figure out what is going on and what to do next," Rhodey interrupted and Clint finally let go of him, even as Natasha moved in between the two of them. He wasn't sure if it was to defend Rhodey or Barton.
"Colonel, with all due respect, I don't see any airplanes around here, which means that is and Army op. So take your people and please unass my AO. Do I make myself clear?" Tony waited for his friend to explode, Rhodes was a MIT educated Lt. Colonel and Pierce was only a dumbass Army Captain, surely he wasn't going to be allowed to talk to him like that.
"You made yourself clear Captain, we'll get out of your way," he bobbed and shoved Tony and Pepper ahead of him, Steve following looking sick and lost. He understood now what Clint had meant, when he said Rogers couldn't pass for a soldier anymore. Steve never would have been able to make himself do that. But then again, Tony didn't know too many other people that could have. Natasha being the only other example he could think of.
He stopped and looked back as Natasha said something to Barton, that he couldn't catch then trotted after them. "Come on Tony, we need to get out of here. That guy has lost it. We need to get back so I can track down his CO and have him arrested. He's a psycho and should be in prison or a hospital somewhere, not in charge of this unit." Rhodey didn't know Pierce was actually Barton and an Avenger but it didn't change the fact his assessment might be right.
"You will do nothing when you get back to the hotel, Colonel Rhodes," Romanov caught up just in time to hear Rhodey's comments.
"Listen, Lt. Tokarev, I understand that he works with your CO and this probably isn't his fault. He may just be sick; PTSD does bad things to people, but."
"You understand nothing. You will go back to the hotel and stay with Stark and keep your fucking mouth shut! If I hear you say one more disparaging thing about him, I will personally slit your throat." She was right in his face, displaying all the emotion Barton seemed to lack and it scared Tony. He didn't know what she was capable of at this point, not when it came to protecting Hawkeye.
"Natasha, please," Pepper pleaded with her friend, she was shaking so hard she was clinging to Steve for support.
"Natasha, I thought her name was Natalie?" Rhodey questions, "I think it's about time you told me just what the hell is going on here, Tony." He dismissed the anxious looking soldiers that were with them, clearly reading that no one would speak plainly with them around.
"Fine, that's Agent Romanov of SHIELD, that guy back there was her partner, Agent Barton," Rhodey looked confused for a moment. Tony knew he knew those names and he could see the exact moment that it clicked that he was staring down Black Widow while she defended Hawkeye. He immediately backed up because he wasn't suicidal. "Now everyone knows each other, Romanov, you care to explain why hell, your other half just killed 6 kids in cold blood?" Tony shouted at her.
"They were mercy kills," she answered, once again composed, as mercurial as her partner was stoic.
"That's a cop out," Tony started, going toe to toe with her. He saw out of the corner of his eye, Steve handing Pepper over to Rhodey, in case he needed to intervene.
"How many Stark Missiles did he disarm before we came here?" she asked, but didn't give him time to answer. "Two hundred and six, he disarmed 206 of them and his fasted time was 1 minute and 23 seconds and that was when they still had overrides and were built to specs. There were 6 improvised ones out there with no override computers and he had 178 seconds to make a call. And make no mistake. He made the right one.
"The first one in the daisy chain was an electrified shrapnel bomb," she explained. It was one of his first inventions, it exploded and sprayed shrapnel that held an electric charge tuned to disrupt the human nervous system. It was like getting hit by frags and a tazer at the same time, very painful and rarely deadly. "The second was a fire bomb," another of his early works. It was a chemical incendiary that only burned organic tissue and didn't damage buildings. "There was a good chance those kids would still have been alive when they were set on fire and it wasn't the fast burning chemicals you use. It was Napalm," she let him think on that for a second and he almost couldn't breathe. "He hit everyone in the kill zone, straight through the brain stem. They were all dead before their brains could even register they had been shot. They were going to die anyway, Stark, he just made sure it was quick and painless."
He wanted to glare at her, wanted to scream and rage because she again rammed home that it was his fault, all of this was his fault. He had designed those things. It had been his mind that had come up with them, and it had been a game to him. The simulations like watching a video game and he had thought it was so cool. He used to smoke weed and take popcorn to them for fuck's sake! He hadn't understood what he had been creating but now he did and there was nothing he could do to take it back. More lives lost because of his arrogance and his desire to outshine his father.
He felt bile rise in his throat and before he knew what was happening, he was bent over retching. Romanov stared at him dispassionately. How could they be so calm when he was being ripped apart? He felt an arm snake around him and heard Steve whisper to him, "it's ok, Tony, I've got you." He was ridiculously appreciative because his knees felt like jelly but at the same time, he wanted to shove the super soldier away, because he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve compassion after all the lives he had taken. He was, in a way, so much worse than Barton or Romanov, who fought for their countries and later for each other. They had the courage to stare their victims in the eyes, Barton through a scope and Natasha face to face. They accepted what they did and allowed it to touch them, affect them. That was why they were the way they were, because they lived with the things they had done every day. He hadn't even been a fighter, he just designed death from a far, never even caring what his work did and all because he wanted to make his daddy proud. He had never really owned up to the things he had done, never let it change who he was, not on the inside. On the inside he was still just as selfish and spoilt as he had always been. The fact that Rogers was with him, making him feel better, rather than helping Barton was evidence enough of that.
He gagged again, and heard Natasha, "take care of them, Rogers, I'm going to go back to Hawkeye," she sounded edgy.
"I will," she turned to leave but his voice stopped her, "Romanov, do you think?" he trailed off.
"I don't know, but I don't want to leave him alone," she answered, understanding his unspoken question. He heaved again, this mission was his fault. His teammates were suffering because he could deal death better than anyone. His arrogance, his fault this was happening.
"Go but keep your com on. I'm going to call Fury, I want Barton out of here." He sounded serious.
"I will but wait, we're close. I could see it in his eyes. And all of this can't be for nothing," she called then took off back towards her partner.
Sunday August 12th 4:50 pm, Damascus, Syria
Natasha loped back towards the bomb site, deftly side stepping police and fireman trying to cordon off the area. She skidded up to Clint, as he stood in the middle of the chaos, deftly rolling something between his nimble fingers. He met her eyes as she approached and she could see his singular focus. Everything except fulfilling the mission was pushed aside as unnecessary for now. It was the only way they could continue, either one of them because if he broke down now, so would she. This was Hawkeye at his most dangerous, most lethal, and most natural. This was the man that had guarded her back for 8 years, not letting anyone or anything get to her and she respected the hell out of him this way.
Steve could go fuck himself. She bit her lip to stop from sneering. She realized she was being petty and stupidly jealous that Rogers was worried about Hawkeye. It never bothered her when it was Coulson fretting alongside her but for some reason Steve's concern was grating on her nerves. Maybe it was because Phil understood Clint and what it meant to do this type of dirty work, while Steve had never really gotten dirty in his life. Steve's innocence therefore made him seem judgemental, like he was looking down on them for the choices they had made. She didn't know and it didn't matter, she wouldn't let him pull Clint from this. She would let him finish it.
"We managed to chase down one of the snipers. They were trying to leave with the body of the one I hit. We didn't stop them but have the imaging team tracking them by satellite," he explained. She wondered why he didn't just drag them in for questioning. But he continued by tossing whatever he was playing with at her. She caught it and examined it. It was a ceramic bullet, made to be fired out of a custom fabricated sniper rifle with a titanium, double grooved barrel.
She hooked her finger over the barrel of Clint's riffle and sniffed it. Her memory had been clear; he hadn't fired it since they had left the Baghdad. "Where did you get it?"
"I dug it out of the wall above my position in the alley," he answered.
"I'll check with Hill to make sure your other rifle is still in the armory on the helicarrier, and have SHIELD run a ballistics match on this," she told him, her mind working out the details. If his secondary rifle was still on the helicarrier that meant only one thing, Gator or at least his gun had fired that bullet.
"We need to get back to Baghdad," he noted, then mumbled, "it's not safe here, we need to get them back on base or in hiding." She reached out to shake him, get him to focus but he did it himself, "take that and meet up with Stark and Rogers, get them ready to bug out in 15. I'll handle the locals and we'll rendezvous at the hotel." She nodded and head back towards the other Avengers as he collected his men.
No words could describe how much she wanted this over with because no words could describe what had just happened. She knew he had made the right choice. She would have done the same thing and if there was a god, she hoped he knew that. She of all people knew what it felt like to kill children and it was a stain that never left you, no matter how much good you did. She should have taken the gun from him and done it herself, damning the consequences to their covers but she hadn't. All she could do now was help him get these bastards and pick up the pieces. And she knew he would be in pieces, when he had time to let himself feel again, even if he didn't let it show because deep down under Hawkeye and Agent Barton, Clint was a nice person who did whatever was necessary for his country.
TBC