Wind whipped around Clint and Natasha's ears as they plummeted toward the river. The city lights dissolved into a burr and all sound collapsed into a piercing whistle. Natasha's brain barely had time to panic before her body plunged into the water. The murky darkness engulfed her, wrapping itself around her like an icy cloak. Bubbles rose around her, and carrying away all the air forced out of her lungs by the impact. The bubbles faded away and tumbling shadows began to emerge from the darkness. That clawing feeling began in her lungs as her body used up its remaining oxygen. One of her ruined stilettos slipped off and sank into the blackness as she kicked desperately for air. Was she even headed up? The edges of Natasha's vision began to go black.
Clint plunged into the river and his wrist jarred upward as he sank. He kicked toward the shimmering ribbon of fabric and burst to the surface of the water. The yellow plastic case bobbed beside him. What do you know. It floats. He kicked over and hung his arms over the case, sucking in the cool river air as he scanned the area. András leaned out of the window, his mouth moving silently as the distance swallowed his curses. The blue lights of the emergency vehicles flashed in the distance. Uniformed officers and tux-wearing party guests buzzed along the main stairs, apparently unaware of the chaos taking place on the west side of the building. The scene only lacked one thing. No flash of crimson cut through the dark night scene. The quickly fading echo of the ripples where they had hit remained unbroken. "Natasha!"
Natasha's hand broke the surface and she pulled herself up into the air, gasping as she regained her bearings. Her panicked swim for air had lead her closer to the rocks that lined the edge of the river. First her feet, then her knees touched down on the slippery, jagged surface. She reached up her arms and hauled herself farther out of the water as she struggled to slow her heart rate and recharge her aching muscles. With one more step, Natasha's hand touched down on a shiny black dress shoe.
"Good evening once again," said István Szabo as he balanced on the rocks. He crouched down and pointed a gun at Natasha's head. She steeled herself with one last deep breath and looked up into his eyes. In a flash of motion, Natasha grabbed István's outstretched wrist and looped her other hand around his ankle. Her knees bit painfully into the rocks below, but she managed to flip him over her shoulder and into the river. István rose up with beads of water dripping down his angular face. His fist trembled with rage as he retrained the gun. Natasha spun over and kicked the gun out of his hand, sending it flying into the water. She sprung up and leaped at István. He slipped out of the way and let her splash into the river. István grabbed Natasha's arms and heaved her toward the bank. She braced her feet, preparing to toss him again. As she pressed her weight into István's body, Natasha's foot skidded over the slippery surface of the rocks. She lost her stance and tumbled over. István followed her path, adding in his own weigh and bashing her head against the rocky shore. Natasha didn't get up. István grabbed her by the hair and waded out into the river. He nodded to Clint and shouted, "How about a trade?"
"Tasha . . ," Clint whispered. He looked down at the case and the growing distance between Szabo and himself. If the TPE got their hand on what was inside that case, half of Budapest would pay for it. Clint drew in rapid breaths saturating his muscles with oxygen, then dove under and took off in the opposite direction.
"Fine by me!" said István. He grabbed Natasha's jaw and wagged her head. "How I do wish you had been awake to see that. I hope your little romance was worth it. Now . . ." Natasha's unconscious body hung limply over his arm. He lowered her closer to the water's dark surface. "I would have preferred to watch you scream, my dear, by this is just going to have to do." He plunged Natasha's head underwater.
This had better work, thought Clint as he slipped the sparkling red knot off of his wrist. With one last breath he dove under, heading away from Natasha and the Galleria. As soon as he went under, Clint somersaulted, spinning around and letting the case bob along on the current without him. His muscular arms cut cleanly through the murky water; his legs came down in long powerful strokes. All the while, Clint kept the trajectory lined up in his mind. Same angle, same calculation, same method, only this time all he had to shoot with was himself. If I can't do this . . . he began, but pushed the thought from him mind as best he could. His lungs started to beg for air. It was a good few meters between him and István, at least. Just a little farther. Up ahead a blurry shadow came into view. Another few feet and it turned into legs. István.
As Clint approached, a crimson sparkle cut through the water as István plunged Natasha under the surface. No! Clint wanted to shout, but there was no air left in his lungs to shout with. No time for mistakes, he thought. I can't risk not taking István down in anything less than a single blow. New plan.
His lungs burned, but Clint forced himself to stay under. He darted into the shallow water behind István's knees, hoping the ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shore would cover his movements. At this distance he could see Natasha clearly, her limp body floating helplessly in the river, her hair turned a dark auburn in the water. Now or never.
Clint leapt up, pushing off of the silt and rocks. On his way to the surface, he brushed Natasha's leg, pulling her knife from its holster. Clint broke the surface with a furious scream and plunged the blade into István's chest. The bulky man fell backward and splashed into the river. Natasha floated to the surface. Clint dragged her up with one arm, then turned to István.
"The case," István sputtered, "get . . . the case."
Clint stepped down hard on István's gut and wrenched the knife out of his chest. He pointed the bloody blade at the small group of guards gathered on the shore. "The first one of you to move gets this buried in his throat. Anyone who doesn't think I can throw it this while swimming is welcome to try me."
Knife in hand, Clint slid back into the water. He braced two fingers under Natasha's chin, keeping her head above water as he towed her along. When they reached the case, Clint hauled Natasha's body on top of it, hiding the bright yellow plastic under Natasha's half-submerged dress whose waterlogged fibers had turned a dark cranberry.
Clint made his way to the far side of the river. He pulled Natasha out of the water beneath a bridge and carried her up the sandy bank. Clint collapsed against the concrete bridge footing and leaned Natasha's head against him, watching the rise and fall of her dress as she breathed.
A few minutes later, Natasha rolled her head to face him. Her eyes fluttered open and squinted as she adjusted to the shadow under the bridge and the rippling pools of light falling off the cars on either side. "What'd I miss?" she coughed. She tried to sit up more and a searing pain shot through the front of her skull. Natasha braced her head with her hand and her fingers came away bloody. "Good god." The lights of the Galleria Szobor sparkled diagonally across the river. "Clint did you swim here?"
He stared back at her with a stupid schoolboy grin. "You're alright."
"I'll take that as a yes."
He twirled a finger around one of her sopping curls. "You look pretty even though your hair's all wet."
"Feeling a little delirious, are we?"
"Noooo. That was in the People's Republic of China. That was not a good time. I repeat, not a good time."
Natasha spotted the case sitting beside Clint's hip. "I see you managed to keep that too."
"Yup. And I'm pretty sure I killed István Szabo."
"Shit. Not only will they be hunting down the nuclear material, András will be out for blood. Can you stand?" She hoisted herself off of the sandy ground and held her arms out to Clint.
"Are you different?" he mumbled as she pulled him up. "There's something different about you."
Natasha froze. Normally he would spot this large of a flinch a mile away. Right now, though, she might be in the clear. "I'm all wet?"
"That's it. You're all wet."
"Come on tough guy," she said as they lifted the case off of the ground, "back to the apartment as quick as we can."
When they finally stumbled through the apartment door, Natasha wanted nothing more than to flop down in her bed and sleep until this time tomorrow. She looked longingly at the fluffy comforter, but instead turned her attention back to the living room. She placed the case gently on the floor and draped Clint's arm over her shoulder as she helped him to the couch. "How are you doing babe?" she asked as he crashed gracelessly onto the cushions.
"Have you always been this blurry?"
"I'll take that as an 'I've been better.'" Natasha walked over the the bookshelf leaning up against the wall. She studied it for a moment and ran her fingers along the glossy spine of one of her many art history books. The stiff artificial light glinted off of the glass picture frames. Natasha picked one off of the shelf, a duplicate of the photo that had gotten them into this mess. Or at least the one that had lit the match. They had been pouring the gasoline for months now.
Natasha replaced the frame. "Sorry Charlotte," she whispered and wrapped her hands around the top corners of the bookcase. With a grunt she braced her legs and ripped the wooden structure away from the wall. It crashed down with the dull thud of books on the floorboards and the sharp ring of broken glass.
Clint jumped. "What the . . !"
"This is for your own good, now hang on a second." Natasha grabbed a little hand weight from the milk crate sitting beneath the punching bag and hurled it at the wall. The sheetrock broke away in a jagged hole, which Natasha enlarged with another few smashes from the weight. She reached into the whole and hoisted out a black plastic case with the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle emblazoned on the lid. Knocking away a few last bits of sheetrock, she placed the case on the coffee table and flipped the latches. The medical kit sprung open, its spring-loaded drawers unfolding in a neat staircase. Though they would undoubtedly been needing every item in the kit at some point that evening, Natasha immediately reached for the six yellow plastic tubes laying at the bottom of the case. She removed three and turned to Clint, giving the first tube a shake. "Roll up your sleeve."
As he fumbled with his damp jacket, Natasha flipped off the cap of the first syringe, revealing it's thick needle.
"Aww Tasha, you know I hate -"
Before he could finish, she jabbed the needle into his bicep and pressed the round button on the other end.
"Aww!"
"Lucky you, you get another," she said as she shook the second tube and stuck it into his arm. "You just sit there for a second and let it kick in." Natasha spun the final syringe around between her fingers, scanning the label for warnings she had never bothered to notice before. WARNING: USE AT OWN RISK. Oh well, she thought here goes nothing. She shook the tube and jammed in into her thigh, pressing the button with her opposite palm. Almost immediately she could feel the heat of the shot spreading from the injection sight. The tired ache in her muscles disappeared, her drooping eyelids snapped open and the dull sleep-deprived ache in her head abated.
Clint gripped the edges of the couch cushion as he shook his head. "Whooo!" he yelled. "Good morning Budapest!"
"Feeling better?"
"Much. Thank you. Sorry if I got a little crazy there."
"Don't worry about it," she replied still turning the empty syringe around in her hands. "What do you think is in these?"
"Slow-release adrenaline, all the coffee forests of South America and the extract of the best night's sleep you've ever had," he said as he sank back happily into the couch.
"Don't get too cozy yet. We've got a very unpleasant call to make."
"Right. That." Clint stood up and helped Natasha push the couch aside. They rolled one corner of the tattered rug away so Natasha could pry up the two loose floorboards. Clint pulled up a smaller matching case and brought it over to the kitchen table. He took the satellite phone out of its case and pried off the back of its plastic housing. "Let me just undo my little patch." Halfway through replacing the wires, Clint stopped.
"What is it?" asked Natasha.
"Nothing. It's just . . . this isn't how I thought this would end. Any of it."
"Just make the call."
Clint adjusted the electronics and replaced the cover. As soon as he touched the power button, the phone sprung to life.
"Did you even dial?" said Natasha.
"Nope."
"Put the antenna up. Put the phone on the table," spat Director Fury's icy voice from the speaker. Clint did as he was told, and a small blue light began to glow in the center of the phone. With a soft, oscillating whir, a hologram of Fury's unamused face rose up out of the phone.
Clint turned to Natasha. "Did you know it did that?" She shook her head in reply.
"It's not exactly a standard feature, and it costs some decent pocket change to operate at this distance. But I just could not resist being there "in person" as you two try to explain to me what the hell just happened. Well? I'm listening."