A/N: some excitement! next chapter gets a little hairy, but as i said only implications nothing explicit!
Bagel Thursday
PeechTao
Chapter 7
Clint went to his room to grab his gear. He didn't know how he was planning to keep another senior agent from figuring out he was deaf, but at least he had a long train ride to figure that out. If another agent learned he was damaged goods before Bruce had the chance to fix him, and if anyone found out before Natasha did he was destined to pay dearly for it. Also Barton knew he couldn't just disappear without someone getting concerned. After putting together a small mission pack he returned to the living room to see Tony and Bruce. Natasha had wandered away.
"Got a call from SHIELD, I'm heading out. Don't know when I'll be back in so don't wait up, ladies." He said offhandedly.
"That quick? I thought Fury neutered you and made you a house dog." Tony replied.
"That's so funny I'm not laughing." Clint said.
"Hang on, Clint, I'll head down with you. Coming Tony, or are you enjoying a moment away from particle arrays?" Bruce got off the couch and headed for the hall with Clint beside him. Given the option to relax for a while longer, Tony took it. Bruce was happy because that's how he planned it. Clint and he were both ready for another hurried elevator talk.
"I got the call just now, I had to text him back." Clint explained. "I'm meeting another agent there."
"Fine, don't panic. But you have to realize this is serious. I don't know where you're going or what you're doing but Clint, Let's be honest you are not one hundred percent!"
"If I refuse this then that's it for me!" Clint exclaimed. "You don't get it, I can't refuse a mission. First I'll be asked why. Second, right after I tell them I'm officially deaf, Director Fury with higher out a hitman to murder me in my sleep."
Bruce gave him a look. "Really? A hitman?"
"Have you ever heard of Agent John Tracy? His codename was Eagle, he was the marksman before me and do you want to know why you have never, ever, heard of him?"
Bruce shrugged.
"Because he went blind on a mission and he was poisoned at a bar three days later. Bruce, I don't want to be poisoned in a bar! Agents do not retire in this profession Bruce. We know too much, we get killed."
Bruce waved at him. "All right, all right. You know what you need to do to get through a basic mission and you don't have to hear for that. Have you worked with the agent before?"
"No."
Bruce nodded. "That's good, if you ignore them, they'll not think it's anything worse than your sunny personality. If you get into a jam, text me, all right? I wish I had something to send you with now, but I don't. You're a top agent, you can adapt. You've got this, ok? I'll start working now so I can have the first prototype before you get back."
The little pep talk did help calm Clint' concern, but he had already been through the New York streets once. He was far from excited to do it again. Especially heading into a mission with zero background intel. Even without being deaf, that would have him on edge.
They stopped at the lab and Bruce got out. He faced Clint, holding the doors open. "Look, if you want to tell SHIELD, I get it. If you don't, I can completely understand why. But eventually you are going to have to tell your friends. We're here for you, all of us, not just me."
Clint smiled, nodded, and the doors slid closed. He leaned against the back of the elevator, wondering what he was going to do. Of course he knew Tony and Steve would blame themselves for everything that happened and if Clint wasn't fixed by the time they found out it would hit them twice as hard. Natasha would be mad at him no matter what. It could be today, tomorrow, or in three weeks. He had to pick a day, soon, to come clean.
Thursday was coming up. To him Thursday's were always good days to deal with hard decisions. Back when he joined SHIELD it had been a Thursday. Clint had just wiggled his way out of a serious jail sentence and was enjoying a free bagel at the first restaurant he could find near the courthouse. That just happened to be a Dunkin Doughnuts.
Judges always took a little bit of a shine to him. He had a mouth, but he knew to keep it in place when it was appropriate. He was an orphan, escaped from an orphanage with an only brother presumed dead. Clint had no one in the world. He'd been beaten and left for dead, thrown off a trapeze in the circus he joined. Once the judge heard his full sob-story Clint's little run in with a bank vault took a back seat.
It was Thursday morning. He was a free man eating a bagel he scammed from a polite teller who felt bad for him. He had no money, no bow, and no direction. Then Phil Coulson found him.
The agent was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt so clean Clint swore he must have bought it that morning. The edges in his pleated pants were sharp enough to cut a steak with. The agent knew Clint's name, told him who he worked for, and bought himself an onion bagel with plain cream cheese and two coffees. He wordlessly gave one to Barton and sat across from him.
Clint didn't have many options that day SHIELD came knocking. In fact, he had two. Either he was going to get up and walk away right into the arms of whatever criminal enterprise would take him, or he was going to sign up with SHIELD. Coulson was welcoming, patient, and kinder than most men Clint had ever encountered in his life. That moment they shared on a Thursday morning over bagels would become the defining point of Clint's life and forever change Thursdays.
Today was a Wednesday. If he was back at the Tower by Thursday, he'd take Natasha out like always to the local breakfast shop. He'd tell her first. But before then he had to survive today.
:(:):(:):
It would be difficult and tedious to detail the exact account of his harrowing trip downtown. The way he ignored Happy trying to give him his new security badge and the way he missed the train being called to the station and almost got left behind in New York when he should have been on his way to Baltimore. It would take a considerable amount of time and words to convey the depth of his loss. This time may be better spent looking forward to his meeting with Agent Morrissey and the mission that would be his first since the Butterfly Effect started beating its wings against him.
Agent H. Frances Morrissey turned out to be female, much to Clint's chagrin. Given Natasha's rather accurate surmise of his track record with women agents he was shocked that Clarkson even assigned him the mission in the first place.
She was sitting on a bench just outside the lonely train stop. She wore a quarter length tan coat to keep off the October chill in the air. She had sensible shoes, black, meaning whatever they were about to do involved some sort of athletics. No woman in SHIELD was as dexterous as Natasha in heels. Remedial humans had to settle for more appropriate solutions. Her hair was long, brown, and pulled back from her face in a tight band. No earrings or necklace. Only a plain black watch was on her wrist.
Clint's assessment: Typical female agent. Obviously she was unsure of herself by the way she picked her nails. She was a level five agent if that. Probably wasn't her first field mission either which was a benefit to him. At least he would be required to do less baby-sitting.
Clint stepped off the train as it pulled to a stop in the station. He nodded once in her direction and indicated she follow him. Side by side they walked down the train ramp and to the operative car waiting not far from them. Clint went soundlessly for the passenger seat. When the doors shut, he faced her.
"Agent Barton. So you're Morrissey?"
"Yes sir."
"Have you been properly debriefed for this mission?"
"I have."
"Fill me in."
She pulled a file from the center console and flipped through some of the pages. She began to read from them, but that made it difficult for Clint to read her. He had to change tactics.
"Is that the file?" He asked, hand outstretched to take it. After a brief hesitation she handed it to him. "Give me a sec to read through it and then fill me in on what's happened since." Clint glazed over the file with his eyes, picking out the more important points.
Apparently there was a munitions dealer named Harold Gregory in Baltimore trying to get his hands on a certain Senator Rumsy. Rumy had been paid by the Russians for the past three years to sway defense contracts into the hands of a certain Mr. Gregory Clay. Clay was secretly siphoning shipments to both Ukraine and the Congo before they appeared on the United States shores. Gregory wanted Rumsy so he could get to Clay in order to eliminate the competition and take over the Ukraine and Congo contracts himself. The tune of such an investment? One dead senator, one dead weapons manufacturer, and about four billion dollars to start.
It was Clint's job to get to Gregory. It was Morrissey's job to photograph Rumsy in certain illicit acts with the undercover SHIELD agent the senator had just called over for a night cap. Rumsy was going to be ousted, Clay had been picked up by a separate agent, and Gregory was a dead or alive.
Clint closed the file. It seemed straight forward enough given what he typically was stuck with. He was only too happy that Morrissey and he would be stationed on separate ends of this mission.
"Where's Gregory?" Clint asked.
With the file out of her hands, Morrissey's only real option was to look at him. "Gala tonight. Rumsey's hosting."
"Rumsy's date in place?"
"Already dressed and attending."
"Good. What time is it?"
She checked her watch, "Six thirty."
"Gala starts when?"
"Official invitations list eight-pm."
"You'll need a dress and I need a suit. Let's get to the closest supply office. We need to be on the even floor by nine, so it's got to be quick. How far is the gala from here?"
"About an hour."
"Let's move then."
:(:):(:):
Whenever Clint was forced to wear a suit his mind always went back to that day Coulson walked into the doughnut shop. Clint wanted to look like that. A thin tie, crisp shirt, and pants so black they could be mistaken for space itself. Given the option that was always the look he went for. When Clint Barton cleaned up, he looked better than good. He was drop-dead gorgeous.
Walking out to the rental BMW from the SHIELD prop station, Clint was the complete embodiment of James Bond. He had more hidden tools to kill than spaces to hide them. His shoes were polished and his hair was gelled to perfection. It was enough to make any female agent swoon.
Morrissey for her own sake kept on her feet, though it was an obvious struggle. She leaned on the hood of the car in her floor length blue dress and watched Clint walk with an air of admiration.
"Not bad, Agent Barton." She couldn't help but comment.
"Not bad yourself. Do we know who the undercover is? Any contact?"
Morrissey allowed herself one more look, up and down Clint's rugged body very poignantly. She smiled at whatever inner thoughts were flouncing around in her mind. "Contact? No. But she'll be the only one on Rumsy's arm tonight."
"You ready with the hidden camera equipment?"
"Oh, you just worry about tangling with Gregory. I've got my bit." She got into the car and waited for Clint to join her. Together, they headed to the gala.
Given that attending patrons of this party were mostly men of considerable influence and the women they chose to share their bed with, Clint would have looked out-of-place not arriving with a girl on his arm. Morrissey came to the same conclusion, but was less inclined to mount a protest to being someone's arm candy after seeing him exit the station.
"We should work on a cover. SHIELD was kind enough not to supply one." She said. Her head turned slightly in his direction when he didn't answer. "Agent Barton?"
Clint was fiddling with the links to his cuffs. After setting them how he liked he looked over. She had a puzzled look on her face which tipped him off that he'd probably missed something. "I'm sorry, what?"
She smirked. "You might not think it's a big deal to have a good cover or not, but I find it easier on me."
"Cover? All right. We don't want to be seen together more then we have to be, so I would go with the brother sister angle. That would leave you open to comb the room for whoever you want and gives me the freedom to keep an eye on the men. Most likely Gregory will be alone if he's planning to get the senator tonight. The less baggage he has in the wings the better."
"Siblings? I was going to say jilted exes."
Now Clint smiled. "I'm fine with that. What's our cover for the invitation itself?"
"You're the cousin of Senator Frank Guild. He's from Georgia. You've just finished a tour in Iraq and were invited as a personal guest."
"And I picked you for my plus one?"
"I fit the dress." She replied easily.
Clint nodded his head. "All right, Agent Morrissey. We're jilted exes. Senator Guild is not in attendance?"
"Broken leg on skiing trip."
"Perfect." Clint reclined his seat, stretching his arms over his head then folded them on his chest. The cover wasn't bad. It would hold up to most questions and gave him a starting point for small talk. Morrissey's task was simple. If she was wired or a camera (he couldn't imagine where that would be hidden) then she was going to be a simple in and out when Rumsy disappeared with the SHIELD undercover. Clint would stick to Gregory who would most likely follow after the Senator.
"Oh, one last thing!" Morrissey reached into the center console and pulled out an ear mic. She handed it to Clint. "In case I need a hand, I'll give you a signal."
Clint looked at the earphone with a small sense of disdain. This was going to be one of those defining moments Banner told him about. One where his training as an agent, or his reputation as a hard head, was going to need to come out. He went the hard way. "Yeah, don't like these. They throw off my concentration." Clint dropped the device into the cup holder. "You'll be fine."
She looked shocked. "But standard operating—"
"I don't do standard." Clint cut her off. "If you get yourself into a jam so big you need to call for help, then you might as well just flash a badge and pull yourself out of there. If I get into the room, people are going to get dropped. Understand?"
She did not, but Morrissey didn't complain either.
"Fine. We're here, pull up to the valet and wait for me to come around before you get out. And Agent Morrissey?"
Her eyes turned to his.
"Let's make a big impression, shall we?"
Clint stepped out of the car, letting his suit jacket flap open in the breeze. He one-handed the button and straightened his lapels while giving an admittance pass to the man standing by the car. Clint crossed to the driver's side and handed Agent Morrissey out. Standing beside each other they made exactly the kind of impression Clint was looking for. He took the keys from Morrissey and tossed them to the valet. Arm in arm, they headed in to the party.
A string quartet was playing in the right hand side of the grand room. Dancers were twirling across a marble dance floor. The women were in their evening best adorned in diamonds that rivaled the crown jewels. The majority of the men were old. Dressed to match but with considerably more white hair and wrinkles to go with their tuxedos. Clint had the impression that Senator Rumsy was not the only one paying for his date tonight.
Morrissey leaned into Clint ear and whispered. "I see Gregory, three-o-clock."
Clint felt her close to him, but he was too distracted by the strange flow of people to try and plan a response. It was so strange, he realized, to look at the men and women moving across the marble floor. He could hear no music, but he got a strange sense of the tempo by the way they twirled and flowed together. It was almost mesmerizing to watch. He had to snap out of it.
"I see your mark." He said. They were standing close together, surveying the room from the landing. He turned his face to hers. "Do me a favor and slap me."
He jaw dropped. "Wha—no!"
"Do it and take off." He ordered her. "We'll rendezvous later."
"But I don't understand, what if you need—"
Clint grabbed her wrist. It didn't hurt, but the shock of it gave the crowed the appearance he was looking for. He pulled her even closer. "I'm the senior agent on this. Trust me. And by the way, I don't really like that dress on you."
That was the nudge it took. She reeled up and clocked him. Thank God she did it with an open palm or else Clint may have found himself in an ER. Morrissey yanked her arm away from him and stalked away like a furious ex which was exactly how he wanted it.
So what if in her SHIELD report she'd call him every name under the sun, spout off about his immature attitude, and complain to higher ups that he didn't follow procedure. It didn't really matter. They'd heard it all before. What did matter was accomplishing this mission, deaf or not, to prove that he could.
Clint left in the opposite direction and headed for a drink. A bartender in a white suit asked him for his order, he requested Woodford bourbon. Drink in hand he left the bar to hold up a wall and survey the area.
It was a good thing his skills as a marksman depended very little on his need to hear. He reflected it was also to his benefit he wasn't required to blind himself to survive a deadly attack either. That sort of sacrifice could have proved the very end of everything he held der in his life.
Clint basked in his silence. His eyes continually fell away from the faces in the crowed to settle on the instruments or the dancers. Mentally he was waiting to hear one of those notes, like the night before when Banner ran through the hearing test. He knew the likelihood of that was nil, but he wanted it nonetheless. He resisted the urge to resent those happy people twirling and laughing around him.
Senator Rumsy had been in a small group of other men. They were drinking highballs, chinking glasses, and each one had a cigar in his mouth. After a certain time, the men separated in a mass of joviality to rejoin their women. This gave Clint the chance to finally get a look at the undercover agent SHIELD had installed as Rumsy's date.
She cut a neat line through the dancers to settle on his arm. Her hair was blonde, she wore an emerald dress and enough bling on her neck to rival the crown jewels. She flipped her long locks to the side, and closed in on his extended hand with such a vague familiarity to Clint. If he didn't know any better than he would have guessed the agent was actually—
Someone slid their arm into the crook of Clint's elbow, pulling his attention away from the Senator. He turned to see that the person was Morrissey.
"What is it?" he asked.
"The Black Widow." Morrissey replied, indicating the Senators date. "Why would SHIELD send her in? Has something changed?"
Clint snapped back to the pair. The blond had turned just enough now for him to see her fully. Sure enough there she stood. Natasha Romanov in the flowing green silk. When did she get this assignment? The same time as him? Before? Did Clarkson call her back with that debrief anyway?
"I don't get it. Why would she be set up as the mistress to his outing? Do you know?"
"Doesn't make sense." Clint said. He wasn't looking at the girl on his arm, he had no idea what she might be saying. His eyes were only on Natasha. "I'll talk to her."
"I'll get to Rumsy and distract him."
"You pull Rumsy off someplace." Clint pulled his arm from hers and snaked his way through the attendees. After a minute Morrissey smoothly followed. She cut to the left, coming up in Natasha's place just as Clint pulled the Russian away into the dancers. Morrissey tripped on her skirt, fell forward into Rumsy, and suddenly the game was on.
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