Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Thanks to those who reviewed Chapter Six: Jewls58, Questionair, shanynde, Reteka Hyuuga, BatmanOtaku, Saffygirl, CyanB, thababes, Vivannafox, Sandy-wmd, awkward hawk, VioletBrock, Eringo94, FourHorses, R1dDL3M37h15, penguincrazy, YukinaKid, DBhawkguy30, bookworm1517, weemcg33, GremlinX, Hornswaggler, GreenLoki, tpt player 5701, Melissa, TAPD, JennyBunny65, Kiiimberly, ch33tahp4w, discordchick, patty cake rocks, JRBarton, ladybug114, britishbullet, WingedDemigodFTW, isi7140, Aliblast, Brandi Golightly, kimbee, Supernatural24, koolgirl1120, jaguarspot, silvershadowrebel, Squirrel the Man, horselover28, koryandrs, rose, coastalcajun, Lollypops101, Waterlilies, Mirabilem Electo, Kait-WIN3, Shazrolane, truefairytales, Drake0, and Sara
Shout out to those who figured out the song this time around: R1dDL3M37h15 and ladybug114
To TAPD: the non-abbreviated version of your penname is AWESOME :D
For those of you that asked, I think my favorite part of Agents of SHIELD was probably Coulson's entrance. "Welcome to Level 7. Sorry, the corner was dark. I couldn't resist." or something along those lines lol. I literally laughed out loud and was like "PHIL! You're REALLY back!" I was a little disappointed though - like some of you mentioned - that every Avenger was mentioned except Hawkeye.
Thank you to Kylen for being all her beta-awesomeness :)
This story is dedicated to Kylen
On to Chapter Seven...
Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.
Lao Tzu
Todd glanced over his shoulder as he rapped his knuckles firmly against Fury's office door. No one on the bridge was paying him any mind. Everyone too wrapped up in his or her scrambling attempts to manage damage control. With a weary sigh, Todd turned back to the door and waited.
The glass was tinted too black to be transparent and he'd just begun to wonder if Fury was actually in there when a sharp voice suddenly snapped out, "Enter." Without hesitation, he pushed his way through the door, letting it fall closed behind him.
Fury was sitting behind his desk, staring intensely at his computer screen. Hill was sitting in a chair opposite him, typing furiously on her data pad. The furrow that was settled in Fury's brow didn't soften even as he turned his eye to Todd.
"Under normal circumstances, you do not fall into the direct chain of command, Agent Bryan."
Todd felt his eyebrow creep upwards, wondering if Fury had a reason for bringing to attention his lack of authority over anything but the trainees.
"But as it stands," Fury sighed, "these circumstances are far from normal – so take a seat."
Todd nodded once and shifted without further prompting to the second chair opposite Fury. Hill didn't even look up from her data pad as she suddenly spoke.
"We've got personnel from Vienna, Paris, London, and Moscow in the air as we speak. The personnel from Panama are on approach and the team from Brasilia won't be far behind."
Fury nodded and braced his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of his chin.
"Given the nature of your relationship with Agent Barton – and his propensity to do whatever the hell he wants no matter what I or anybody else says – I'm going to assume he filled you in on the circumstances surrounding his and Romanoff's recent departure."
It wasn't a question – so Todd didn't treat it as one. He lifted his chin slightly in defense – of himself or Barton, he wasn't entirely sure.
"Kid didn't volunteer the information – but when I asked he didn't lie."
Fury arched an eyebrow and Todd sighed.
"With all the shit going on, he wasn't exactly up to keeping his game face on. I took advantage."
"Not up to keeping his game face on" might have been the understatement of Todd's lifetime. He'd never seen Barton locked in such a struggle just to keep it together.
Fury stared at him for a long moment and then tilted his head in approval. Todd let out a slightly relieved breath and slid his palms along his thighs – glancing at Hill, who hadn't lifted her eyes from her data pad. If the clenching of her jaw was anything to go by, she was far from supportive of Barton and Romanoff's current course of action.
Todd looked back to Fury.
"Speaking of the pain in the ass, what's the word?"
For a very brief moment Fury looked about as concerned about Barton's mental state as Todd was – but then the director's expression smoothed and he leaned back in his chair, leaving Todd to wonder if he'd imagined the concern.
"I got the call from Romanoff that they'd landed just before you came in – they're headed to William's location as we speak."
Todd blew out a deep breath. One way or another, this was going to end – soon. He just hoped when all the chips were down, that the right people were still standing.
"But I didn't call you here to talk about Barton." Fury shifted forward in his seat again, staring hard at Todd. "With Phil down, I've been told you've been handling the personnel."
Todd wouldn't really say he'd been handling anything – more like he'd been putting out fires. Word was spreading about Barton's power play with Dan to get Phil on a jet. People who weren't even there were getting pissed. And the people that were there…
Todd sighed, forcing himself to meet Fury's hard gaze.
If there had been any doubt that Fury had heard about what happened, it fled in that moment.
Fury knew. Knew Barton had done what Barton did best – pissed on the rule book. Only this time it wasn't just Barton – it was Dan and Todd too. He couldn't speak for Dan, but he'd walked in on the standoff and known right away that Barton was a breath away from dropping bodies. So he'd done the only thing he could to prevent that.
He'd given the kid what he wanted.
It wasn't personal. It had nothing to do with Phil lying bleeding on the ground. Nothing to do with his knowledge of what Phil meant to Barton – of what it would do to him if Phil died. It had nothing to do with having known Barton for almost seven years, with sharing a kinship founded in the kind of loss few others could ever understand. It had nothing to do with not being able to stomach the thought of Barton losing the most important person in his life – with wanting in that moment to protect the kid from that with every fiber of his being.
Yeah – not personal his ass.
Fury's eye was watching him with a calculated type of understanding – but he was also waiting. Waiting for Todd to answer the unasked question.
"People are pissed. Apparently after we took off, the situation on the ground nearly escalated into a riot. Some of my men that stayed behind were able to get it under control before it got that far, but now the rumors are setting fires faster than I can put them out."
Fury nodded, his eye thoughtful and his expression giving nothing away.
Hill suddenly looked up, her face set in such a way that Todd was sure she'd been fighting the urge to speak…and had apparently lost that fight.
"What Barton did was out of line. To breach triage protocol like that undermines the whole purpose of having those protocols in place."
Todd wondered if she always played devil's advocate – or if only Barton brought that out in her. Either way, he couldn't let the archer go undefended.
"He'd just seen a man that's like a brother to him gunned down. He wasn't thinking clearly."
"So naturally you and Dr. Wilson had to aid and abet."
Todd arched an eyebrow.
"Have you met Clint Barton?" Because anybody that had would know that it wouldn't have mattered what he or anybody else did – Phil was going to be on that jet.
She frowned at him, not seeming to follow his point. Todd felt his gaze harden, but before he could explain exactly what Barton would have done if not "aided and abetted," Fury spoke.
"It's already done – debating it now won't change that. What we've got to focus on is how to handle the aftermath."
Todd sat back in his chair wearily. Fury was right. Next to him, Hill looked similarly quelled.
"Keep putting out the fires, Bryan. And assure those concerned that this incident will not go without repercussion."
Todd felt a shot of trepidation.
"Sir…"
Fury suddenly looked as tired as Todd felt.
"I can't just let it slide, Bryan. You know that. Somebody is going to have to answer for what happened."
Todd's mind went to Barton – to the soul crushing pain and fear the kid was shouldering right now because the man that meant more than anything to him could be dying. The Council – when they caught wind of what the archer had done – would want blood. Williams out of the mix or not, there was a lot of bad blood between Barton and the Council. They'd love to have a reason to nail him to the wall.
Todd couldn't let that happen. Not when Barton would have done the same thing for him, or for Dan – hell, for Fury. Not when he had pulled up his big boy shorts and made the choice to back Barton's play all on his damned own.
Fury must have seen the resolve gathering in his eyes, because when he spoke, it was as if he'd read Todd's mind.
"I will not be taking any statements on the matter at this juncture, Agent Bryan." Fury gave him a weighted look. "I need my remaining personnel doing their jobs."
Right. Todd nodded. Like it or not, he was the best bet at filling Phil's shoes at the moment.
"Do we know if this was an isolated attack?"
Hill looked up from her data pad, seemingly interested in the answer to that question herself.
"More than likely, the threat has passed. Williams is in the wind and for all he knows, he got what he wanted. The New York base is – for all intents and purposes – in ruins. So unless he's in contact with someone on the carrier, he has no way of knowing Barton is still alive. That should give the kid all the advantage he needs."
Todd inclined his head in agreement, though he doubted Barton needed any sort of advantage at this point. The kid was hungry for blood and Todd knew without a doubt that he'd get it. It wouldn't matter if Williams saw him coming or not.
"What about the Council?" Hill asked suddenly. "What if one of them is in communication with him?" She paused and then added, "That is assuming he really is the one behind this."
Todd barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He supposed one of them did need to keep an open mind. He was just glad it didn't have to be him. He was perfectly content imagining Williams in a body bag.
"The Council was not made aware of Barton's current status – or of his current objective."
Fury said it carefully – eyeing Hill seriously. Todd glanced at her.
'Livid' didn't seem to quite cover it.
"You didn't tell them?"
"No." Fury's tone was succinct and offered no room for contradiction or argument. He leaned forward, leveling Hill with a gaze hard enough that even Todd swallowed. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear. Agent Barton has been targeted ruthlessly for the past seven years by a member of that Council. Whether they knew about Williams' vendetta or not, they have proven just as much a threat to him as the son of a bitch himself. I will not jeopardize him or his current mission for the sake of propriety and protocol."
Todd watched Fury thoughtfully – hearing the mixture of worry and anger in the director's tone. He could relate. He was worried and angry too. Worried that no matter what they did, they'd never be able to really keep Barton safe. Worried that no matter how this mess with Williams turned out, the Council would always be some sort of a threat to the kid. And he was angry – angry that for almost seven years, Barton had been targeted. Not by enemies on the outside, but by enemies from within.
Hill clenched her jaw, but the defiance left her posture.
"So what do we do?" She finally asked quietly.
Fury sat back.
"Barton can handle Williams. Until then, the Council is demanding evidence to link him to the attack. I got word that one of the men that led the mercenaries is still alive and captured. They're bringing him here for questioning."
"You think he'll talk?" Todd frowned doubtfully.
Fury's eye hardened and Todd suddenly remembered why this man was their leader.
"I'll see to it that he does."
Todd wanted to be there for that conversation.
"I need you to keep managing our personnel. Get those fit for duty assigned somewhere useful – with only a skeleton crew on board when this started, there are some glaring holes in our defenses. And for God's sake, keep the rumors quiet and the fires out. We've got enough to worry about without the personnel throwing a shit fit."
Todd nodded.
"I'll do my best."
"Do better." Fury stood from his desk. "Hill, you handle the teams coming from the other bases. Use the additional personnel to help Bryan fortify the defenses first. If we're wrong and there is another attack, we need to be ready. Divert anybody left with any sort of first aid training to the infirmary to help manage the overload."
Hill nodded firmly and stood as well. With a sigh, Todd pushed himself to his feet.
"Sir…"
Fury raised an eyebrow in question.
"Phil?"
Fury's eyebrow lowered and he shook his head slightly.
"Wilson is still in surgery with him. We don't know anything yet – when we do, I'll let you know."
Todd nodded – that would have to be enough for now.
Fury's attention diverted to his phone that was ringing on his desk. He granted them both one last glance.
"Dismissed."
Clint felt rather than saw Natasha crouch on the roof next to him. His attention was focused completely on the house two blocks down and across the street.
"Men on the rooftops." Clint announced as he reached into his cargo pocket for his handheld scope. He brought it to his eye and started counting. "Nine."
"You think he's there?"
Clint lowered the scope and handed it to her almost absently, giving her a chance to see the lay of the land for herself.
"With nine private security on the rooftop and half a dozen more on the ground, I'd say so."
Natasha looked over at him and he turned to meet her gaze.
"Do you want to wait for visual confirmation?"
Clint looked back at the building.
"No. He's there."
Natasha didn't argue with him, trusting his instincts as easily as he did hers.
In either an intentional or subconscious way, Williams was tipping his hand by putting more men on the rooftop than on the ground. The man must fear – deep in his bones – that Clint would be coming for him. And apparently Williams knew, as most people that knew him did, that he would come from above.
Clint didn't know if it was his instincts – his sixth sense when it came to his job, or if part of him just knew this was finally all going to end – but Williams was in that building waiting for him.
He could feel it.
"Less resistance on the ground." Natasha pointed out without any conviction.
Clint eyed the large house, thinking, planning. The rooftop had two levels. The main one, only two stories high, was complete with a large skylight and what seemed to be a rooftop garden area. That area only covered half the size of the house though – the other half continued to rise another story.
At first glance it seemed like a terrible place to hide. It was flashy and obvious.
But it was defensible.
The taller rooftop rose a story higher than any of the adjoining houses, giving the five guards up there a clear view of anyone approaching by rooftop. The lower one, while on the same level as those around it, had little space to maneuver because of the skylight. The four guards patrolling it were milling around almost lazily.
"We hit them on the lower rooftop – take out the guy on the west side," he pointed at a lone man leaning against the side of the house, "and climb."
Natasha nodded.
"We can conceal our approach if we come through the neighbor's yard, use their fence as cover."
Clint nodded in agreement.
"That should get us close enough to move without being spotted." She smirked darkly. "At least not until it's too late."
"You handle the four on the first level and I'll go up and handle the five on the second."
"By the time the rest of the ground patrol figures out what's going on, I should be ready for them." Natasha assured.
Clint nodded and stood. He had no doubt that his fiery spider would be more than ready to handle any guards that tried to join the party. The woman could hand him his ass on a consistent basis and none of these guys – no matter how good they were – should give her as much trouble as he did.
"Let's go."
Before he could do more than shift in preparation to move, she put a hand on his arm. He paused obediently and shifted his eyes to hers in question.
"Remember why we're here."
Clint's eyes narrowed and he felt a wave of annoyance sweep through him. Why did everyone keep talking to him like he was going to fly off the handle and do something stupid? Like he didn't have the control to refrain from putting an arrow or a bullet through Williams' forehead the moment he saw him.
He tensed, ready to rip his arm out of her grip and snap something fittingly sarcastic back at her. But he aborted that course of action before it became anything more than a plan.
This was Natasha – his Natasha.
If there was anyone else in the world besides Phil that could claim to know him inside and out, it was her. She knew what Phil meant to him, knew what Clint was going through right now. Knew how much he wanted Williams to bleed for what had happened not only to Phil but to everyone hurt in the attack.
She knew him and cared about him.
And he'd been about to lash out at her for reminding him to keep perspective.
Clint forced himself to relax and blew out a calming breath. Maybe her reminder was more necessary than he wanted to admit.
He met her eyes again, his emotions calming even further by the concern he saw shining there.
What the hell had he done before her?
Unable to resist, he slid his arm out of her grip and threaded his hand into the hair at the base of her head. She responded immediately to his gentle pull and rose onto her tiptoes, meeting him halfway for the kiss that he suddenly and inexplicably couldn't do without.
He pulled away before his body really wanted him to, but now wasn't the time or place for the kind of thing his body really wanted. All he'd wanted to do was acknowledge what she meant to him. He could tell by the slightly dazed look in her impossibly green eyes that he'd been successful.
He blew out a breath and leaned to rest his forehead against hers.
The backs of the fingers on her left hand grazed gently across his cheek and then the same palm came to rest on the back curve of his jaw. He couldn't help but lean into the touch, his forehead rolling across hers.
He was so far off his game right now it wasn't even funny. He didn't want to think about what state he'd be in if she wasn't here, keeping him grounded.
For a long moment they stood unmoving, quietly breathing the shared air between them.
Finally Natasha broke the spell.
"Let's go kill some bad guys."
Clint smirked and pulled away completely.
"I do love to kill bad guys."
Natasha stared through the thin break in the slats of the tall wooden fence separating them from her prey. Clint was next to her, his eyes pinned not on the man leaning casually against the side of the house, but on the guard milling around the edge of the rooftop two stories above them.
Both assassins stayed pressed close to the fence, trusting its height to protect them from premature discovery as they waited for their chance to strike.
The guard on the ground sighed deeply and glanced back over his shoulder. Seeing no one behind him, he returned his gaze forward. Natasha wondered how long Williams had been hiding here – if he'd cut and run before the attack even happened. She wondered if his men knew exactly who they were guarding against.
She didn't think they did. No one who knew Hawkeye and the Black Widow were coming for them would be leaning casually against the house and sighing like they were bored.
Either way, the guard's complacency was their ticket in.
Clint suddenly tapped her shoulder once and turned, putting his back to the fence and lacing his fingers together, palms up. He bent his knees and nodded.
Natasha cast one last look up at the roof – seeing nothing but a man's back – and put her boot in Clint's hands. She only had seconds to get over the fence and take out the guard on the ground without risking the man up top turning back and seeing her coming over the fence.
She braced her hands on Clint's shoulders and crouched. Clint crouched with her and then she jumped. He boosted her with his hands and she was flying. She caught her hands on the top of the fence and propelled her body over it. She landed silently on the other side and honed in on her prey.
She crept closer and reached around the man's head with one hand. She felt him nearly jump out of his skin as her hand locked around his chin and her other hand pressed firmly into the crown of his head. All he had time to do was inhale sharply before she twisted sharply and caught his suddenly dead weight as it dropped. She pulled him back and rested him against the side of the house, glancing over her shoulder to where Clint still stood. She nodded, telling him she was ready.
A moment later she saw the boards of the fence shift then his hands where gripping the top of the fence, his lithe body appearing on top of it a silent moment later. He stayed crouched there for a moment, balancing like his perch was a mile wide instead of an inch.
His eyes found hers and he nodded.
Natasha turned and backed up, facing the side of the house. Two running steps and she planted her foot on a window sill. She launched herself off of it, her other boot catching the bracket of the drainpipe on the corner of the house. Another push off of it and she was latching onto the second story window sill.
She pulled herself up to crouch in the window, grateful for the dark curtains she already knew hid her from view. Williams may not want anyone being able to see in – namely a deadly sniper that only needed a glimpse – but it also kept him from being able to see out.
She took a moment to check Clint's progress, allowing a small appreciative smirk to slide across her lips when she saw him hanging by his finger tips from the top ledge of the roof. If she had to guess, she'd bet he'd jumped from the fence to the other second story window and then used the thin upper sill of the window to propel himself higher – high enough to snag the ledge.
She knew because that was exactly what she was going to do.
A moment later she was hanging in the same way he was, nothing but her finger tips visible to anyone above. But she knew from experience that nobody looked for fingertips – especially not finger tips on the ledge they'd only turned away from for a few moments.
She looked around her arm to Clint. His jaw was clenched and her mind suddenly conjured up the image of the bullet crease on his side – deep enough to see the white bone of his rib. Hanging like that had to be hell for that injury, which was only what – five, six hours old now? Her own bruised ribs were offering up their own protest but she pushed it away.
They didn't have time for pain.
Clint's blue gray eyes were suddenly on her and he nodded once.
In near synchronization, they both swung slightly back, bent at the waist, braced their boots on the side of the house and pushed off. They pulled up with their arms at the same time, channeling the momentum from their push up instead of away from the house. They crested the ledge at the same time, coming to rest in distinctly predatory crouches as they took in the situation in front of them.
A single gasp of surprise was all any of the guards managed before both assassins exploded into action.
Natasha leapt at the nearest guard, the man whose briefly turned back had given them the opening they needed to jump the fence. She braced one foot against his thigh and jumped bringing first one and then the other leg up to wrap around his neck.
Then she arched backwards, threading her body around his and towards the ground. The man's head cracked into the concrete of the rooftop even as the rest of his body flipped over itself and landed with a thud.
Natasha pushed into a runner's stance, already sprinting towards her next target.
In the back of her mind – the part that was so perfectly in tune with Clint that she knew exactly where he was even in the midst of her own battle– she noticed him running directly across the glass skylight. The path would alert anyone inside to the fight upstairs, but it was the most direct route to the other side of the roof and to the second level, where five more guards were likely seconds away from realizing the breach below and opening fire.
She jumped, clearing a small potted plant easily as she closed in on the second of the four guards on this level. He was only just getting his gun brought to bear when she was on him. A sharp windmill kick knocked the gun from his hand. She followed the momentum of the kick, torqueing her body into an aerial spin. She hooked her left leg around his neck and pulled herself up, shifting her leg around his neck as she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled herself across his shoulders, her left knee still locked around his neck. She kept her grip on his shoulder as she sharply pulled the leg back, tucking her head as the man started to fall backwards under the assault. Her shoulders hit the ground first and she rolled her body up even as she slammed her leg down, cracking the man's back and head into the ground and scissoring his neck between her legs.
No sooner had she kicked her way free than she was forced to roll to the left and behind a brick encased flower bed to avoid the sudden gunfire spitting in her direction.
She peeked over the edge of the brick in time to see Clint cresting the ledge of the second level. He disappeared from sight a breath later and she forced her focus back to the remaining two guards on her level.
They'd stopped firing and were both sneaking closer, guns up. One was coming from the complete opposite corner of the roof and the second didn't seem inclined to approach her position on his own – waiting instead for his comrade to join him so they could go after her together.
She smirked.
All they'd done was make her job easier.
She watched their approach through the cover of the flowers and slowly drew her knife from the sheath at her thigh. When they were close enough she all but flew from her hiding spot, knocking one gun away with her boot and the other with her free hand.
She spun, slamming the knife hilt deep into the first man's chest. Even as the man gasped and gurgled his last breath, she released the knife and turned to the second man, snapping her leg into a high crescent kick that cracked his jaw bone. He stumbled back but didn't fall. He even tried to reach for his side arm as he backed away.
Natasha stalked his retreat with a dark, predatory smirk. He'd barely begun to pull the gun free of the holster before she drew back her foot and slammed it into his crotch. The man's face went purple and he doubled forward, right into Natasha's waiting knee.
Natasha was already moving back to retrieve her knife when she heard shouts on the other side of the roof access door. She yanked her knife free, wiped it calmly on the dead guard's shirt and shifted to wait against the wall next to the door.
The door slammed open at the same time a surprised shout rose from somewhere above her. She looked up even as she turned and drove her boot up into the throat of the first man through the door.
Her eyes widened and worry spiked through her as she watched two figures suddenly tumble over the edge of the ledge above her. The two men struggled for dominance as they fell. For a moment she wondered why the guards were fighting each other because neither man had a quiver strapped to his back and Clint wasn't in the habit of relinquishing that particular item – especially not in the midst of a fight.
Then she caught a glimpse of sandy blonde hair and was given a short look at his face a moment before they hit the skylight. The glass shattered with the impact and then they were falling again – out of sight.
"CLINT!"
Clint had dropped the first of the five men before they even realized what was happening. A sharp twist of the man's neck and he was gone from the fight. He had his bow drawn and nocked even as the other four turned to face him, drawn more by the sudden gunfire below than by his appearance.
He dropped the nearest man with an arrow to the throat and managed to loose another arrow to knock away another's gun before they were on him.
He knocked another gun away with his bow and the last one with a sharp kick. Then a boot slammed into his wrist, sending his bow skittering across the rooftop. Clint had his knife drawn from his back before his lost weapon even settled. He leaned back to avoid a jab from his left, caught the offending wrist in his right hand and pulled the man closer, reaching with his left hand to jerk the knife across the man's throat.
Clint sent his boot into the man's stomach to knock him away even as he threw his right elbow up into the man on his right's jaw. He immediately swung the same arm into a right cross, his fist cracking into the third man's cheek.
He caught the glint of a knife in his peripheral and threw himself back a step. Pain lanced across his chest. The cut was shallow, nothing more than an annoyance, it was only when he felt the strap of his quiver snap and the quiver itself drop suddenly from his back that Clint got pissed.
He drove the sole of his boot into the inside of the knife-wielder's knee, taking immense satisfaction from the shout of pain that erupted from the man's throat. Clint slammed his left fist, still firmly wrapped around the hilt of his knife, into the man's nose and then swung the knife in an arc, slamming it to the hilt into the side of the other man's neck.
The boot that hit his chest was unexpected. He stumbled back a step, the knife sliding free as the body fell away. Clint got his right arm up in time to block the high kick aimed at his head and lashed out with the knife.
The final man – apparently more pissed off about his broken nose and damaged knee than hampered by them – crouched, dodging the blade, if only barely.
He kicked out at Clint's feet, sending him back another step to prevent contact.
Realizing he was dancing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, Clint stepped left, swinging his knife in a wide arc again, mostly to force the man to give him room to maneuver away from the edge.
The man slid under the blade, hands fisting in Clint's black t-shirt.
Clint realized what was about to happen a moment before the man gave a bellow and jerked Clint towards the edge with all his strength.
This was one of those times being a smaller guy really bit him in the ass.
His opponent had at least fifty pounds on him and all Clint could do was wrap his own vice-like grip – made strong from years of handling his bow – around the front of the man's shirt and yank him along for the ride.
The way the man's eyes widened in sudden fear and he shouted in surprise would have been entertaining if Clint hadn't suddenly found himself and his enemy out in open air.
Then they were falling.
They battled fiercely for dominance, neither wanting to be on the bottom when they inevitably hit the skylight they were careening towards. Clint managed to drive his knife up between the man's ribs just as the larger man twisted, forcing Clint beneath him.
Just in time for Clint's back to slam into the glass.
The impact felt about like he'd expect a ten-foot fall to feel when you had over two hundred pounds of human body slamming down on top of you. But then, before his body could settle and a breath, before the back of his head would have cracked into the glass and no doubt made him start having to flip a coin on which of the two guards he was seeing was the real one – the glass gave way with a resounding crack and he was falling again.
Oh this was gonna hurt.
He distantly heard Natasha shout his name, but he had precious seconds to act or he'd be landing back-first on a pile of glass his thin t-shirt would do little to protect him from. He pushed his forearm against the guard's windpipe, gaining precious maneuvering room for a fraction of a second as the man drew back so his breathing wouldn't be hampered. Breathing apparently meant more to the stabbed man than keeping his position because he gave Clint the room he was seeking.
A fraction of a second was all Clint needed – and really all he had.
He slid his arm across the man's neck, hooking his elbow behind the curve of the man's jawbone. Then he twisted sharply, using the meager leverage he had to force the man to twist as well. He got the man under him just as the ground rushed to meet them – its surface glittering dangerously with the glass shards their entrance had created.
The impact just plain hurt.
Even with the guard's body absorbing most of the force from the landing, Clint's body slammed into his with enough speed to make his teeth rattle in his head. His momentum had him colliding with his opponent in a bone-crushing body slam before continuing to pull him into a bone-jarring roll off his impromptu cushion and onto the glass-littered floor.
He rolled once, then twice, before his body finally came to a painful stop, face down on the ground.
"Son of a bitch!"
It was nothing but a hissing whisper – his shocked body couldn't manage more that that at the moment – but he felt like it got his point across to the universe.
The back of his neck prickled, alerting him to someone other than his now unconscious, maybe dead, adversary in the room. The knowledge had him dragging his bare forearms through the glass and underneath him, pushing himself up and forcing his knees to bend and fold beneath his body. As his body worked on auto pilot to get him into a defensible – well semi-defensible because right now that was about all he figured he could manage until his bones stopped rattling – stance, his eyes searched for the presence that was making every instinct he had scream in warning.
There, standing across the room with a hand gun aimed at Clint's forehead, was Matthew Williams.
Hate – stronger than he'd ever felt in his life – rose inside him.
Williams' eyes reflected similar feelings.
At least they were on the same page.
Slowly, Clint rose to his feet, eyeing Williams like the prey he was. The man seemed to sense the predatory aggression in his stance because he swallowed and tightened his hand around the gun.
"Don't move."
Williams' voice sounded level enough, but Clint could hear the undercurrent of hate – and fear.
Clint cocked his head to the side and took one, stalking and predatory step forward.
"Look who grew a pair and is finally doing his own dirty work."
"I said don't move."
Clint felt his lips slide into a dark smirk but he didn't move again. Williams' eyes drifted up to the shattered section of the skylight, no doubt wondering if there was a way he could recall the men Clint could hear Natasha battling right now.
Clint wouldn't want to be alone with him right now either.
He shifted another step closer while the council member's eyes were on the skylight.
"Bet you're wishing you didn't send the rest of your hired guns up there to stop me from getting down here."
If his tone was a little darker there at the end – his smirk a little more deadly – then Clint didn't really think it should be held against him.
"I suppose I have your little bitch to thank for their current distraction."
Clint's shook his head and tisked in mock scolding.
"Better not let her hear you call her that. She doesn't like name calling unless she's the one doing it." He titled his head and smirked a little. "And it's in Russian."
Williams' eyebrows rose slightly in disbelief and then quickly shifted into deep furrow.
"You can spout off all the sarcastic humor you want, Agent Barton." Williams' lips quirked into a dark smirk of his own. "We both know it's a smoke screen."
Williams was looking at him now in the same way the man had looked at him every time they'd faced each other in a briefing over the years. Like he was broken. Like he was worth nothing. Like he was wasting the oxygen around him by breathing it.
Clint had never understood why the nameless Council member who he'd only ever met through a TV screen had hated him before he ever opened his mouth.
Now it was all too clear.
"We both know that you slap on that shit-eating little smirk and hide behind it." Williams shifted his grip on the gun, like he wasn't used to the feel of it in his hand. Clint tilted his head a little.
That was interesting.
"But you've never talked faster or louder than when you're trying to over compensate. You've always laid it on a little thicker when something has gone horribly, terribly wrong."
That got Clint's attention.
"You Dr. Phil now? Gonna ask me how I feel? We gonna share and care and braid each other's hair?"
Williams smirked, seemingly pleased by the bravado.
"Who is it? Who went down in the attack?"
Clint felt all traces of humor fade away from his expression as he thought of Phil. He itched to reach for one of the Desert Eagles strapped to his thighs and end this conversation here and now.
Williams' smirk grew into a real, honest-to-God grin and Clint resisted the urge to beat if off his face. Because like it or not, for the moment, Williams was the one with the gun and Clint was a fast draw but he wasn't exactly Billy the Kid.
"If Romanoff is up there…there's only one other person that could put that look in your eye." Williams looked suddenly euphoric. "It's Agent Coulson, isn't it?"
Clint strained to keep his hands from clenching into fists, forcing himself to continue to appear calm and relaxed. Williams was still too far away for him to disarm him before the man got a shot off. And despite what everyone seemed to think, he didn't like getting shot.
"Please, tell me he's dead."
Clint stalked another step forward and Williams' hand tightened on the gun.
"Stop! You think I won't shoot you? I've been waiting for this moment for years."
"Then shoot me and stop talking about it." Clint moved another step. "But you better make that first shot count, because you won't get a second."
Williams' expression tightened and his finger started to close on the trigger.
Clint cocked his head suddenly.
"But you might want to flip the safety off first."
Williams' eyes dropped to the gun. Clint was on him before the man had a chance to realize it was just a distraction technique. Clint twisted the gun out of Williams' hand even as he kicked the man's legs out from under him. Williams hit his back hard and Clint shifted to stand over him, gun now pointed at its owner.
"Come on, man!" Clint mocked. "That's the oldest trick in the book. This wasn't even fun for me." He put his boot into William's chest when the man tried to rise. "And if you don't know your safety is off without having to look, you really shouldn't be playing with guns." Clint glared as Williams continued to struggle and his tone turned to stone. "Stop moving."
Williams froze, breathing hard.
Clint stared down at the man, remembering the bodies scattered around the base, the chaos at the RV point. He remembered Phil. He shifted his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger itself.
It would be so easy to end this right now – to finally be done with Williams and everything tied to the man.
He didn't realize the sounds of the battle above had stopped until glass crunched behind him.
"Clint."
Her voice pulled him from his dark thoughts, but his finger didn't leave the trigger.
"Clint."
Her hand was suddenly on his arm. She didn't try to push his arm down, didn't try to take the gun away. She was just there – reminding him why he was there.
It took more willpower than it should have, but he forced his finger off the trigger – the haze of rage fading from his vision and allowing him to process the look on Williams' face for the first time.
The man looked vindicated – happy even. Like everything he'd ever believed about Clint had just been proven true.
And maybe it had. He knew – more than he knew anything – that if Natasha hadn't shown up when she had, Williams' brain would have ended up a smear on the floor.
A cell phone suddenly appeared in his line of sight.
"Call it in. I'll secure him."
She was getting him away from Williams, giving him a chance to put his game face back on. Without a word he drew back from his predatory stance over Williams. He waved away her phone. He had his own.
"I'm surprised." Williams hissed at him suddenly. "Maybe Coulson doesn't mean as much to you as I thought."
Clint flipped the gun in his hand and lunged forward, cracking the grip against Williams' temple. The man fell back onto the ground, eyes closed and blood leaking from a fresh gash in his hairline.
"Feel better?" Natasha asked as Clint backed away for a second time.
"No."
Clint turned away, putting his back to both of them and walking away. He needed some distance. He ejected the clip – letting it drop to the ground – cleared the chamber and then sharply pulled the slide free. He tossed the pieces aside and reached into his pocket for his own phone.
He forced himself to draw in a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. He heard Natasha moving Williams behind him and then put his attention on the phone. He dialed quickly and brought it to his ear.
One good thing about working within the states for once – bypassing call in procedure was a lot easier when all he had to do was dial Fury's private cell number.
"Fury."
"Williams is secure."
There was a pause and Clint rolled his neck to release some of the tension settled in his shoulders. He answered the question he knew was on the director's mind before the man asked it.
"He's alive, Fury. For now, at least."
If he wasn't mistaken, Fury's next breath sounded relieved. Probably best not to give away how near a thing that had been.
"That's good to hear."
"We'll just agree to disagree on that one. How's Phil?"
"Still in surgery. I'm sure Wilson will call you himself once he has anything to tell."
Clint blew out a frustrated breath. That whole 'no news is good news' bit was crap and this waiting game sucked.
"So what now?"
"I'm working a few things on my end. Interrogate Williams – see what you can get out of him. We need to know how far this security breach he caused goes."
"Got it."
Fury hung up and Clint slid the phone back into his pocket. He turned and watched Natasha as she handcuffed Williams to the pipe under the sink in the bathroom.
She stepped away from the still unconscious man and slid out of the bathroom, leaving the door open. Clint glanced around the room – a living room, it seemed – eyes falling on the man he'd used to cushion his fall.
He moved to the body, pulling his knife free as she joined him over the body.
"You okay?" He asked quietly, wiping the knife on the dead man's shirt. He had no idea how many guards she had to fight off up there – but other than a few bruises blossoming on her face and a cut above her eyebrow, she seemed okay.
"Bumps and bruises – I'm good. You?"
Clint nodded.
"I'm fine."
He sensed Natasha's doubtful frown and forced himself to smirk.
"Shaken and stirred from that fall, but I'm good."
She nodded slowly, eyes calculating. Clint stood and looked up at the skylight. Of course a rich-blooded house like this had to have high ceilings. His back ached at the memory of that fall.
Natasha's hand on his arm drew his attention again.
She was holding out his bow and quiver.
"Stumbled on these while fighting the good fight up there. Figured you didn't want to leave them lying around."
Clint huffed a slight laugh, hand ghosting over the shallow cut on his chest as he remembered his quiver strap getting severed. He'd forgotten about losing his weapons once he'd come face to face with Williams.
"Now what?" Natasha asked, grabbing his wrist and twisting it to get a look at the bloody cuts and scratches he'd gotten from the glass.
"We wait for Williams to wake up – and then we have a little chat."
End of Chapter Seven
Whew...Clint was "this" close to just ending it all right then and there...good thing he brought Natasha along :)
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"It's justice – for the life you stole from my daughter!"
Clint forced himself to appear unaffected when in reality just the mention of Brianna Williams nearly gutted him.
"Attacking a SHIELD base is justice? You gonna try and sell that? I think all the dead SHIELD personnel would disagree."
Williams shrugged.
"Collateral damage is an acceptable sacrifice for the greater good."