"Listening." Clint hummed, leaning forward on his muscled forearms.
"Andres Bartolome." Phil started again, sliding a file across the always greased conference table.
"How'd he make his millions?" Natasha asked after she'd read his profile.
"Oil nanobots. He released them into the ground and within days they'd hit the jackpot. They paid him big for the blueprints but the bots malfunctioned within weeks. The government was on Bartolome for weeks until he fixed it. Except this time he wouldn't give up the blueprints." Clint read off. Phil nodded along with him. "That's where we come in?" Barton assumed. Coulson nodded again.
"His buyers took him to court, demanding the new blue prints and they lost. Ticked off some powerful people. He's got guards, of course, but one of our doubles notified us that Diego Efraim's going after him in a couple of days. Bartolome's got a daughter." He sighed, tone sobering dramatically. "Adalia Bartolome, she's seven."
"Wife?" Natasha asked, eyes remaining trained on the paperwork. Coulson shook his head – a sharp, empathetic motion.
"Coulson…" Clint growled warningly, studying the shifty, secretive expression on his friend's face.
"Efraim's a human trafficker." He sighed, lowering his eyes. Clint slammed his fists on the table, angrily stumbling out of his chair, threading his fingers through his hair in frustration as he paced to the wall. Natasha watched him warily, assuming correctly that he was thinking something along the lines of what she was.
Their last mission had dealt with a human trafficker – a sick man who marketed young girls. And they had failed. Thirteen little girls died on their watch. Thirteen innocent children.
"Efraim wants Adalia for leverage." Natasha surmised guardedly, not missing the way Clint's body tensed from where he stood in the corner of the room.
"We assume." Phil confirmed solemnly. "Barton, you'll ID as Bartolome's new personal bodyguard, and Romanoff, you'll pose as the girl's." They nodded acceptingly at their assignments, standing once they'd taken their files that they knew to contain their fake IDs, driver's licenses, passports and plane tickets. "Wheels up in two hours." They disappeared through the sliding door before Phil had a chance to dismiss them.
Natasha slipped ahead of her partner, her heels clicking irritatingly on the linoleum floor as she walked towards her bedroom. She heard the door to Clint's neighboring bedroom door slam shut, echoed by crashes and thuds as he demolished his bare SHIELD apartment in resentment. Natasha sighed, dropping down on her bed with an internal sigh as she began to study her file again.
Clint grunted as his fist shattered the third lamp he'd been granted this year, and he shook out his hand, effectively ridding it of the glass shards. He fell down on the bed, the springs groaning beneath the mattress. He rolled over on his side, staring down at the open file at his side. His thoughts kept wandering, unwillingly, to the Russian redhead in the adjoining room, only to be forcibly pushed away with warning bells ringing in his head.
"Clint…" Phil warned. Barton rolled his eyes, turning away from his handler. "Barton look at me." He ordered angrily, spinning Clint around to face him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "This –" he snapped, gesturing at the closed bathroom door behind them through which Natasha had disappeared. "-cannot happen."
"Phil," Clint growled under his breath, shaking his head fiercely. Phil ignored his agent's warning tone and continued mercilessly.
"If this happens, Barton, your SHIELD affiliation will be terminated."
"I know that Coulson." He hissed.
"And so will hers." Phil added.
"I know."
"If you're terminated, you will be put in federal prison."
"I know." Phil leaned forward, slamming his palm into the wall behind Clint.
"You don't Barton, you don't!" he shouted. "She'll be put back on the hit list, Clint. She. Will. Be. Assassinated. And not by you – by someone who doesn't see what you see."
Clint froze.
"And I can't protect you after that, either of you. And you can't protect her. It cannot happen."
Their argument ran through his head over and over like a broken record, gutting him every time he remembered that she would be assassinated.
"Times up, Barton." His partner's voice called through the door. Clint shot up in his bed, rubbing his eyes in confusion, wondering when he had fallen asleep. He scrambled off the bed, reaching for the door handle to let Natasha in. She stood there in all her glory, hair pulled up in a high-pony tail, unzipped SHIELD jacket showing her never ending curves. He groaned internally, forcing himself to look away. "What've you been doing for two hours?" she grumbled, pushing her way into his bedroom. He ran his hand through his undoubtedly messy hair. She raised her eyebrows and tapped her foot impatiently.
"Building a boat." He rolled his eyes, exhaling sarcastically.
"Cute." She chirped sardonically.
"If only you meant that, Romanoff." He smiled sweetly, winking flirtatiously. He didn't so much as pause when he heard the telltale click of her gun. She hadn't shot him thus far, and in that case probably wouldn't at any point in the near future. "Put the gun away, Tasha." He chastised exhaustedly. She leveled it with his head in response.
"If you don't stop calling me Tasha I will shoot you in the head. Twice. Without regret." She smiled innocently, cocking her head to the side. Clint mirrored her, then shot forward, parrying the weapon and twisting her wrist above her head, pinning her to the wall with his hips.
"If you were going to, you would've a long time ago." He rasped in her ear, tentatively touching his lips to her neck. She froze momentarily before she recovered. Clint chuckled when he felt the knife at his abdomen, backing away after one defying moment.
"You're treading dangerous waters, Barton." She warned.
"And you aren't?" he asked rhetorically as he shouldered his duffle bag, waving her out ahead of him.
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