A/N
There were SO MANY great prompts this year in the be_compromised promptathon –some of them, taken together, almost created their own story. And so I decided to turn them into a 5+1 but of course I ran out of time, so it's only a 4+1. Do I still get a cookie?
Here are the prompts, and the story parts they belong to:
Kiss_me_cassie: "I'm intrigued; the last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared.'" (1) BURN
Kiss_me_cassie: "It IS a gun in my pocket and no I'm not pleased to see you." (2) LEAP
Inkvoices: "Stuck in an airport (due to delayed flight, cancelled flight, mission...). Shenanigans ensue. (3) LOUNGE
Inkvoices: "Doing a mission in, or coping with, excessive heat." (Bonus: mission related to doing something about the climate change problem.) (4) HEAT
Gsparkle: "Enemies with benefits." (+1) HOLD
xxxxx
1 Burn
"The thing about cartels," Clint muses as he slashes the fence open with his katana, "is that they take themselves too fucking seriously. I mean, here they are, heaping death and misery on thousands of people - but kill just a single one of them and, rather than chalking it up to the cost of doing business, they declare thermonuclear war."
"Oh, I don't know," the redhead replies and follows him through the opening. She turns and lobs something from her right wrist at the goons that are following them; there's a shriek of pain and two of them fall gracelessly to the ground. "The last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared. What you see here is just the Pavlovian response of minions who haven't realized that they're basically bush league."
It's a fair point, actually; scattered gunfire from people running after them. Zero planning, even less finesse.
"I'm intrigued," he says, not bothering to duck anymore as they run; those morons can't even shoot straight, or else their heart's not in it. "You often have people after you?"
It had been a bit of a surprise, finding another operative at Valdez' hacienda, but SHIELD intel often sucks; at least they'd both been after the same target, if likely for different reasons. Bonus: the unexpected competition is highly skilled and drop-dead gorgeous; someone Clint wouldn't mind having coffee - or even a one-night stand - with under different circumstances.
"All the time," she says, dispatching a couple of enthusiastic servants of the late Señor Valdez with two single shots from her Glock. "Because I'm good at what I do and that makes people jealous. You?"
"Eee-yup."
Clint chuckles as he remembers just how many vengeful goons had already fried themselves on the electric balcony railing of his Manhattan apartment; the SHIELD clean-up crew has started to raise a ruckus. Not to mention that time when…
But by now they've reached Valdez' airfield, and sure enough, there's a Beechcraft King Air parked on the runway. Candy Airlines, ready to play Bad Santa.
"Look at that baby," he says. "Beats hacking your way out of the jungle with a machete, huh?"
"You offering?" she asks.
Clint has the feeling that if he'd say no, she'd just be getting on that plane regardless and drop his cooling corpse into the Andean jungle. But it isn't fear that makes him nod; this woman is unlike anyone he's ever met and he finds himself unexpectedly keen to extend their acquaintance.
"Absolutely!" he says. "Professional courtesy. Plus, I'll need help dropping the cargo out the window when we get out over open water; wouldn't want to land with that in Miami."
"Deal," she says. "I'm all about letting the sharks have some fun."
Clint snorts and fires at the truck that's heading their way, complete with screeching tires and imprecise gunfire from the passenger window. His arrow punches through the windshield and releases a cloud of purple gas; the truck careens off its path, straight into a jacaranda tree whose shower of blossoms matches the smoke.
"I love purple," he says smugly when he notices her trying to suppress a raised eyebrow. "Let's hope they've already gassed this thing up."
As it turns out, they have – the fuel indicator shows enough juice to get the plane all the way to Miami.
Even better, it has a functioning autopilot, which comes in handy when they chuck the bags of cocaine overboard through the back hatch. And even more so right after that, when Clint finds that he needs both hands to deal with his gorgeous passenger's tac suit, since his own is already in the process of being unceremoniously ripped off. Before he can say condom, she's astride his lap in the pilot's seat, moving slowly and deliberately with him deep inside her; the noise she makes when he takes one of her nipples in his mouth almost drowns out the engine.
"So where did that come from?" he asks when they are both able to breathe again. "My magnetic personality? The intoxicating smell of cordite?"
"Adrenaline," she says, wriggling back into her skin-tight tac suit. "I just don't usually have someone handy to help me burn it off. So don't flatter yourself."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, zipping up his own. "But glad to be of service - anytime, really."
She flashes him an unexpectedly cheeky smile as she reaches for the parachute hanging by the cabin door.
"See you around, maybe?" she says, heading for the back of the plane, before adding, "I've always wanted to see the Florida Keys. Miami, not so much."
He laughs and doesn't bother to look if her chute opens.
xxxxx
2 Leap
Natasha has finally reached the inner sanctum of Walter Blatnyk's mansion.
The place where, according to her client, Blatnyk keeps the records of all the people he's invited to his "Island of Pleasure": A global Who-is-Who of powerful men whose tastes, were they to become public, would end careers, crumble business empires, and in at least one suspected case, affect a royal succession.
Her client hasn't told her just why he wants the records – to remove his name, or to blackmail others who are on it? No matter. Blatnyk's operation will be collateral damage and that will be a bonus.
She casts one last look at Blatnyk's consigliere, the man who'd been so keen to impress the red-haired beauty that he'd agreed to leave he party and show her the Great Man's sumptuous office. He now sits in a crumpled heap on the couch where he'd hoped to collect his prize, his neck in a position incompatible with human life and his face terminally twisted in a predatory leer. Pig.
Natasha wipes her hand on her satin dress and tries the door. To her surprise, it opens with the slight push.
Inside, a man is bent over an enormous antique desk, riffling through a drawer. He's wearing a tuxedo, nicely moulded to a pair of impressive shoulders. Halfway across the room lies a body with a knife embedded in his eye; if it weren't for the expensive-looking carpet soaking it up, there'd be a pool of blood.
At the movement of the door opening, the man straightens and reaches into his pocket. Had he not heard her talking to her wannabe seducer? His face...
His face is one that she should probably have forgotten, but that for some reason has embedded itself into her memory banks – filed under Encounters, Close with a cross reference to Don't Think Too Much About.
"Well, hello there," Natasha says brightly. "Fancy meeting you here."
His hand stills at the sound of her voice and he looks straight at her. The expression on his face is unreadable – something for which she silently gives him credit.
"Yes, that is a gun in my pocket, and no, I am not pleased to see you. As you can see, I'm busy working."
"So am I," Natasha replies, "I'd say you keep that gun in your pocket, and I'll keep mine…well, where I keep it. Maybe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement here."
He relaxes his muscles a fraction, but she is almost one hundred percent certain that it's just to enable a faster reaction should she make a move, not a dropping of his guard.
"That depends," he says, his fingers still in his pocket. "You work for Blatnyk?"
Natasha raises an eyebrow, but otherwise makes no move.
"Oh, please," she says. "For a spy, you don't seem to appreciate context. If you look over my shoulder, you'll see his Number Two in a very compromised position. Even if I did work for him, that would probably get me fired. So, no. I don't work for Blatnyk."
She moves – no, sways – aside a little to give him a line of sight. His eyes shift a little to the side to look over her shoulder, before fixing on her face again. If he noticed the swing in her hips, he gives no indication of it; she respects him for that.
What he says next, though, surprises her.
"I don't claim to be a spy," he says. "I'm more the leave-the-party-then-find-the-window-and-steal-shit guy. Or the go-to-the-front-door-and-blow-shit-up guy."
"We all have our skill sets," she says, noting the open window. The fact that he managed to get in - and eliminate whomever he might have surprised inside - without raising a ruckus, suggests that he's in fact very good at what he does. "I assume you're here to steal the same thing I am?"
He still hasn't moved, just stands there like a coiled spring, ready to explode. Obviously, their past encounter hasn't caused him to lower his guard. For that, too, she respects him.
"Possibly," he says cautiously. "Assuming you work for someone, is your client into arms deals?"
She frowns. No, her client hadn't mentioned that.
"Blackmail, actually. Sex with minors. My client wants Blatnyk's plane manifests."
"Ah yes, heard about that," he says. "Intriguingly, the people who order around the people I work for don't seem so interested in that. No time to care about little girls, I guess. Or maybe some of them are on those lists."
For the first time in their – admittedly brief – acquaintance, he breaks out into a grin. It makes him look a lot younger and more attractive than she'd care to admit. She punches the thought down; if he can set aside the memory of their last meeting, then so can she.
"So this is our lucky day - there is operational space for both of us here. I got what I need. You've probably have about a minute to get yours before the minions will get here. Cracking the password probably set off something."
She rolls her eyes at him.
"Thanks," she snorts and heads for the computer. She steps carefully over the still-bleeding body; no point wrecking her Jimmy Choos.
"At least I already logged in for you," he says smugly as he makes room for her at the keyboard.
Not too much room, though; he looks over her shoulder as she slides in her USB stick and zips through the files. She can feel the heat from his body.
"You smell nice," he says.
He does, too, actually. The tux seems to come with an appropriate aftershave.
"You clean up well yourself," she says, punching in a few commands. The Download Complete window comes up just as thundering footsteps are approaching from the corridor outside the office.
"Good thing one of us thought to lock the door to the anteroom," she says. "That'll slow them down by ten seconds or so. How were you planning to leave this time?"
He grins again.
"The window comes with in-and-out privileges," he says, makes three quick strides towards it and jumps out.
Three floors? she wonders briefly but shrugs, tosses her shoes out the window, and follows. To her surprise, he's still there when she lands, but doesn't make a move to break her fall.
"Nice landing," he says approvingly and hands her the Jimmy Choos.
He steps into the shadows on reaches under a nicely manicured box plant and pulls out a…bow and quiver? He nocks an arrow; the explosion that follows effectively stops the goons about to shoot at them from the window; but more are now pouring from a pair of French doors onto the terrace. Natasha drops the shoes, reaches under the skirt of her dress and pulls out the Glocks strapped to her thighs.
"I don't suppose you know if Blatnyk keeps some of the weapons he sells here?" she asks while picking off minions one by one. "Might as well amplify those magic arrows of yours. I'd start with those basement windows over there."
"Good thinking," he says and lets fly. A series of cascading explosions later, the mansion falls majestically in on itself while they make their way to the parking lot without any further pursuit.
"It's always the basement," Natasha says as she breaks into a brand-new looking SUV. She gets into the driver's seat; fair is fair - he drove the last time. "These types lack creativity."
"Unlike you, I suppose," he replies, his voice suddenly hoarse. He relaxes into his seat, ignoring the occasional bump in the road, but she can feel his eyes on her; her skin prickles under his gaze as they ride in silence.
A few miles down, a small side road seems to head towards a wooded area; Natasha cranks the steering wheel over. She drives until the car is no longer visible from the road, turns off the engine and unclips her seatbelt.
"So how creative are you prepared to be?" she purrs.
xxxxx
3. Lounge
About the only good thing you can say about the Star Alliance lounge at Heathrow is that there are two floors, meaning you only need to look at half of the bleary-eyed people in it at any given time. Clint tends to hang out on the top floor, close to the food trays, so he can see when fresh stuff gets delivered rather than risk eating 18-hour-old unrefrigerated mayo. (That one time in Yerevan was more than enough.)
He loads up his plate with the freshest-looking bites, a couple of packs of Walker's shortbread, and, with a heavy sigh, grabs a bottle of water. Coulson always points out that he's technically on the clock as long as he's travelling on SHIELD's dime, so booze is a no-no; in exchange, though, he usually lets Clint get away with claiming for meal expenses even if there's edible food on the plane.
Clint casts a look at the list of upcoming flights and…fuck. The flight to Reagan International is delayed. By two hours. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He shrugs his backpack into place and heads to what looks like an empty corner; last thing he needs, after dismantling a good chunk of Albania's ruling mafia family (with maximum prejudice), is some tourist sharing his insights about which Thai beach resort offers the best 'pretty massages'. All he really wants is peace and quiet and a spot of levelling out.
Problem is, when he gets there, the corner isn't empty after all: Spread out lengthwise on the bench backing into the room, and apparently napping, is a woman.
Not just any woman, either. A rather complicated one, whose name he doesn't know, but with whom he is by now somewhat…intimately…familiar. Including the knowledge that she is extremely flexible and that yes, she is a natural redhead.
The last thing Clint needs right now, though, however tempting, is complicated. He scans the other seat groupings, but there are heads poking up over seats everywhere. Well, Devil you know, and all that - at least she won't regale him with tales of Phuket.
"This bench taken?" he says and sits down without awaiting the answer.
She doesn't move, nor does she open her eyes.
"Would it matter if it was?" she says. "I mean, you are a professional killer."
Clint sets down the plate of goodies, dumps the backpack on the seat beside him and unscrews the bottle. He takes a long sip, swallows, and says, "I don't usually bump off people just for a place to sit. The paperwork would be heinous."
She swings her legs off the bench and sits up even as Clint mentally kicks himself for giving away intel. Needless to say, she hasn't missed the giant, fuming, pulsating clue he's just dropped for free.
"Paperwork? Do tell - you work for government then? Isn't that kind of…limiting?"
"It has its moments," he says, glowering at the water bottle. "Free healthcare is good."
"Fascinating," she breathes. "Because when we met before, you were entirely on your own. No extraction, no comms, no transport, no back-up, no nothing. Why I thought you were a fellow freelancer."
"Yeah, well," he says. "I like doing my own thing on ops. More wiggle room that way. Thought you, of all people, would appreciate that."
She grins at that, a smile that does something to his gut that he doesn't want to think too much about, let alone analyze. Shit, that woman has a way to get under his skin...
"Do your bosses know you use that wiggle room to fuck the competition?" she asks blithely and that whole not thinking too much thing goes right out the window. Clint shifts in his seat and takes another swig of his water, trying to look nonchalant but painfully aware he's probably not doing that very well.
"Not sure they'd care," he says, desperate to regain his equilibrium, "As long as it doesn't show up on my expense claims."
She looks at him from under those unfairly long lashes.
"What would you say to doing it again? Airports are so boring, and I'm stuck here for six hours."
The conversation is rapidly veering into the red zone, especially in a public place full of the CCTV cameras the Brits love so much. Seeing an opening that might lead towards safer ground, Clint jumps through with both feet.
"Not quite that long for me," he says, resisting an immediate look at the board to figure which flight she might be on. "Also, I'm not sure you and I would work out without the adrenaline."
She leans forward in her seat. There is something in her eyes he can't identify, but it sure triggers something else in him - at a minimum, the desire for a bigger vocabulary so he could name it.
"Well, time is relative. And adrenaline? That can be arranged. Would you like to play a game? Guaranteed to bring up your energy levels."
Damn, she is good. And, frankly, his desire for peace and quiet is disappearing as quickly as his interest in a spot of entertainment is growing.
"What kind of game are we talking about?"
"It's called spot the mafioso."
"That's no fun," Clint frowns. "That's work. I just spent three days doing that professionally. I think I spotted around thirteen of them."
"Oh," she says, the sultriness gone and something approaching respect sneaking into her voice. "Tirana? That was you? And here I am supposed to take out the guy who the survivors of your little frolic think was behind it. He's coming in on the SwissAir flight from Zurich in…," she checks her watch, "an hour."
The conversation having taken a slightly ominous turn, Clint feels compelled to ask a question.
"So how much wiggle room do you have with your assignments?"
She gives him one of those smirky grins that do unexpected (and inconvenient) things to certain parts of his anatomy.
"If you're asking me whether I have discretion about who's my target, the answer is no, I do not. My clients are…very inflexible, which probably explains their most recent misfortunes. And I like to get paid."
"Oh, good," Clint says, not bothering to hide his relief. It's one thing hanging out with a fellow professional in the lounge, quite another having to fight them off. Especially if the alternative is…well. "So who is it? Anyone I know?"
She smiles.
"His name is Ardit Marku, hitman for the Berisha family. No one knows what he looks like, though, which makes it interesting. Also," she waves her hand vaguely around the room, "we're in an airport, so no guns and lots of witnesses."
Clint perks up.
xxxxx
It's actually uncanny, their ability to work together. They spend just minutes in the gift shop to buy the necessary supplies and spot the person who just has to be Marku as soon as he emerges from the gate.
"Testosterone overdrive," she says, pointing at a bull of a man, with a four-o'clock shadow and a walk like he's used to have guns strapped to his hips.
Clint agrees but is both appalled and offended.
"Do your clients seriously think that this unibrowed thug could have done what I did? The nerve."
But she's already gone, stalking her way over to her target.
"Zotëri Marku?" she says in a sultry voice (which, Clint is relieved to note, is nothing like any of the tones she has used on him, not that she's talked to him in Albanian).
"Po?" Marku says, confirming his identity and sealing his doom.
xxxxx
On their way back to the lounge, Clint can't help but ask.
"So what would you have done if you hadn't run into me? Purely professional interest – zero doubt you'd have taken him out on your own, of course."
"I'd probably have used these," she says, holding out her set of matching bracelets. "They give very convincing heart attacks, and you just put them in that plastic box when you go through security."
"Huh," he says, making a note to tell Fitz back at Headquarters.
"But don't worry," she continues, "Those paperclips were pretty cool. Do you ever miss with those?"
When they get back to their seats – carefully preserved thanks to two artfully displayed leather jackets – Clint's flight to Reagan has been pushed back another hour; hers, to what he guesses to be Buenos Aires, is still on time.
But there's another thing that's good about the Star Alliance lounge at Heathrow: it has large showers. Very large showers, cubicles of aquatic pleasure complete with fluffy towels, where weary business travellers can wash off the smell of airplane fuel and the resentment of long delays. Or, as the case may be, where they can rip off each other's clothes, throw them in a corner and…
Under the steady drum of warm water, he lifts her up and pins her back against the wall, surprised at how little she weighs. She hooks her legs around his hips and, with full confidence that he will hold her, allows her arms to open wide and her head to fall back against the wall, as time and space narrow to a single point.
xxxxx
4 Heat
They keep running into each other time and again, either trailing after the same target or congregating a place where the options are virtually endless. Sometimes they collaborate ("I have a really cool idea for this one!"); most of the time they just get out of each other's way ("yeah, not interested in this one, have at it," or "go ahead, do your thing - I just need a photo of the corpse"). And when they're done with whatever they'd come to do, they have interesting, athletic, invigorating and immensely satisfying sex.
That last bit, in fact, is the single most reliable constant in their encounters, as is the lack of discussion as to the nature of their relationship. So is the fact that they have yet to tell each other their names. Some things are better not said out loud.
Their meetings seem almost unavoidable, given that they move in similar circles: awful people who need killing (him) and awful people who order people to be killed (her). The result is a Venn diagram that forms almost a disc. Of course, Natasha knows – and she suspects he does too – that it'll be only a question of time until they will find themselves on opposite sides.
That time comes in Azerbaijan.
Normally, June is quite pleasant there, but this time, she arrives in the middle of the same heat wave that's been gripping Europe. Temperatures are soaring into the mid-40s by mid-day and the breeze coming from the Caspian Sea feels like those coming off the Persian Gulf by late summer, with zero cooling quality coming from the water.
Natasha is walking along the promenade to stretch her legs after a long flight, when she sees him running towards her. Running. Not walking. In shorts and a tank top, with expensive looking trainers, so not only does he appear to be doing it voluntarily, but also on purpose and with planning. People along the promenade are shaking their heads as he passes them.
"Are you crazy?" she asks him as he comes to a stop in front of her, his breath only a little bit elevated, but his face is pink and dripping and his tank top soaked in sweat in mute acknowledgment of the heinous weather conditions. "Or just trying to win a wet t-shirt contest?"
"I come here at least once a year, so I'm trying to get a rep as one of those idiot tourists," he says, like her eschewing any kind of greeting. He takes a deep sip from the water bottle he's holding in his hand. "Is it working?"
"Yes," she replies. "Most definitely. Much of Baku probably thinks you should be committed, present company included."
"Great," he says, cheerfully. "Happy to hear that. You staying at the Fairmont?"
"Of course," she nods. "Functioning A/C is the bomb, even if it means to stay at the Flame Towers. Lunch at the bar on the 19th floor?"
He gives her a thumbs up and a wave with the water bottle as he runs off. Natasha just shakes her head.
Americans really are nuts.
xxxxx
Given that there is little to do that doesn't involve getting a heat stroke, lunch turns into the first time they're actually having sex before setting out on their respective assignments. In a hotel, on a bed (her bed), almost like normal people. It's languid and slow, rather than frenzied and breathless, and when previously he has been happy to follow her lead or picked her up and slammed her against a wall, this time they take their time exploring each other's bodies - in full daylight and without the need to get rid of inconveniently located weapons. He ends up doing things with his tongue, something Natasha has only ever allowed the occasional female partner to do to her, that has her seeing galaxies usually only visible via the Hubble telescope.
It's actually quite nice and she tries very hard – not succeeding all that well – to avoid thinking that she could get used to this. For a moment, after she comes for a third time, she is even tempted to ask him for his name, but she suspects his answer would be a lie, like hers would be, and so she doesn't.
"I assume you're here for the Oil and Gas thing?" he asks, much later, as he steps out of the shower, scrubbing his spiky hair with a monogrammed towel. Natasha spends a few seconds appreciating the view before responding: Chiselled abs, cut – but not artificially bulked up – shoulders, smooth unfurry skin, nicely endowed. Plus, he knows what to do with it all. Maybe that's the reason she hasn't actively looked for alternative male companionship since Colombia?
"I am," she says. "It's a target-rich environment. One can make a fortune here."
"No shit," he replies, pulling on a pair of red boxers. Natasha vaguely recognizes the exuberant little black-and-white dogs as coming from a famous cartoon; for an international master assassin, his taste in underwear is surprisingly uncool. "Half the guys here are under sanctions by the other half, or they hate each other's guts because of something that happened in, like, 1352."
"That was actually the time of the Black Death," she points out. "People dying in droves, even without wars."
"Well, isn't that just a grand ol' metaphor for the fossil fuel industry," he says, gesturing at the window where you can see the afternoon heat shimmering over the City. She nods; he's not wrong.
"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who or what you're here for," she asks, "so we can avoid complications?"
"Hah, no," he says. "Classified. You?"
"Oh, no. Nope. Can't mess with clients. Bad for business."
He wriggles into a black t-shirt that accentuates his biceps and pecs rather nicely. She is almost tempted to ask him to stay for another round, but her client is on an accelerated timeframe, and she needs to get dressed and her war paint on.
"See you when I see you?" he asks, as has become usual for them - but with a smile that's a bit different than his usual insouciant grin. It twists something up inside of her that she knows is better not to name.
"If I don't see you first," she gives the usual reply, wondering whether he'll catch the difference in her own tone.
xxxxx
The Caspian Oil & Gas Exhibition is an annual gathering of titans, professionals, and so-called thought-leaders of the fossil fuel industry, people for whom climate change is an inconvenience to be paid lip service to, before being ignored in the name of prosperity. Exhibitor booths display the latest in extractive equipment, pipeline construction, and innovative methods to wring the last drop of fuel from a groaning planet; they might as well be arranging deck chairs on the titanic while waving the iceberg to come over.
President Aliyev of Azerbaijan is in attendance, of course, peacocking around a flock of eager sycophants. For a moment, Natasha idly wonders if that's who her … whatever they are … colleague? … is after, but given his government affiliation, assassinating a sitting head of state may be a bit fraught. Besides, the proposed expansion of the South Caucasus pipeline has the potential of weaning Europe off Russian natural gas, which she is pretty certain is something his employers will applaud.
Well, there is no point in wasting time to guess what he is here for; she has her own job to do.
At the sight of her strapless summer dress, her target licks his lips. Heydar Mammedov's appetites are as crude as the oil spilling from the ancient rigs that ring the Caspian Sea, spelling doom for its ever-declining seal and sturgeon populations.
"You don't see many beautiful women in this place," he says. "Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?"
She beams at him and is just about to say 'yes' when a voice sounds from behind.
"Oh, here y'all are, honeybuns," the voice says, in the most drawling of Texan accents. "Ah've been lookin' for y'all. The nanny called – two of the triplets are havin' the croup and the third ain't hardly breathin' at all. Can y'all call her back? She sounds really desperate."
And with that, a hand with by now rather familiar callouses pushes at the small of her bare back, maneuvering her past a slack jawed Mammedov and towards the exit.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hisses. "I'm working!"
"So am I," he says, without even the grace to sound apologetic. "And as much as he probably deserves it, that guy is not for killing. My job, regrettably, is to see him finish this conference alive, so he can sign some rather important papers."
Natasha stops walking and turns to face him.
"Well, maybe you'd like to explain that to my client? Oh, never mind. I'll just go to Plan B and kill him the old-fashioned way, in plain sight. And I would recommend that you not get in my way again."
He takes a deep breath and says, "Maxim Trevelyan."
Natasha stills and looks at him, careful not to give anything away.
"That's right," he says, more softly, and this time she thinks an apology might be creeping into his voice. "My job is to ensure that Mr. Mammedov survives until he signs over his personal chunk of Azerbaijan to the consortium that's building the South Caucasus pipeline expansion. So my target is Maxim Trevelyan, who'd rather it run through his bit of Armenia. I assume, based on your interest in Mammedov, that Trevelyan's your client."
"Shit," she says. "Let's get a drink and talk this through."
xxxxx
"The things that bug me about all this," he says, swirling his glass and making the single ice cube clink off the side, "is that whoever runs that pipeline, that shit will just heat our planet even more. I really don't think my bosses have thought this through. On top of that, if there's a tussle between Armenian and Azerbaijani interest, it doesn't matter who wins, you or me. 'Coz either way, all you need is light a match and Nagorno-Karrabakh turns from frozen conflict to red-hot war. And…then…the…Rush-sh-ans…will…"
His voice peters off as the two roofies in his glass kick in, sped along by a nice and peaty Talisker.
"I'm afraid my husband has had a bit too much to drink again," she informs the waiter who comes running to catch him as the world's second-best assassin slides off his chair, muttering something vaguely profane. "Would you mind taking him to my room and putting him on the bed? He does this a lot, I'm afraid. I can't go with you though; one of us has to look after our business here."
Natasha gives the waiter her room number and makes a note of the time; ninety minutes should be enough to complete her assignment, get paid, grab her stuff from her room and run before he wakes up.
Heydar Mammedov succumbs to a heart attack precisely eleven minutes later. Aware that she is on the clock, she calls Trevelyan – still apparently hale and hearty, as he answers his phone himself – gives him the agreed codeword for "mission accomplished" and asks to see him on an urgent basis.
When she enters the room he'd indicated, though, he is not alone.
"Allow me to introduce my colleague, Ivan Petrovich," Trevelyan says, his lugubrious tone bordering on oily as he waves at a short, obese man whose puffy, bloodshot face speaks of too much booze and not enough exercise. "A countryman of yours, I believe. He is most grateful for what you have done. Not only have you completed your own job admirably, but you have also removed a major obstacle to our own plans."
Petrovich gives her a Cheshire cat smile.
"Indeed. Here's to LukosOil increasing its share in the South Caucasus pipeline expansion. Stability in the Caucasus is a nice thing to have, but war is so much more lucrative, isn't it - especially where the interests of the Motherland are concerned. Спасибо, госпожа Романов."
Trevelyan reaches for his briefcase.
"A job well done, Miss Romanoff. Four gold bars, as agreed. And a fifth, to dispose of the man you knocked out in the bar. It should be easy, not really worth quite that much, so consider it a tip. In any event, we cannot afford witnesses."
Natasha nods and pulls out her Glock. She fires two shots in rapid succession before picking up the briefcase Trevelyan has dropped.
"So true," she says as she closes the door behind her.
xxxxx
+ 1 Hold
"I figured I'd see you here. Defence and Security Equipment International – where arms dealers come to spawn. And yes, that arrow is ready to fly. I can hold it like that for hours."
The all-too-familiar voice comes from beside one of the smaller exhibition booths, a dealer who sells small, specialized kit like night goggles, comms equipment, drones capable of who-knows-what, sniper rifles, and the like to anyone who wants it, no questions asked. They're mere meters away from the ginormous display put on by Stark Industries, but she knows as well as he does that in the buzz and echoes of the cavernous convention hall, no one will overhear their conversation.
He is in full tac gear, like when they'd first met in Colombia. Reflecting visors cover half his face, evidently to thwart any facial recognition measures, and the bow in his hands has evolved several geological ages past that of Robin Hood. At the world's largest arms fair, he blends right in: An exhibition piece come to sleek, menacing life – hiding in plain sight amid the collective display of lethality that is DSEI.
Part of Natasha wishes she'd thought of that, instead of the I'm an important potential buyer get-up she'd put on just an hour ago, complete with its highly impractical shoes.
"What's with the sudden aggression?" she says. "I thought we were friends."
"I think of us more like enemies with benefits," he says, the lines of his mouth taut and not betraying any feelings he might have on the matter of their past entanglements. "Especially after that little stunt you pulled in Baku. I had a headache for days."
"You do realize they offered me a whole gold bar to finish you off?" She sounds defensive even to her own ears, but with an arrow pointed at her larynx Natasha is not above a little bargaining. "And I didn't."
"One gold bar? That's not actually a lot," he says. "I feel insulted. I suppose you gave them a discount 'coz I was already out cold?"
"I didn't give them nothing," she shoots back ungrammatically, a little riled at his attitude. "You may have noticed that you're still walking and – regrettably - talking."
She notices that his bow hasn't wavered through this entire absurd exchange. He's probably right – he can hold it like that for hours and stand there like a statue while he does so. In fact, a Japanese businessman walks up just then and tries to take a photograph of the sculpture with the odd-looking weapon.
"I'm a prototype. No photography allowed," the high-tech archer says, adding, for good measure, "Now go fuck off, or this arrow will find you. It's AI empowered."
The man scampers off into the Stark exhibit in a panic, looking over his shoulder a few times as he does. Natasha can't help herself and starts giggling, impending death be damned.
"That was so rude," she manages to get out. "That poor civilian. But are you going to kill me now, or what? And what is your side paying you to off me – thirty pieces of silver?"
"We haven't discussed Christmas bonuses yet," he says. "It's only September."
Is she seeing things, or are his shoulders starting to shake just a bit?
"But bringing down Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow, ought to be good for a small reputational bump."
So he – or his organization – have figured out who she is. Maybe he has always known? No, she decides; this is new. He must have kept her appearances in his life under wraps, until that clusterfuck in Baku had made it impossible.
"I actually have a better idea," he continues doggedly. "Since you did not, in fact, kill me, I've decided to forgive you. Mostly, anyway."
"Then why are you still pointing an arrow at my throat?"
"Because I haven't forgiven you that much. They charged me for your room, since you told the waiter I was your husband. Anyway, here's my idea: Come work for my agency. My handler always tells me I could use a partner – remember that back-up thing you noticed I don't have? And compared to the scum you've been working for, they're not so bad. And…"
He hesitates a bit before he speaks again, probably aware that he is this close to babbling now.
"…We'd be able to take coffee breaks together. We have those in Government, you know, in addition to healthcare, pensions, and paid holidays. Although I never take those. I probably should. Oh, what the hell. What do you think?"
Natasha has stopped giggling. Her current contract is to take out a rival for a major arms deal for Bulgarian AR-M1s and a few hundred MANPADS; her client will probably resell them to anti-government militias in Central Africa. Having at least some ethical guardrails, however limited, might be refreshing… (Not to mention the possibility of back-up against the Red Room, which has never stopped pursuing her and is the main reason she's been running for several years now.
"Are you serious?" she asks. "They've told you to kill me, and you want to bring me home instead? The last organization I worked for would have iced you for less."
He lowers his bow.
"Baku makes for a decent sales pitch, I think. Certainly did for me - despite that roofie headache you gave me, and the one I got when I had to explain the extra room charge to Accounting."
"And your bonus for killing me? You'd have to kiss that goodbye, no?"
The tautness around his mouth is now completely gone, in its place is that grin she has come to …like a lot over the past year or so.
"We can always split that gold bar you didn't earn either."
He flips up his visor.
"I think an introduction is in order. Name's Clint Barton, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."
She grins back.
"Coffee breaks sound lovely, Clint Barton, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."
xxxxx
The next few days pass in a blur. Natasha returns her client's advance payment before they leave London (because who needs more enemies?) and spends a terrifying week with intake interviews, skills assessments, psych evals, and assorted other HR shenanigans that almost make her reconsider her decision to follow Clint to Washington.
Clint.
The name fits, somehow, as does his call sign, Hawkeye. She wonders whether he feels the same way, thinking of her as Natasha, rather than a nameless sometime companion in assassination?
Her musings are disrupted by the senior agent who's been leading her around the Triskelion for the last two days. Phil Coulson, he'd said his name was.
"Director Fury thinks it would be a good idea to partner you with Agent Barton, at least for your probationary period," Coulson announces blandly as he passes over the contract for her to sign. "I should warn you – Barton has a reputation as a bit of an adrenaline junkie."
Natasha smiles at him guilelessly.
"I'm counting on it."