MONTE CARLO, MONACO

3:30 P.M.

TWO MONTHS LATER

"Post Three to Hawkeye, we got potential hostiles moving in from the northwest."

Barton cursed softly and wriggled forward on his stomach, peering through the latticework that separated the attic crawlspace from the open air. Just beyond the outskirts of the town, a hazy cloud of dust rose from the earth, moving steadily closer.

Barton tapped his comm.

"Roger, Post Three. Let me know as soon as you got confirmation."

"Copy that."

Barton shifted painstakingly back to his scope, his hair brushing the low ceiling. The sun pierced his eyes through the narrow interstices, creating a neat gridwork on the walls. Sweat soaked his uniform and tickled the center of his forehead.

Barton adjusted his scope, angling it toward the oncoming cloud. At the heart of the reddish haze, something glinted and winked in the harsh sunlight. The hum of approaching motors sounded on the heavy air.

McLane's voice crackled in his ear again.

"Post Three to Hawkeye, that's target confirmed, please advise."

"Standby for further," Barton muttered, peering through his scope. A fleet of motorcycles materialized from the dust, engines growling as they swerved into the main square. The leaders skidded to a halt, kicking up clouds of red dirt, and the others careened to a stop around them.

The two-dozen-or-so riders began to dismount their motorcycles, kicking their stands into place and silencing their engines. Barton noted the assorted weapons among them: pistols, automatics, the odd machete. They did not remove their helmets, likely seeking the anonymity and protection the shaded visors promised.

Rubin's voice sounded in his ear.

"Post One to Hawkeye. Do we have time to evacuate?"

Barton grimaced and glanced at the oblivious townspeople below, wishing they'd known ahead of time that the terrorist gang would make an appearance. He ran a quick analysis: evacuating the town now would alert the gang to their presence and could prompt a shootout prematurely. As it was, there was still a possibility of stopping the attack before it began.

"Negative. Hold your positions," he said aloud. "We still got a chance of ending this before things get ugly."

Below, the gang stood in a cluster, holding conference. Barton supposed they must have a more structured plan of attack today; unlike with several recent uprisings, they hadn't rolled in shooting indiscriminately. A bank on the street corner caught his eye—perhaps that was their target? No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than one of the gang members gestured toward the bank, bolstering the theory. Through the glass storefront, Barton could see that the bank was currently full with customers, and his mind thrummed with urgency.

Best to intervene before they could act on this plan.

Barton raised a hand to his ear. "Report status and prepare to engage."

"Target acquired, Post One standing by."

"Target acquired, Post Two standing by."

"Target acquired, Post Three standing by."

"Target acquired, Post Four standing by."

"Fire on my command," Barton breathed, eyes never moving from his scope. "Three—Two…"

The last word died on his tongue as his eyes caught a flash of familiar color through the crowd. One of the rebels had turned her back on him, and bright red hair flowed down from beneath her helmet…

Barton's chest contracted, and he sat up so fast that his head hit the ceiling. He peered through the scope again, heart throbbing painfully. It had to be—the hair, the height, the proportions, it was all right.

Fuck. It's her. Oh fuck, it's her.

"Barton?" Rubin's voice snapped him back to the situation at hand. His men were awaiting his command to fire, weapons trained directly at—

Shit.

"Hold your fire," Barton stammered. "Shit." He scrambled backward on all fours until he felt the opening in the floor. He dropped lightly into the empty room below.

"Barton, what's going on?"

"Just wait!" Barton snapped, charging through the empty apartment. He found the emergency exit in the back, flung open the door, and began racing down the fire escape. The sun beat down on his head and shoulders, and the iron handrail burned his fingertips.

"Barton, we need to stop these guys before they start shooting innocents, now do we have the go-ahead or not?"

"Negative! You wait on my signal!" Barton yelled back. "Stay. Put."

His boots beat heavily on the metal staircase as he turned another corner and jumped to the next landing. Another floor down, and another, and another, and at last he hit the ground and ran the length of the building, circling toward the front.

"On my command!" he shouted as he ran up the shaded alley. He emerged in the sunlight and tore across the crowded square, knocking into shoulders and vaulting over food stands. Angry vendors shouted after him.

"Barton?"

His men were doubtless watching in bewilderment as he raced toward the terrorists, located Romanoff, and ran straight at her. They looked up in surprise as he neared; several of them reached for their weapons.

"NOW!"

Barton threw himself at Romanoff as the air erupted in gunfire, screams, and pounding footsteps as passersby ducked and ran to safety. He knocked her to the ground, landing heavily on top of her, and the force of his leap sent them rolling over and over across the hardened earth before coming to a halt. A fresh onslaught of bullets peppered the ground around them, and Barton flung himself bodily over her prone form, shielding her from the attack, pressing her into the hard-packed dirt.

The firefight shifted away from them, and Barton propped himself up over her, heart skittering in his chest.

"Romanoff, you okay? Romanoff! Shit." He fumbled hastily with her chin strap, fingers slipping on the buckle, and finally wrested the helmet off her head.

A pair of puzzled brown eyes stared back at him from over a nose that was dusted with freckles, and his stomach swooped sickeningly.

"I… I thought…"

The woman frowned at him and said something in French.

Barton stared blankly at her, feeling numb.

Then she clocked him hard in the jaw.

The world around him somersaulted as he rolled off of her, dazed, jaw pulsing. Through a haze of pain he saw her reach for her pistol, and this movement jolted him out of his trance.

He lunged for her, hands closing around her wrist just as she seized the gun, and they rolled over in the dust again, her free hand snatching desperately at his while he held the muzzle firmly away from himself. She grunted and gasped as they struggled; somehow she got her finger on the trigger and fired three shots in quick succession, trying all the while to aim at him.

With a mighty twist, he wrenched the gun from her hand, but before he could use it, her arm came up and knocked it free again. She flipped him over and pinned him at the shoulders, knee digging into the center of his stomach, but he swept her off sideways, landing her hard on her back. As he got to his hands and knees she was up again, knocking him backward a second time, this time pressing her forearm into his windpipe, twisting his arm over his head with her other hand. Barton gasped and spluttered for air, trying to shove her off one-handed, but she stared down at him, relentless. He grasped frantically at the ground for purchase, and, miraculously, his hand brushed the gun.

The woman swam dizzily before his eyes as he gripped the barrel and struck her hard in the head. She crumpled instantly, collapsing on top of him, and he could breathe again.

Barton rolled her off of him and got slowly to his feet, panting. For the first time, he became aware that the shooting had stopped, that many gang members lay bleeding on the ground while those remaining stood with their hands raised, their weapons at their feet as SHIELD forces closed in, taking them into custody. The shootout had been short-lived; the civilians were safe again.

Barton was dusting himself off when Rubin jogged up to him, frowning.

"Barton, what the hell was that?" he asked. His puzzled gaze slid to the redheaded woman lying motionless on the ground.

Barton ignored the question.

"We're gonna need to contact local law enforcement, let 'em know what went down. Chances are they're gonna want at least a verbal report out of each of us before we head back to HQ," he said brusquely. "We may need some medics, too—ask around, see who needs injuries treated. Be great if you could get on that."

Rubin hesitated, glancing once more at the stationary woman.

"Barton…?"

"Don't ask, Rubin," Barton said shortly, scowling. Frustration gnawing at his insides, he turned on his heel and slouched away.

S.H.I.E.L.D. HEADQUARTERS

NEW YORK CITY

11:02 A.M.

Sunlight slanted through the windowpane ahead as Barton strode down the hallway. The glass walls at either side offered glimpses of busy SHIELD agents—sitting at desks, typing at computers, answering phone calls.

Not far ahead, Barton spied his team seated around a conference table in a room on the right. Several glanced up as he neared, and when he stepped into the open doorway, Coulson looked up from the far side of the table.

"Barton. Glad you could join us," he said, starting toward him. Before Barton could respond, he added more quietly, "A word before we start the debriefing?"

Barton nodded and stepped back as Coulson joined him in the hall, closing the door behind them. He turned to face him.

"Rubin told me what happened in Monte Carlo," he said, his voice dropping to an undertone.

Barton crossed his arms and frowned, feigning confusion. "Lot happened in Monte Carlo. Don't know what you're referring to."

"He said you delayed the hit order when the target was in your sights so you could pull a hostile out of the line of fire," Coulson said bluntly.

Dammit, Rubin.

Barton shrugged, fumbling for an excuse. "Diversionary tactic. Thought if their attention was on me, snipers could take out more of 'em before they caught on."

Coulson nodded. "Interesting. He also mentioned this hostile was a woman with red hair."

Barton glared at Rubin's profile through the glass wall.

Coulson rubbed his forehead. "I'm not going to pretend I don't know what's going on here," he began.

"So what?" Barton cut in, scowling. "So I mistook her for—someone else. What's your point?"

Coulson's brow creased. "Barton, you put civilian lives at risk. If those hostiles had started shooting—"

"They weren't going to," Barton interrupted. "If they just wanted to stir things up, they'd've started shooting the second they rolled in; no, they had a plan. They were going for the bank; saw 'em eyeing it across the square."

Coulson raised his eyebrows, clearly taken by surprise.

"Rubin didn't mention that, huh?" Barton said bitingly. "Wasn't exactly time to tell him."

Coulson folded his arms, considering this. "So… you made a guess," he said finally. "You still gambled innocent lives based on a hunch."

"I made an observation, reached a conclusion, and acted accordingly," Barton snapped, glowering at him. "Didn't realize that was a bad thing."

"So if you hadn't realized the bank was their target, you would have opened fire without hesitation?" Coulson asked pointedly.

Barton glared at him. "I don't—Does it matter? I saw the police report: zero civilian casualties. Everything turned out okay, didn't it?"

"This time," Coulson returned, stepping forward. "Barton, I just want to know that your concern for Natasha Romanoff isn't getting in the way of your work."

Barton exhaled and scrubbed his face with one hand, recognizing defeat.

"Look, what d'you expect me to do?" he asked finally, looking up. "Just—watch her get shot without intervening?"

"I expect you to do your job," Coulson replied. "And I expect you to use your judgment when making decisions in the field, not your feelings."

Barton dropped his head, working his fingers through his hair. Regardless of circumstances, he would stop at nothing to protect her. But he understood Coulson's concern. Calculated though it may have been, holding fire had still been a risk.

At last he raised his head. "Okay. I get it. Next time, if there is a next time, I'll think before I act. I'll be careful. You have my word."

Coulson nodded his approval.

Barton moved closer. "But you should know that I would put everything on the line for her," he said fiercely. "Fucking everything. I will protect other people when I can, but she comes first. And I won't apologize for that."

Coulson merely looked at him for a long moment. Then he sighed and massaged his forehead again.

"I'm impressed by how completely you missed the point of this intervention," he said, "but I guess that's the best I can hope for, for now." And then, "Alright, let's go. They're waiting on us."

He turned, and Barton followed him into the conference room.

Thank you for the reviews - especially from Lina and Flickerflame8. It makes me so happy to know that people are following along and enjoying. Anyone who still supports Clintasha in 2023 are my kind of people!

Please forgive my inaccurate representation of Monte Carlo, Monaco, and my apologies if you ever visit expecting it to look like the Old West. By the time I realized my mistake, the details were so interwoven with the plot that it would have taken a major surgery to correct it - and I loved this chapter too much to do that!

Happy Easter, by the way - hope you had a great day. :)