S.H.I.E.L.D. HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CITY
8:20 P.M.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Barton paused outside the office door. He shifted the handles of both full mugs precariously into one hand and knocked. There was movement inside the room, and, after a moment, Max opened the door. His face brightened.
"Barton! Hey, man, how's it going?"
"Hey." Barton tried to smile. He held out one of the coffee mugs. "Two sugars, right?"
"Yeah, that's perfect! Thanks." Max took the mug and motioned Barton into the office. "Come on in!"
Barton followed Max inside and closed the door behind them. The room was in its familiar state of comforting disarray; warm lamplight illuminated the clutter of papers, folders, and writing utensils strewn across the desk. Whatever project Max had been interrupted from seemed to involve a collection of oddly shaped pebbles, which were aligned neatly down the centerfold of a notebook full of Max's enthusiastic scrawl.
Max settled in behind his desk, blowing lightly on the surface of his coffee, and Barton eased himself into the spare swivel chair.
"So," Max said at length. "One year today, huh?"
Barton blinked, surprised that he had remembered. And that he already seemed to understand that Barton just needed to talk.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"Is it?" he said wearily. "Yeah, I… I guess it is."
Max waited, quietly sipping his coffee, until Barton spoke again.
"I just… want to know that I'm… not crazy," he said, staring into his dark coffee. "'Cause, y'know. Everyone else seems so sure that she…" He trailed off, rubbing the rim of his mug with his thumb. "I mean, everyone else seems… used to the idea now. I think even Coulson's accepted it." He looked up at Max. "I just—Am I crazy? For not believing it?"
Max shook his head. "You're not crazy, Barton. No more crazy than I am," he said with a knowing smile. "Look, you and I both know that Agent Romanoff would never betray SHIELD. She has her reasons for everything she's done. We just don't know what they are yet."
Barton looked down, tapping the side of his mug. Max was probably right. He had told himself the same thing countless times. And yet doubt tugged at him.
"But what if she's not?" he wondered aloud. "She did kill those men. Good men. And I just don't know what kind of—" He broke off, fumbling for the right words. "I mean, if she's still loyal to SHIELD, what kind of job would require her to kill innocents? The whole point of SHIELD is to protect people. And there's never a good reason to kill innocent people, no matter how important the job is. So if she's doing that, how could she possibly be on our side?" He looked desperately up at Max, needing an answer. It was a question he had struggled with for months now, a question that brought a knot of apprehension to his stomach.
Max looked thoughtfully at him, the lamplight reflecting off his glasses.
"I mean, at first I thought, maybe they weren't good men," Barton went on. "Maybe there were moles in SHIELD and she was cleaning house. But why keep that to herself? Why not tell Coulson and Hill?" Why not tell me?
Max was swiveling his chair back and forth, stroking his beard.
"So then I thought, blackmail. Maybe somebody has something on her and they're using her." He frowned. "But the thing is, this wouldn't be the first time someone tried to blackmail her. And the other times, she told me. She didn't just… roll over and take it. She did something about it. And I just can't fathom why she wouldn't do the same thing in this case, if it was a blackmail situation."
Max squinted reflectively and took a sip of coffee.
"And then there's the weapons thing," Barton went on. "I kept getting hung up on why she left all her weapons at the safe house. But if she was meeting up with someone from her past, it makes sense. Maybe they didn't fully trust her yet, thought she was gonna spy on them for SHIELD, so they made her leave her weapons behind."
Max set his mug on the desk. "Well," he said, folding his hands. "I do have some theories that might help explain some of that stuff, if you're interested in hearing them."
Barton smiled faintly. "Love to."
"Okay, just—" Max chuckled self-effacingly. "Just keep in mind these are coming from the office crazy guy. They might sound a little out there to you."
Barton shrugged. "I'm all ears."
If nothing else, hearing Max's insane theories might cheer him up a little. It was nice to have someone else so determined to believe in her innocence, however unconventional his approach.
"Okay." Max sat back and crossed his arms, clearly eager to relay his theories to a willing ear. "So, my first theory is kind of obvious: demonic possession."
Barton raised his eyebrows, amused.
"You talk about blackmail and control… Well, maybe Agent Romanoff is being controlled, but from the inside. I mean, straight-up killing people with no apparent motive? That's some classic demonic-possession shit right there."
Barton made a noise of assent and took a sip of coffee.
Max folded his hands behind his head and looked pensively at the ceiling. "Also, it's worth mentioning that these demons may actually be aliens. There's scientific evidence to suggest that there's an extraterrestrial species that can basically project its consciousness into other sentient beings. No doubt you're familiar with the literature. But anyway." Max made a dismissive gesture. "I digress. So my second theory is… basically Bigfoot."
Barton quirked a bewildered eyebrow, and Max held up his hand.
"Now, I know what you're thinking: Didn't Bigfoot die in World War Three? But just hear me out. So what if—" Max broke off abruptly and snapped his fingers. "Oh. Hang on. Before I get into the Bigfoot Paradox, I've gotta show you some more evidence for my first theory." He swiveled to face his computer and tapped it to life. Barton rolled his chair closer as Max flipped through several files.
"So, I was going through some of Agent Romanoff's old field reports to look for clues and I came across this." He pulled up a video file which showed STRIKE Team: Delta frozen mid-fight in a parking lot, surrounded by a thick knot of thugs. A time-and-date stamp in the lower right-hand corner placed the date on the 22nd of August the previous year. Barton frowned at the pixelated image.
"That's the day I got shot."
Max nodded. "Yeah. Have you seen this?"
Barton shook his head.
The security camera footage was predictably low-quality, and a nearby streetlamp was the only light source. Barton leaned in to watch as she fought off four men at once, punching, kicking, and shooting seamlessly. She knocked the biggest guy out with a well-placed blow; another guy seized her from behind and she swung her legs up, trapping the neck of a third guy between her thighs, and as she twisted her body, causing the two to stagger and topple to the ground, she aimed her pistol, and he saw the muzzle flash just before she tucked into a somersault and came up on her feet—
In the background, he saw himself lurch and crumple to the ground, clutching his calf. And suddenly an alarm sounded in his head, and he went rigid.
"Wait," he said tersely. "Rewind that."
Max backed up the clip several seconds and replayed it in slow motion. Her legs flipped up and closed around the thug's neck, and as her body twisted over, she aimed and fired, and Barton fell to the ground, shot.
Max paused the clip and looked at him. Barton stared dumbly at the screen, waves of heat and cold running up and down his body, his stomach turning over. For a moment he refused to believe what he had witnessed.
"She shot me," he said dully. His chest compressed oddly; for a second he actually felt light-headed. This couldn't be happening.
"Yeah!" Max sounded almost excited. "See, this fits in perfectly with my demonic possession theory! So if some sort of entity took over her body…"
Max kept talking, but Barton wasn't listening. He was staring blankly at the image of himself collapsed on the ground, her gun pointing at him…
"Hey. Barton? Are you okay?"
He had somehow gotten up and was standing with one hand on the doorknob. He felt strangely dizzy.
"I gotta go," he said quietly.
He left.
THE LANDMARK TAVERN
NEW YORK CITY
11:23 P.M.
Outside the windows rimmed with colored lights, a steady snow was falling. The flakes that darted into the cones of light emitted by the streetlamps winked and glittered. Paired with the sparkling Christmas tree and garlands draped across the liquor shelves and tabletops, the atmosphere should have felt straight out of a snowglobe.
Barton took another swallow of whiskey, feeling the heat slake down into his stomach. Around him, the chatter of the other patrons was becoming more garbled, tangling with the overplayed Christmas pop blaring through the speakers.
So she had shot him. Then let him believe one of the hostiles had done it. Why? He couldn't think of a single good reason why she would have done this—nor why she would have killed Bill Segen, nor Rich Morris. And if she'd had a good reason for having a private communications line with Russia, why hide it? Why go out of her way to prevent SHIELD from knowing about it? The more he searched for justification for what she had done, the more the evidence seemed to point to one answer.
He took another drink. He glanced out the window again, and inadvertently locked eyes with a gorgeous woman sitting at the end of the bar nearest the window. Quickly he shifted his gaze forward again.
Great. She's going to think I was staring.
He buried his face in his glass, inhaling the fumes as he drank. The sweetness seemed to evaporate on his tongue.
"Like what you see?"
He half-turned. The woman had approached and now leaned sideways onto the bar on her elbow. She tossed her dark hair to one side, sharp eyes regarding him from under slightly intense eyebrows.
He looked away. "I was watching the snow."
"Well, I'll try not to be too disappointed." Her gaze stayed on him as he took another drink. She had a slight accent – Southern European? Maybe Turkish. "Sure you wouldn't rather look at me?"
Again he turned to eye her, this time with slightly more intentionality. She was certainly in the upper echelons of women who'd approached him in bars: tall, curvy in the right places, smooth skin, full lips, captivating eyes. She arched an eyebrow at him. "So? What do you think?"
He turned back to his glass. "I think if I say what I'm thinking I'll have to relinquish my feminist card."
She chuckled, and it sounded genuine. "So gentlemanly." She leaned in closer, dropping her voice. "But what if I want to hear all the ungentlemanly things you have to say about me?"
Hard to pass up a walking fantasy, harder still to muster the energy to do anything about it. Had he ever flirted with a woman this stunning? Was this flirting? He realized this was the part where he was supposed to say something. Damn whiskey, addling his thoughts. On the other hand, had he ever tried to flirt sober?
"Hey." She grabbed his shirt front, pulling him around to face her. Hard to think straight with those eyes on him. "We don't have to talk," she whispered. "Come on."
She tugged his shirt, and his weight thudded heavily onto his boots as he half-jumped, half-fell off the barstool. She took his hand and led him away; he trailed dumbly after her. A door squeaked as they entered a bathroom, she pulled him into a dim stall, and he heard the latch click.
With her back to the wall, she pulled him up against her, and then they were kissing. Somehow his hands found her waist. She was warm and soft, and the smell of her perfume mingled with alcohol chased all else from his mind. He felt her slide his leather jacket off his arms and it hit the floor. She helped him take off his shirt, then pulled off her tank top over her head. Her hands slid down his torso, and he kissed her jawline, her shoulder. When was the last time he'd done this?
"Still can't believe you're missing the New Year's thing. Sucker," he teased as he hobbled next to her towards the parking garage. "It's gonna be a party like nothing you've ever seen."
"Like nothing I've ever seen? So you're getting laid?"
"You're a real asshole, you know that? You're damn lucky I have this crutch."
She looked back at him, laughing, her green eyes sparkling. He could see her breath.
He dug into his pocket for his keys, and his car chirped, headlights blinking on. "Take it easy, yeah?"
She touched his arm, still grinning. "Goodnight, Barton."
He tried to hide his surprise as she walked away. Maybe, if he played it cool, she would touch his arm again next time…
"What the hell?"
He blinked. He was standing shirtless in a public bathroom stall, forehead pressed to the wall, Christmas pop still blaring overhead. The woman he'd been making out with glared up at him. How long had he been standing like this?
"Did you fall asleep?" she demanded.
Did he? He didn't think so. He couldn't remember when he'd stopped kissing her…
The woman ducked under his arm and began yanking her shirt back on over her head, still glaring at him. "I'm sorry, I just came here to hook up, I can't deal with—" She gestured at him "—whatever this is."
The door creaked open and he heard her heels clicking away, and he had no reason to stop her.
After a moment he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shake the haze from his mind. He found his shirt by the toilet and tried to unfurl it. It seemed to be tangled in complicated knots, and in the end he wasn't at all confident he'd put it on right. He pulled on his jacket and slouched out of the tavern.
Outside it was freezing; the glittering snowflakes were falling more heavily. He tucked his cold hands into his pockets and trudged down the empty sidewalk, heading home.
He couldn't remember why he'd wanted to get drunk, and that was a good thing.
All around him, the snow kept swirling.
This upload is for the guest reviewer who asked for an update. :) Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm so glad to hear you're enjoying the story, and I hope you liked this chapter!