#fic:long

When she got to SHIELD, fresh out of the Red Room program, Natasha had never made her own decisions, never been in charge of her own time. And suddenly there she was, an agent who was facing the most dangerous foe she'd ever seen--the revolutionary idea of weekends, of time to be herself. For the first time in her life, Natasha balked, and she wasn't sure, later, if it was because she didn't know how to take a day off, or because she didn't know what self to be when the choice was left to her. How she managed to go six months with barely any days off, taking mission after mission after mission, wearing out partners and handlers and support staff, Clint wasn't sure. She probably had to make some promises, tell some lies. But she did it. And when Hill found out, she was furious that Natasha had managed to skirt the rules about mandatory rest and recovery after missions. But Hill's fury was never hot; never the safe kind that burned itself out on revenge. Hill was methodical and evil. She assigned Natasha to Strike Team Delta, because, she said, if Clint was going to recruit pain-in-the-ass agents, then Clint could deal with them himself. ➳ Read more

For several months he had tried to conceal the desire he felt for her whenever they are in close proximity but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. His desire for her would be his undoing and possibly the end of his career with SHIELD. He had made his peace with that thought some time ago and was content to sacrifice life as he knew it for he chance to be the one man she lit up for when she stepped into a room. Now however, she needed him more than she had ever needed him before and he was determined no matter the cost he would be there for her. ➳ Read more

"All right, Agent Barton. You’ve convinced Director Fury," Coulson said as he stepped back into his office. "You are to fly to Moscow and make contact with Agent Romanoff. Provide assistance with her mission if she deems it necessary." Swallowing a sigh of relief, Clint picked up the black folder Coulson slid across the desk to him. Natasha was in trouble. Well, she might be in trouble. She had been undercover in Moscow for the last month and a half, and she hadn’t made contact with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the last two weeks. So she might be in trouble, but no one really knew, and Clint wasn’t going to take any chances. This was Natasha, and Clint never fucked around when her safety was on the line. "That is your identity," Coulson continued, sitting with his usual precision of movement. "You are Alex Reynolds, the son of an American oil baron, and you are in Moscow for a series of meetings with a Russian petroleum company. This will leave your evenings free to visit The Pigalle, the club where Agent Romanoff is working undercover. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning." ➳ Read more

Sir Nicholas Fury, Slayer of Evil and Defender of the Realm, lay collapsed against a squat tree. Steve knelt in front of the wounded knight, squeezing water from a cloth into Fury’s mouth, but it was of no use. He was fading, and fading fast. A spear wound to his side had become infected. There was nothing either of his squires could do. “Barton and Rogers. Listen up.” Fury’s voice was gruff and authoritative, even as he approached death. “This land is a shithole, and if you stay here much longer you’ll be the ones at the receiving end of a spear.” He coughed, flecks of blood landing on his armor. “Tell me something I don’t already know, sir,” Clint said, hiding his grief at his master’s illness behind snark. Fury wouldn’t want tears. “Shut it, Barton. I don’t have much time left.” Fury took a steadying breath, then winced at the pain. “When I came here I had hope of lands and a wife if I served long enough. You two don’t have that. You do have my armor and my horses. Take them, and go on the tourney. Make your money from the noble bastards and get out.” ➳ Read more

“Clint!” His mother’s impatient voice snapped the boy out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the day’s current events. “Meet Lord and Lady Romanov.” They didn’t look any different than the usual stuffy nobles who visited his parents’ lands. With a huff, Clint sank lower into his father’s throne. Mother had promised this would be a special occasion when she’d refused to let him go with his brother and father yesterday to visit the Starks to the north. Why did Barney get to have all the fun? He was the oldest; he should be stuck at home, entertaining prissy lords and ladies and making alliances. It wasn’t like Clint ever had to worry about ruling. A small movement from behind the extravagant couple caught the boy’s attention. “This,” Lady Barton continued, “is their daughter, Natalia.” He felt his mother watching him as he studied the girl. She was young, younger than he, scarlet curls cascading haphazardly down her back, fitted in a green velvet dress to match the hue of her eyes. And she looked just as happy to be here as the boy staring back at her. Both Lord and Lady Romanov bowed courteously, but their daughter only crossed her arms, hardening her gaze stubbornly. ➳ Read more

Clint leaves it for two days, three days, a week, drowns himself in good vodka and bad calls, does his best not to think about it. He’s watched Natasha play this game before, post-apocalypse patch jobs—because that’s what this is, really, whether he’ll say it out loud or not. The end of the world can land hard even if the world’s still spinning; nothing quite like a good bout of mind control to remind you that you’re not in control at all. He leaves it for a week, seven aching days where he doesn’t speak to anyone, doesn’t read the news, hides his phone underneath the hotel mattress and doesn’t go outside. He leaves it for a week, because it’s supposed to be his turn, damn it; he leaves it for a week because he knows the truth, if he’s honest, suspected it the moment he woke up and knew it for certain when she let him walk away. A week is as long as he can let himself live in limbo, can play at excuses and drown it in drink. On the eighth day, he picks up his phone. ➳ Read more

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Clint stares at Fury as if the good Director has suddenly sprouted a second eye -- on a stalk. "S.H.I.E.L.D. actually expects us to take a live baby on a mission? An immobile, inarticulate, defenseless miniature civilian..." "... who isn't even toilet trained?” Natasha finishes his sentence, but her partner isn’t done. “And you want us to take that same baby into a situation where they’re not only exposed to dangerous criminal activity, but are actually the featured bait? Can’t you get R&D to give us a -- what’s that term they throw around down there – live model decoy? Seems appropriate enough, under the circumstances." Natasha invokes the final trump card. “Have you talked to Legal, whether S.H.I.E.L.D.’s third-party liability insurance covers cases of gross negligence by senior management? Imagine the law suit.” “I’m confident that you two can make sure that the kid is not actually in danger,” Fury growls, unmoved. (The bit about the insurance, Natasha notices, is left unaddressed.) ➳ Read more