31CHAPTER 4 –
'AND I WILL CHANGE MY WAYS'
Disclaimer - I do not own the avengers or any of the characters within it. Unfortunately.
So...hi *awkward cough*
So here is the next chapter..only a year and a half late...
(if you read to the bottom I will try to explain why)
My sincerest apologies for any spelling or grammar errors, I wrote this on my own and don't have a beta so mistakes are inevitable. Feel free to pull me up on them in reviews
Phil was no stranger to fear.
He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by it, first in the military and then with S.H.E.I.L.D. Even as a child fear had controlled a great deal of his life – as the son of a diplomat his parent's fear of a political attack had kept him almost always surrounded by high security and body-guards.
That hadn't changed once his parents were killed during an attack on a political conference and he had dropped out of Yale to join the military.
He merely transformed from the protectee to the protector.
Fear had never strayed far from him though, as both the targeted son of a diplomat or a soldier. It remained with him, surrounding him like a heavy fog – but never quite managed to touch him.
Since his parents death when he was only twenty Phil found he really didn't fear much at all.
Fear was still all around him in his work – but it could never quite dig its claws into Phil. He was a man with nothing left to loose, and therefore nothing to fear.
Or he had been.
The deafening echo of an explosion over the comms had brought with it a fear that burrowed deep into his chest, clenching around his heard and lungs until he couldn't breathe.
"CLINT!"
He'd covered the distance to the drop site in minutes, hurtling through the countryside in the jeep they had brought with them for the trip from Turkey.
He'd taken each corner wildly, and accelerated far more forcefully than he should have along the dirt roads that led to the drop site, but eventually he made it to the small bar just up from the crossroad.
Or what was left of it.
"CLINT!" He bellowed again, taking in the rubble, dust and not much else as he circled what remained of the bar.
He plundered through the wreckage wildly, tripping over large pieces of debris and cutting his hands as he shoved the rubble aside. He searched desperately for almost fifteen minutes, praying that he'd find nothing.
They could have gotten clear, his panic argued, Romanov had screamed for them to run and he'd heard glass shatter before the explosion. They could have gotten clear.
No matter how many times he thought the words – even said them out loud a couple of times in an attempt to convince himself – he still couldn't silence the more rational voice that echoed through his mind.
The blast was too big, it murmured over and over as his searching became more frantic. It was too wide. No one could have been fast enough to escape it completely.
The inner most circle of destruction, right in the centre of the bar, was dust. Nothing else had survived the initial blast. The rest, further away from the detonation site, was a minefield of large debris, half destroyed walls that had been blown free and dirty blond hair.
"Jesus Christ, Clint!"
He leapt towards what little he could see of the archer. Blond, soot mattered hair stuck out from a pile of rubble and dirt only a few yards from where Phil was searching. He was so covered in dirt, and half buried by debris, that Phil could only see his torso and mattered mop of hair.
'Clint!" Phil called again, dropping painfully to his knees beside the kid and trying to ignore the knot that was forming in his stomach when Clint remained motionless.
"God, please," Phil murmured, pressing shacking fingers against Clint's throat and leaning in close to the kid's lax face. Small puffs of breath hit Phil's check as his fingers finally picked up the steady beats of Clint's pulse, and for the first time since the explosion sounded in his ear Phil took a breath.
He was alive.
Banged up, but alive.
"Clint?" Phil called again, running his hands through the archer's filthy hair to search for any blood or lumps. There was nothing obvious so Phil's hands moved downwards, carefully starting to turn Clint onto his side while cradling the kid's head against his chest to keep him from straining his neck any more than he had too.
The slightest of groans met Phil's ears as he moved Clint towards him. Burns mattered the kid's left shoulder and back so Phil hoisted him closer so that he could lean against his chest, keeping the burns away from the ground. They weren't particularly bad, his tactical gear had protected his back from majority of the explosion, but the skin was raw and burning hot when Phil examined it a little closer.
"Clint?"
The groan grew louder.
"P-Phil?" The word was barely distinguishable between groans but Phil caught it.
"Yeah it's me kid." He said, running a hand over Clint's ribs for any breaks or cracks and coming up empty handed.
Phil didn't know how, but miraculously it seemed more and more like Clint had just escaped a massive explosion with a couple of burns, a knock to the head and a deep cut to the upper flesh of his left leg that Phil could spy through his torn cargo pants. The relief that came with that realization almost made Phil laugh.
Only Clint Barton.
"Can you hear me kid?" Phil asked, leaning down to try and get a glance at the archer's eyes to work out whether he was dealing a concussion or not.
"PHIL?" Phil flinched a little as the kid's shout rang in his ears. "PHIL? W-WHAT'S GOING ON?"
"It's okay – you're okay." Phil said but Clint's confusion didn't go away. Instead he just stared up at Phil through squinty eyes as if he couldn't hear a word he was saying.
Which, Phil realized after another moment, he probably couldn't.
"You're okay." Phil signed for Clint to see. "You were in an explosion, your ears are probably still ringing."
"MORE LIKE SCREAMING." Clint yelled, as he fought to sit up on his own. Phil helped heave him into an upright position, keeping one hand on the kid's shoulder just in case.
Clint took a good look around him a moment later, taking in the destruction with wide eyes, before all colour started to fade from his skin.
Phil leant forward, ready to catch him if he started to fall, but Clint seized a handful of his shirt and pulled him closer.
"Where's Romanov?" He croaked, fear clear in his eyes.
"I don't know." Phil answered honestly. "I've been searching through the rubble-"
"We have to find her." Clint cut him off, his hearing clearly starting to come back, rolling onto his knees in preparation of heaving himself to his feet.
"Whoa," Phil cautioned, pulling Clint back down with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No. Stay here, you're in no condition to be walking around. I'll find her."
"Phil-"
"I'll find her."
He left Clint half sprawled on the ground and continued on through the wreckage – throwing a glance back at the kid every so often to make sure he was doing as he was told – examining every inch of the site for any sign of the small assassin.
"Romanov?" He called, circling the area nearest to Clint. Likelihood was that she wasn't far away from him when the explosion occurred.
He searched for another couple of minutes – a tight knot forming in his stomach as he finished searching around Clint and started to head further towards the detonation site. If she were much closer to the explosion than Clint she wouldn't have been so lucky.
"Did you find anything?" Clint called.
"Not yet." Phil said, digging through a particularly large piece of debris. "She could be anywhere, this place is – Romanov!"
He had moved aside a large piece of wooden panelling, trying to clear the way further towards the detonation area, and underneath it was an unmistakable array of fiery red hair.
"Romanov?" Phil called again, dropping to his knees beside her and brushing her hair away from her face. It clung to her forehead where clumps of blood had set and stained her hair an even brighter shade of scarlet.
He was right. She hadn't been so lucky.
Phil pressed two fingers to the pulse point at her neck, leaning close to listen for any breath sounds, just like he had for Clint.
"Did you find her?" Clint called out again. "Is she okay?"
"She has a pulse, and she's breathing." A thready pulse, Phil corrected silently, and laboured breathing, but he wasn't about to say that to Clint. The kid would drag himself over if he thought he had too, and that wouldn't help anyone right now.
Miraculously it looked like she'd escaped any kind of burns despite the explosion, the large wooden board he'd found her underneath had evidently shielded her from the open flames.
Unfortunately the board had no been so kind to her skull.
Phil parted the crimson locks that stuck to the side of her forehead, inspecting a pretty grisly head wound that was still leaking blood, and ran a hand over her ribs to check for any breaks. A couple gave way slightly under his gentle touch – close to her left lung. That explained the laboured breathing.
He had to get her to a hospital.
Not that Clint was doing much better, he threw a glance back at the kid to find him straining to see Phil over the wreckage. He was too pale, and the fact that he hadn't completely ignored Phil and stumbled over meant that something must really hurt.
Phil turned his attention back to Romanov, as it was she needed more help than Clint if they were all going to make it out of this.
Despite his distrust – and plain dislike at times – he really didn't want her dying on his watch.
He slipped an arm under her small waist, ready to turn her onto her side gently just as he had done for Clint, but when he moved his other arm to steady her ribs as he moved her something hard and strong caught it mid-air.
It was a hand.
Phil glanced back up to Romanov's face to find her eyes open and attempting to focus on him, blinking rapidly as blood from her head wound stuck to her eyelids.
"It's alright." Phil said softly, pulling his wrist from her iron grip gently and holding both hands out for her to see. It seemed the best course of action if he actually wanted to keep them. "It's Coulson." He clarified when her eyes struggled to focus on him and she pulled away from his outstretched hands. "You were in an explosion and you've taken a pretty bad hit to the head."
When she gave no indication that she'd heard or understood him his concern spiked.
"Can you hear me?" He asked slowly, leaning further towards her despite the risk of her lashing out.
Her eyes rolled around them both – taking in the rubble and clouds of smoke that were still blossoming from several fires around them – before settling back on him.
"Barton?" She asked, her rough voice almost painful to listen too. She'd inhaled too much smoke.
"He's okay," Phil assured her, his nerves settling as she became more coherent. "A few minor burns, but nothing too serious." She nodded, but didn't relax. If anything the tension in her small frame was growing by the minute.
Her eyes were flickering towards an open fire a few yards from them and back with increasing frequency and the slightest hint of panic.
"You're in slightly worse shape." Phil went on and her eyes settled back on him warily as he moved towards her. "We need to get you both out of here and back to the base in Turkey." She nodded again, sliding her elbows up so that she could start to heave herself painfully into a sitting position. Phil reached forward to place a steadying hand on her arm but she flinched away roughly, hissing slightly as the sharp movement jarred her broken ribs.
Phil withdrew his hands cautiously but didn't lower them. "It's okay." He found himself saying again. There was a wariness in her eyes that he was more than familiar with now – there was almost always some form of wariness in her eyes when she looked at him – but this time was different. This time he saw the hint of real fear behind the wariness and his heart sank.
She really didn't trust him not to kill her while she couldn't even get up.
"It's okay." He repeated, reaching out again more gently and slipping an arm around her waist – supporting her broken ribs. This time he didn't pull away when she flinched, instead he moved closer to hold her against his side softly, holding the arm closest to him lightly to steady her. "I've got you kid."
And she was. God, she was younger than even Clint, and in that moment as she stared at him with guarded, slightly unfocused eyes and blood dripping from her forehead it was painfully obvious. His initial fear of what might happen to Clint because of her had blinded him slightly, but – although he wasn't about to confess it to Clint quite yet – he was ready to admit that perhaps he had been wrong to be so harsh. That his anger and callousness had done more harm than good.
After all, this was the second time she'd saved Clint's life.
"Alright? Up we go." Phil said, rising with her as she got back to her feet – supporting her weight as she wavered only slightly. "Easy," He cautioned as she started to move forward immediately despite the pained lines in her forehead.
She nodded slightly before pulling away from his grasp. This time he let her go, satisfied that she wasn't going to fall, but kept quite close behind her as they made their way back towards Clint slowly. Just in case. She didn't seem to mind though – only glancing back at him once as they walked.
It was progress.
It was slow going at the start but eventually they made their way back to where Phil had left Clint sitting upright in the rubble, waiting anxiously for them. At the sight of Romanov – with blood still dripping down her forehead and her torso rigidly still – walking only a couple of steps ahead of Phil the kid was on his feet before Phil could say a word.
"Jesus," Clint breathed, limping forward on his injured leg, as they got closer. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." She answered sharply, stopping a few feet from Clint's reach. The kid, despite clearly wanting to close the distance and take a better look at her himself, held his ground – knowing that pushing would get him nowhere quickly.
"Neither of you are fine." Phil said curtly, passing Romanov and reaching out for the kid, looping one of Clint's arms around his shoulders to take some of the weight of the kid's injured leg. "We need to get going. It's not a short drive to Turkey and I'd rather get you two to medical sooner rather than later."
"I'm good Phil." Clint assured, trying to pull away from him, but Phil wasn't having a bar of it.
He was just about ready to throw both of them over his shoulders and march them to the jeep if it meant getting on the road faster.
"Fine." He snapped. "Then get your ass in that jeep. Both of you. I've got to call this in and get a team in to search the tunnel and clean this up. "
"Aye, aye Overwatch." Clint chuckled before beginning to limp towards the jeep parked on the outskirts of the rubble, Romanov not far behind him.
Phil sighed, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket and beginning to dial as he followed his agents. He probably should have called a team in as soon as he heard the explosion, there would be hell to pay if the site fell into the hands of the Georgian government before S.H.E.I.L.D had a chance to look over it properly, but his reasoning skills hadn't been firing on all cylinders. Now that both his agents were in his direct line of sight it was easier to focus on the sudden turn of events and the procedures he had to follow.
He had to get a team in to examine the bar and the tunnel beneath it as quickly as possibly to see if they could salvage anything from the debris. Perhaps this mission had not been as futile as they first thought. If there was something in the tunnel that might lead them –
Crack.
"Ugh, Overwatch." Clint voice echoed in the silence as all three of them froze almost at the edge of the debris, throwing wild glances into the woods around them. "What was that?"
"I don't –" Phil began only to be cut off by another, louder, crack.
"It's coming from below us." Romanov said, moving her feet cautiously as she examined the ground more closely.
There was silence for another moment.
Crack.
All the blood drained from Clint face as his head snapped up to meet Phil's wide eyes.
"Oh, crap." The archer muttered.
And then they were falling.
The sensation of clawing his way to consciousness was not a foreign one to Clint. As sad as it sounded, he was actually getting used to waking up with a splitting headache and no fucking clue where he was.
It was probably a sign that he seriously needed to rethink his lifestyle.
"Mmph." Clint groaned, forcing his eyes open and rolling painfully onto his back. Dust was still settling on the concrete around him so Clint knew that he couldn't have been out for long, a couple of minutes at most.
His visioned cleared up after another couple of seconds and Clint heaved himself into a sitting position, taking in his surroundings. Phil was only a couple of feet to Clint's left, already well on his way back to awareness if the groans coming from him were any indication.
"Phil?" Clint called croakily, the dust in his lungs making him sound like a fifty-year old chain smoker.
"Clint?" Phil called back, turning onto his side so that he could face Clint. "You hurt?" Ever the mother-hen.
"I'm good." Clint assured him glancing around them both, taking in the whole in the ground above them. "What the hell-?
"We're in the tunnel."
Romanov's voice cut Clint of mid-curse and his head whipped around to find her a few feel across the tunnel to the right of him and Phil, brushing off the dirt that clung to her blood stained cat-suit.
"Huh." Clint nodded, mostly to himself, taking in the dimly lit tunnel before turning to a clearly disgruntled Phil Coulson. "You did say you wanted a team to check out the tunnel." He reminded the older man.
"This was not what I had in mind." Phil snapped back, rising to his feel with only a small grimace as he put weigh on what looked like a swollen ankle. He, took, took a good look around them before letting out a resigned sigh. "But I guess we're down here now…"
"The room we saw through the drop-box is that way." Romanov said, also on her feet now, nodding at the path in front of her. "If there's any evidence down here that might give us an I.D. it'll probably be in there."
Clint groaned as he rolled painfully to his feet, the cut along the side of his left leg screaming at him with every twitch. Phil reached out to steady him but Clint shook his head, forcing his legs to stay beneath him out of sheer force of will.
And anger. Quite a bit of anger.
"You think the engineer's down here?" Phil asked once Clint was steady, stepping a little further away to give him some space – but not enough that he wouldn't be able to catch him if he started to sway.
"No." Romanov answered firmly, starting down the tunnel towards the drop-box room, leaving Phil and Clint to follow her. "He wouldn't risk blowing the bar if he was this close."
"I agree. Something unexpected might happen." Clint grumbled, dusting himself off as much as he could before starting after the redhead. "Like the fucking tunnel collapsing."
They trudged through the tunnel in single file, Romanov leading the way, with Phil in the behind her and Clint watching their backs, until after only a few minutes of walking the tunnel came to a sudden end.
A dark, metal door stood at the very end of the tunnel – blocking their way into the drop-box room – and all three of them paused at the sight of it.
"It doesn't look locked." Clint said after a moment of silence, eyeing the door suspiciously.
"We're dealing with a bomb maker." Phil said tensely, taking a hesitant step forward to examine the door more closely. "I'm not worried about whether it's locked."
"If something detonates in here – in this small a space – we're going to be obliterated." Romanov said in an eerily calm tone, as if she was discussing real estate values rather than their possible annihilation.
"Good to know." Clint replied with an incredulous shake of his head before stepping forward to Phil's side. "What do you think Overwatch?"
"I can't see any obvious tampering or wiring – but the engineer's good so I doubt I would." Phil reported solemnly. "What about you? See anything suspicious – DON'T!"
It was too late.
Clint – who had been examining the walls and floor while they spoke – had reached around him and seized the door handle before swinging the large, metal door open.
Both Phil and Romanov froze, tensing as the door slid open to reveal an entirely bomb-free room before them.
"All good," Clint began sticking his head inside the large room and removing one of his desert-eagles from it's holster. "No boom."
"How did you know it wasn't rigged?" Phil rounded on him, practically fuming. "You did know didn't you? If you just-"
"If the engineer was going to attach a bomb to anything it would have been the hatch," Clint pointed out, nodding towards the open drop-box that hung from the ceiling, which Romanov had broken open earlier. "It makes more sense as the door's more secure and the buyers have more contact with the hatch. It's more vulnerable."
Clint had wandered inside the room as he spoke, taking in the few tables and single lamp that made up its contents. Romanov followed him inside after a moment – examining the room for herself – with Phil trailing behind her.
"Not much here," Phil said, moving to the opposite side of the room where a small tunnel led away from the drop-room and further away from the bar. "We should keep going, the clean-up crew's going to be here in an hour or so, and we don't want to be down here when they start clearing it."
Clint led the way through the small room, with Phil and Romanov following close behind him, and entered into the small tunnel that led off from the empty room. It was smaller than the last – narrower and posing a real risk to Clint's forehead with its low hanging roof – but unlike the last it wasn't empty.
In the middle of the room sat another small table, on which different mechanical tools were scattered, and underneath was a fair sized pile of American cash. Even from across the room Clint could recognise some of the marked notes that He and Romanov had left.
"Think this is the work-station?" Clint asked.
"No." Phil said, picking up a couple of the tools and taking a closer look at them. "They'd need more equipment than this. This is probably just for modifications, and storage. Whoever they are-"
"-Lazare Nakani."
Both men's attention snapped to Romanov, who was standing in the far corner of the room examining something that was hanging from a small hook in the wall. Clint stepped closer. It was a Georgian Military uniform.
And the name Lazare Nakani was clearly printed across the breast pocket.
"We have a name." The pure astonishment in Clint's tone just about summed up their night.
"We have a name." Romanov repeated.
Clint shot a glance in her direction. In the pale light of Phil's phone she was ghostly pale. The only colour on her at all was the clumps of blood that had set across the entire left side of her face. She looked like shit.
The dampness and constant throb in Clint's leg left the impression that he probably looked no better.
"We need to get out of here." Phil said from behind him, as if reading Clint's mind. "The clean-up team with bag, and tag, all of this."
Clint nodded, glancing around the room one last time. Memorising it. "We need to get to the base in Turkey and figure out where to go from here."
Phil's clipped tone echoed in the small room.
"The only place you two are going is medical."
"God, would you stop poking me." Clint growled at the medical intern. "That leg's fine. It's the other one that has the damn hole in it."
It had taken them a few hours to reach the Turkish base by car, and by the time they did the sun had been rising. They'd no sooner arrived before Phil marched them both down to the infirmary to be looked over. Clint had been seconded by nurses and pushed into an emergency treatment room for his leg. He assumed the same had had happened to Romanov – she'd been sent off to be looked at as soon as they had arrived as well, and he hadn't caught even a glimpse of her since.
They'd left the underground workshop as it was, to be bagged-and-tagged by a clean-up crew, and then sorted through. Hopefully they would have some good leads within the next few hours – all that was left to do was butter Phil up a bit, so that the man would let he and Romanov out a little early and they could finally finish this.
As if reading his mind the older man appeared around the curtain that was shielding Clint's bed from view, and moved towards him.
"What's the verdict?"
"I'm fine-" Clint began, only to be cut off by the gruff, senior nurse at his side. Rude.
"A pretty deep laceration to the left leg, and a few burns that will require some constant attention for the next few weeks – but all in all not dire." The man shot Clint an unamused look. "Unfortunately." He muttered.
Clint shot him a glare. Asshole.
"Good." Phil said, either not hearing the off-hand comment, or choosing to ignore it – likely the second. "Because we have to talk about where to go from here." Phil shot a look at the nurse, and a moment later he and Clint were left alone.
"How do you really feel?" Phil asked, moving a little closer to the bed and running his eyes over Clint a little more thoroughly.
"I'm good, Phil." Clint sighed, pulling himself upright so he could sit on the bed with his legs hanging over the side. "Really."
"Okay," Phil accepted, with a small nod. "Then we need to talk about our next move – because as of a couple of hours ago our bomber is in the wind."
"Yeah." Clint huffed, running a hand through his dirty hair. "He wont come back to the drop site now – not even for the money. And he probably didn't leave a forwarding address." Clint added.
Phil fell silent for a couple of seconds, just enough to arouse Clint's suspicion.
"Phil?"
"No forwarding address, no." Phil said slowly, the gears spinning in his head almost visible in his eyes as they stared at Clint unseeingly. "But he will have to leave a way for his clients to contact him."
Without another word Phil disappeared back through the curtain. Clint hastened to follow. Ignoring the disapproving glare he received from his nurse for his efforts, Clint trailed along behind Phil. They moved only a few feet up the hall before Phil tore back another curtain and stormed in on…nothing.
The bed was pristinely made, and empty.
Phil's face paled dramatically and, before Clint could even get a word out, he rounded on a passing nurse. The woman drew back at the suddenly very irate Phil Coulson.
"Where is the agent I left here?"
"A-agent, sir?" The nurse stuttered.
"Yes, agent." Phil clarified, getting more frustrated by the minute. "Short. Red hair. Blood everywhere. I sent her down here to be looked over."
"No one has come down here-"
"She did. I watched her walk-"
"-What's going on."
Romanov appeared, quite literally out of nowhere, at Clint's shoulder. He jumped just slightly – and then scowled at the small smirk on her face. Damn. That explosion had really thrown him off his game.
"Where the hell were you?" Phil rounded on her. The nurse took the small opening that his distraction offered and made a break down the hall. Disappearing through set of double doors.
"Getting cleaned up." Romanov said, slightly defensive. There was a hint of confusion in the words though – as if she couldn't quite understand why Phil was asking.
Why he might care.
Clint looked her over critically. The gash on her forehead that had been leaking blood for hours had finally been stitched closed. She's clearly showered – and it had done wonders. No longer covered in blood she actually looked like she was in more-or-less one piece. There was some pretty significant bruising on her temple, just below the gash that arced up and disappeared within her hairline, and her lip had been sown closed. She had a few scattered burns on what little of her skin that was still on show despite the long-sleeve tactical gear she had hunted up, but other than that she looked pretty good for someone who had been in an explosion not even ten hours ago.
It was a vast improvement.
Phil seemed to come to the same conclusion.
"You look better." Phil said, eyeing her cautiously. "Someone look you over?"
The words weren't all that strange. Phil looked over for every agent under his command, sometimes even those who weren't. It was what made him such a good handler – and what had drawn Clint to him in the beginning. When he had first been taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint had been more than a little wary of them. He'd been used before – used to kill before even – but Phil had been different. He genuinely cared. Yeah, he was a hard-ass. He didn't accept anything but absolute commitment and effort – but genuinely he cared. He cared about the people around him. To him they weren't tools, or triggers, or whatever other terms management used to justify how they treated the people below them. They were all just people.
So the question itself wasn't all that strange – Phil was always concerned with the welfare of his people – what startled Clint so much was the absolute lack of distain in them.
Phil had made his position regarding Romanov very clear. He didn't trust her. He didn't like her. He didn't like the precarious position she put them in.
But there was something in his voice that Clint recognised. Worry. God knows it had been directed at him on more than one occasion – per week usually – and Clint understood. He'd been worried she was about to keel over when he'd caught sight of her at the bombsite, but he hadn't expected the same response in Phil. If anything he'd thought the older man would be relieved if she did suddenly fall into a coma or something. The tense set to the older man's shoulders told Clint he was wrong.
Phil Coulson was beginning to care.
Anyone else and Clint would have dismissed the thought, but this was Phil. This was the man Clint knew better than anyone else. Better than himself even. Somewhere along the line – probably around the time she'd saved Clint's hide from a massive explosion – Phil had finally started to come around.
Clint would have grinned if the situation weren't so dire.
"I'm ready to work." Romanov answered sternly. Noticeably ignoring the question. "What did you find?"
Phil hesitated, clearly tossing up his chances of getting her properly looked at. Eventually he reached the same conclusion as Clint. No fucking likely.
"Nothing as of yet," Phil huffed, slipping back into business mode. "He's gone underground – which means he'll have to set up a new way to contact his clients." Phil stared down at Romanov. "How did you find out about the drop originally?"
"I had job in Moldova when I was young." Romanov said shortly, her arms snaking upwards and crossing over her chest. "The man I was sent for was client. I followed him to it one night."
"Would he still be a client?" Phil asked.
"No." She answered without missing a beat. "He didn't survive our run in." She explained, her eyes flashing. "His son may be though."
"Who is he?"
"Artiom Morari."
Phil's eyes widened.
"Son of Damian Morari?" He asked, uncharacteristic surprise colouring his tone. "The mobster?"
"Yes."
"He's been dead for nearly nine years." Phil muttered, and Clint's eyebrows shot up. Nine years. Jesus. How young was she when she started? Phil's voice broke him from that rather depressing line-of-thought. The older man took a step back and ran an exhausted hand over his face. "Good news is he took over the family business after his father, so he likely uses the same contacts."
Romanov's brow furrowed.
"How does that help us?" She asked.
"We could politely ask him to put us in contact with our bomber." Clint suggested with a small shrug.
"Or," Phil countered. "You could say you have information about the compromised drop-site that you want to sell, and you'd be willing to offer a cut if he could put you in contact."
Clint tilted his head.
"That could work too."
"Absolutely not."
The new voice rung out through the infirmaries hall, echoing down to where Phil, Romanov and Clint were gathered.
Clint turned slowly to watch a short, but clearly muscular, man march down the hall towards them. His face was almost red with pent up rage.
Huh. This was new. Usually Clint knew the people he had pissed off – and therefore knew to avoid them – this man however he had no recollection off. But he was definitely pissed off.
"Moldova is under the jurisdiction of this base – and therefore any decisions regarding action in that jurisdiction will also come from this base." The man seethed, coming to a halt just in front of the three of them and levelling them with a vicious glare.
"Excuse me." Clint asked. "Who are you?"
The man shot Clint a frustrated glance.
"I'm Cedric Gleeson, and this is my base."
"Yeah, I gathered that." Clint muttered.
Phil cut him off before he could say anything else – probably wise.
"Gleeson-"
The man – Gleeson – shot Phil a look of absolute distain. Huh.
"No Coulson. You want to do something in my jurisdiction – something else actually – you can go through me."
Clint stepped forward, raising a calming hand in an effort to defuse the situation.
"What – dude, you have to chill-"
"It's fine Clint." Phil sighed, stepping forward – and pointedly in front of Clint and Romanov. "He's right." Phil said, nodding shortly at Gleeson. "We'd like to run an opp. in Moldova, specifically in the Morari family. They have information that-"
"Request denied."
Phil's eyebrows shot up.
"What?"
"My people will storm the house in Moldova and take Morari. You can question him when he's on the base."
"That," Clint began, barely holding in a bark of laughter. "Is a terrible idea. As soon as anyone with a tie to law-enforcement rocks up at his door he's not going to say shit." He argued. "We have to do this subtly."
Gleeson threw Clint an irritated look.
"You've done enough damage here."
Phil took another step forward.
"And you've let a weapons-manufacturer run rampant under your nose for the last twenty years."
Gleeson's eyes widened at Phil's words. The fury in them boiling over.
"Get off my base." Gleeson hissed. "Get off my base-"
"It is not your base. You run it." Phil cut the man off, sternly, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. "And not for very much longer." He muttered as he dialled.
Gleeson swallowed.
"What the hell are you doing-" He asked.
"Director." Phil answered, loudly. Gleeson paled. "Yes, we've made a fair bit of progress – but we've hit somewhat of a personnel wall." Phil nodded for a moment, and then passed the phone over to Gleeson. "He wants to talk to you."
Phil turned and walked away as soon as the other man snatched the phone. He stormed back to Clint and Natasha.
"Damn." Clint chuckled. "That was cold, Phil." Phil shot him an irate look. "What's his deal?" Clint asked – nodding towards the now pacing man. Yeah. Clint was not jealous of the man's current situation.
"We met at the Academy when were we both in training." Phil sighed, throwing a glance at the man behind him. "We didn't get along."
Clint snickered.
"You pull a Coulson and best him in absolutely everything?"
Phil hesitated for a moment – and then shook his head slowly.
"No." He murmured. "I slept with his ex."
Clint's eyes all but burst from his skull.
"Whaaaaaaat?"
"-I was young." Phil cut in. "And they had broken up-"
"-Phil, you dirty stud."
"We don't have time for this." Phil ground out, ignoring Clint chuckles and rounding on Romanov "Can get into the Morari house?" He asked, probably a bit more forcefully than was necessary.
"Probably." Romanov said.
"Will Artiom recognise you."
Her expression soured. "Definitely." Phil grimaced. "He may not be necessary though." Romanov continued, and Clint finally pulled his attention away from a still fuming Gleeson to listen. "When I was there they had a chief-of-staff, Ion Borta, who dealt with the day-to-day affairs. He died not long after Damian Morari, but his replacement would know the contact details of everyone they do business with."
"That sounds like an 'in' to me." Clint shrugged.
Phil nodded slowly, glancing between the two agents. "Are you two up for this?" He asked, eyes serious and searching.
It was a fair question – Clint couldn't deny that. And while any other time he would have scoffed and responded with the most inappropriate retort he could think of, this time was different. It wasn't just him on the line.
Clint shot a glance towards Romanov, only to find her gaze already fixed on him. Despite the fact that neither of them had had any semblance of sleep in the last twenty-four hours – and that they'd been all but blown to shit – her eyes were alight. Ready.
A small smirk spread across Clint lips.
"We're good, Overwatch." He said. Romanov sent Phil a small nod of her own when the older man looked over at her. "Besides, if everything goes to plan, this is just going to be a friendly exchange of goods." Clint added.
"When does everything, ever, go to plan?"
"I take personal offence at that." Clint scoffed. "There was that one time in Minnesota."
"One time in three years is not a great record, Clint."
Clint shrugged, unperturbed.
Behind them Gleeson finally hung up the phone, and then stomped over to where the three of them were waiting. Clint eyed the man. His evident fury hadn't ebbed – if anything it looked like the storm behind his eyes had only grown – but he was no longer spitting fire.
Fury must have dressed him down. Hard
"Take whatever you need." Gleeson ground out through his teeth. Shoving the phone back at Phil he turned and stalked away without another word.
"Your hospitality is noted, and appreciated."
Phil's words were dry and barely loud enough for the man to hear – but he did. He paused for a moment, and Clint tensed. Ready to throw himself across the hall at him if he tried anything.
But he didn't. A moment later he continued his way down the hall and disappeared from sight.
Clint turned back to Phil and Romanov, a wide grin spreading over his face.
"This is amazing." He sung. Phil rolled his eyes and let out a put-upon sigh. "Someone, for an entirely personal reason, hates you and not me – this is the best day of my life."
Phil levelled him with a weary look.
"You almost got blown up today."
Clint nodded, and then paused thoughtfully. "Nope." He sang a moment later. "Doesn't even ruin it." Phil's scowl depended. "This is the best day of my life."
Phil didn't grace the words with a response. Sparing a look down at his watch the older man shot a look at the two agents.
"Get yourselves signed off by medical – I'll get the gear together." He ordered. Before Clint could say anything else he, too, marched away down the hall and disappeared from sight.
Clint glanced over at Romanov, who had watched the exchange blankly. He eyed the neat – but oddly slanted – stiches on her temple that he'd noted earlier. They were excellent, even and clearly practised, but the slant was off. Almost as if whoever had down them had had to do it using a mirror, rather than looking straight down at them.
"Nice stitches." He murmured. She shot him a dark look, as if daring him to comment. He didn't. He got it. He'd been weary in the beginning too. The fact that she was still here at all, despite having ample time to make a break for it in the last few hours, spoke volumes. He'd take what he could get.
"You good?" He asked instead, taking in the neat row of stiches and the clear tension in her torso. He'd seen how tenderly she moved just after the explosion. Something was definitely broken in there.
She nodded again, just like she had to Phil, and Clint decided not to push it. There would come a time when both of them were ready to push – move their relationship past 'probably-not-going-to-kill-each-other' and onto 'I-don't-really-like-you-as-a-person-but-I-have-your-back'.
It was a work in progress.
"Good. Let's go find us a bomb-maker." Clint grinned. Romanov didn't react. He huffed but let it go, moving past her and scanning the relatively quiet infirmary around them. "And an easily manipulated doctor that – oh, hello."
I am very aware that it's been over a year since I updated this particular story - and unfortunately I don't really have a reason why. I think I just kind of lost touch with it, and then forgot about it altogether until I found this chapter (already half done) on my computer. I figured it was a waste just to let what was already written just sit on my computer so I finished it and decided to post it - and along the way kind of got back into the story.
I'm still not sure if I should continue? I have another idea for a Clintasha universe that I have been considering writing for a while (goddamn I just love the two so much) which would again start from when she was brought into SHEILD, but they delve much more into the Red Room parts of her past. And her relationships there. I just don't know..
Let me know what you think? Continue yay or nay? Write a new universe of fics yay or nay? ... I'm just so conflicted.
