Chapter 2
Ronald Slater’s hatred of Clint Barton is irrational, but when he sees the opportunity to starve Barton in Antwerp, he takes it.
Barton deserves it. A few weeks ago Slater saw him in the mess at SHIELD headquarters, plowing through plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and pie like the world was going to run out of food tomorrow. He, Captain America, and Black Widow were clustered in the corner, a cozy little fucking clique, and so what if they were all dirty and bruised from saving the world again? Slater had waited for Barton to catch his eye, to call him over, but Barton had been selfishly focused only on his food. Well, payback was a bitch.
You could send a pizza guy, Barton says via text. I know they have pizza delivery here.
Of course they have pizza delivery in Belgium. NATO alone probably consumes a thousand pies a month. But there's also a van load of enemy nationals cruising Antwerp's port district and the warehouses that should be all shuttered tight on this Sunday night. They can’t afford to draw attention to Barton’s temporary and illegal accommodations over a machine shop. Hence the strict orders for Barton to stay away from the windows and keep the lights off.
Slater waits a few minutes before sending a reply. I’m working on options. Hold tight.
It's just past sun down. Slater's monitoring the situation from their safe house in nearby Kapellen, which is warm and cozy and has a respectable amount of food in the small refrigerator. He decides to make a salad and cook himself a steak. He's chopping tomatoes when the third on this mission, Ronnie Robinson, returns from securing their burner phones and other gear.
"Word from Barton?" Robinson asks, warming himself by the electric heater. He's a little guy, wiry and intense, never content to sit when he could be standing and tapping a foot impatiently.
"Safe and secure," Slater says. "You hungry?"
"I could eat," Robinson allows.
Slater puts another steak into the frying pan and searches for onion in the vegetable bin. Can't have steak without onions. His secure comm goes off with a new message from
Barton: I'm eating lead paint chips and freezing my nuts off.
Fucking whiner. Yes, he was on stakeout all day on the roof a factory, hunkered down against the cold rain, but he had protein bars and water with him. Probably spoiled by eating with asshole millionaire Tony Stark all the time.
Now I'm eating the floorboards, Barton sends.
Slater replies, Don't whine to me when you get splinters in your mouth.
"I can go get him," Robinson says.
"Too risky," Slater says. "Neighborhood's hot. There'd be a shitstorm if either of you got spotted and I'm no mood for an international incident tonight."
Robinson frowns. "You have no faith in us, boss."
"I have faith, but intel says they have infrared glasses," Slater says. "Grab the plates, will you?"
While they eat, he calculates out how long he can plausibly delay extraction. He doesn’t put it past Barton to eventually complain to all those superhero buddies of his or with Phil Coulson. Rumor is they're fuckbuddies. Lots of people are afraid of Coulson's competence and ruthlessness but Slater's seen better. In fact, he considers himself better
He thinks Barton will stay put and follow orders, because despite his well-earned reputation for recklessness, he’s a team player and the risk tonight is real. Sure, odds are that Barton and Robinson could evade detection, but why take chances? Barton's uncomfortable but not dying.
Hang in there, Slater types. We'll come as soon as possible.
Overnight Robinson and Slater take turns napping on the sofa and staying in contact with Barton, whose messages grow shorter, less frequent, and more full of misspellings. The cold is settling into his fingers. Or maybe hypothermia affecting his thinking. Around oh three hundred he stops responding altogether, and Robinson wants to risk the extraction.
"He's sleeping," Slater says. "Poor bastard needs it. Now stop driving to drive this bus and relax, will you?"
Sure enough, two hours later Barton is back on comms, complaining about the cold and how much he hates Belgium. He sounds perkier, or maybe it's just that Slater feels more tired from babysitting him all night.
At dawn it's safe for Barton to move out, and they pick him up near the Red Star Line Museum. Unshaven, dirty, frowning, he slides into the back seat like any laborer or vagrant having a bad morning.
"Coffee and doughnuts," Slater says magnanimously. "Eat up."
"Yeah, it's the least you owe me," Barton grumbles, and grabs the thermos. But he doesn't fall on the doughnuts in ravenous hunger, so maybe he's sick. The prospect makes Slater happy.
From the passenger seat of the Land Rover, Robinson says, "Are you injured? You've got blood on your sleeve."
Barton fingers a red stain. "Nah. It's nothing."
On the train to Paris, Barton falls dead asleep in his seat. When Robinson goes to the snack car, Slater examines the red stain more closely. It smells like tomato sauce. He doesn't confront Barton about it, but he scours the net later and finds a few references to a shooting star seen in the skies over Antwerp around oh three hundred.
Who fucking knew that Iron Man delivered pizza?
end of part two