Chapter 5
He was not a patient man, but sitting there in a jungle waiting to find out if Natasha successfully jumped—or died trying to land between walls—and whether she found his partner was particularly horrible. Worse than walking into a room and seeing his ex wife, that’s for sure. He kept an eye on the door through his scope for Coulson’s sake, and stopped cursing Coulson for Coulson’s sake, which was a lot more affection than he generally showed people these days. He thought he should probably get a gold star for that. A long time ago, he would have been saying this Natasha via her comm. and she’d be laughing at him and promising to get him a Happy Meal when they got home and she’d fucking do it too. She’d get him a Happy Meal and the toy car or the Iron Man or whatever else it came with that week. He had a whole collection. He didn’t even really like them, or fast food, but hell, it was one of the first things he and Natasha had between them when he first flipped her to their side. He still had them. Couldn’t give them up.
“She’s in,” said Coulson in his ear. “She has Raines.”
Before Clint could reply, Natasha appeared on the ground next to his perch with a soft pop in the air, supporting a beaten, bloodied man who did, vaguely, resemble Raines. Clint slipped down off the roof, wincing at the shock pain that sliced through his body on landing, and he reached for Raines. “Fuck, man, it was only like twenty minutes.”
Raines smiled through a bloodied mouth. “They didn’t ask questions. Just beat me.”
“Let’s go,” Natasha said breathlessly, and she took Clint’s hand, hers small and warm and dry in his, and he felt the tug from beneath his chest he only felt once before in his life.
She took them back to the op room. There must not have been a lot of options in her mind. She landed them in the middle of a crowded room of panicked people. She gasped, her hand gripping Clint’s tightly, and he did, without thinking, squeeze her hand back as he opened his eyes to the hands of other people reaching for them. Someone called for medics, he thought, and Natasha was saying something to him that he couldn’t quite hear. She looked at him, confused, and then put her hands on his face, pushing him down into a chair. She covered his ears for a bit, her face pale and intent. He forgot how her brow furrowed whenever she was worried.
He pulled her hands off his ears and winced at the flood of sound. “I can hear now.”
“Alright?” she asked quietly.
He nodded, then realized he was still holding her hands. He dropped them immediately. She crossed her arms, hiding her hands. She backed up a few steps, turned and fled. Clint’s hands curled into fists and he scrubbed at his face hard. He dropped the rifle to the floor and shed his pack. Next to him, medics were treating and removing Raines from the room. It was a long while before anyone noticed Clint, and he didn’t mind it so much.
Coulson touched his shoulder. “Get some rest.”
“At least we got an ID.” Clint said. “That was sloppy. Whose gun goes off accidentally? No one’s. That was not okay, Coulson.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“He made a mistake.”
“He made a rookie mistake.” Clint looked up. “He could have died.”
“Things go south on missions. You know this.”
Clint winced. “Low blow.”
Coulson looked up at the screen. “Get rest. We’ll debrief. I have to go upstairs.”
“Fury going to call off the whole mission?”
“Unlikely, but you never know. There will be a review. You might have to write something.”
Clint scrubbed at his eyes again though it was his ears that rang. “Great. You know where to find me if you need me. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night, Barton,” said Coulson heavily.
Twelve hours was a short period of time for the mission, but any amount of time was enough time for things to go wrong. Clint dragged himself up to his room and stripped out of the humidity soaked clothing. The cold shower felt good. He stood in there, letting the water run over him for a long time. When he got out, he had three text messages.
Phil: Fury wants a memo on his desk by morning for decision on mission. Sorry.
Natasha: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Rick S: wtf happened? Natasha showed up at the base bar, did three shots in rapid succession, texted you, and then walked away.
“Shit,” muttered Clint. He texted Natasha back: don’t be sorry. You got Raines out before shit went real bad. I gotta write a memo. I’ll be up for awhile. Don’t drink too much.
He texted Phil back: He’s lucky he scares the shit out of me. Tell him I’ll have it in the hour.
And he texted Rick S: blame Phil and Phillip Raines.
Rick S: I blame a lot of things on those two guys but rarely in the same sentence. Coming down?
Clint: memo to write. Another night.
Natasha: I’m ignoring the creepy factor of you knowing everything I do in favor of being glad you even replied.
He didn’t reply to that one. What was there to say?