Chapter 6
Clint Barton should not be flying a plane right now.
Yet, somehow, here they are — thousands of feet above the Atlantic, the hum of the engines steady, the cockpit dimly lit, and the man she shot just hours ago gripping the controls like he isn’t running on sheer stubbornness and questionable life choices.
Natalia sits in the co-pilot’s seat, arms crossed, watching him like he might suddenly pass out and send them plummeting into the ocean.
She wouldn’t even be surprised.
She’s seen plenty of men push themselves past their limits, ignore pain, act invincible — most of them ended up dead because of it. She doesn’t understand why he isn’t.
“You’re insane,” She mutters, half to herself.
Clint doesn’t look away from the controls. “Not my worst diagnosis.”
She narrows her eyes. “You were shot, by me, and yet here you are, flying over the ocean with only one functioning arm.”
“Had worse.”
It’s a flippant remark, casual, as if this is nothing. But that doesn’t make sense. Who is this man? He’s not KGB, not one of her old handlers. Not an enforcer, not a bounty hunter. He doesn’t carry himself like someone looking for vengeance. And yet, he tracked her. Found her. Intercepted her.
And now, instead of turning her in or taking her out, he’s flying her across the world.
Like she’s worth something.
Her gaze flickers to his shoulder, the wound now patched up, cleaned, and wrapped in fresh bandages — courtesy of a small, nondescript hospital on the outskirts of Salzburg. He had walked in with an easy smile, spun some ridiculous story about an accidental injury on a hunting trip, and somehow managed to get tended to without attracting attention. The whole thing had taken barely an hour. By the time she had even begun considering whether to take advantage of his momentary weakness and bolt, he was already leading her out the door like nothing had happened.
Like getting shot and flying a plane on the same night was normal.
It shouldn’t impress her.
But it does.
Most men in his position would still be unconscious, slipping into fevered delirium or lying in a morgue. Most wouldn’t have made it out of Austria before authorities locked the borders down. Most wouldn’t have found her, caught up to her, offered her an escape.
And yet here he is. Flying a plane with one arm like some kind of reckless idiot with a death wish.
She tilts her head slightly, studying him. “You know, normal people rest after getting shot.”
“Good thing I’m not normal,” Clint smirks.
No, he certainly isn’t.
“Why are you doing this?” She asks, her voice measured. “You don’t even know me.”
Clint exhales, shifting in his seat, adjusting their altitude. “Don’t have to. I’ve seen enough.”
That doesn’t make sense. “You saw me kill a man. That’s all you saw.”
He glances at her then, and for a moment, his expression isn’t playful or teasing — it’s sharp. Focused. “That’s not all I saw.”
She stiffens.
What does he think he saw? She was efficient, precise. A perfect assassin. That’s what she was trained to be. That’s all she is.
Her fingers tighten against her arms.
For the first time in years, she isn’t being ordered anywhere. She isn’t being given a directive or an ultimatum.
She’s choosing this.
And that terrifies her more than anything else.
Because what happens when they land? When she’s standing inside SHIELD’s walls, surrounded by people who aren’t like her — people who believe in something?
What happens when they realize who — what she is?
That she was made into something that can’t be undone.
She inhales slowly, forcing herself to focus on the now, on the rhythmic drone of the engines, on the steady sound of Clint’s breathing. The air inside the cockpit is warm, quiet, too still.
It doesn’t feel like a battlefield. It doesn’t feel like a mission.
And that’s almost worse.
“Where’s your handler?” She asks, breaking the silence. “The one you called. Coulson.”
Clint side-eyes her, his mouth quirking up just slightly. “Why? Nervous?”
She scowls. “I like to know who’s waiting for me at the end of the line.”
“He’s good people.” Clint shifts slightly, testing his injured arm with a wince before settling again. “Probably gonna chew me out for this, though.”
She arches a brow. “For this?”
“For bringing you in.”
She doesn’t know why that surprises her. Maybe she thought this Coulson would be like the people she used to work for — cold, pragmatic, always putting the mission first. But if he’s upset that Clint didn’t kill her, if he’s questioning this decision—
“Will he try to stop you?” She asks.
Clint shakes his head. “Nah. He trusts me. Doesn’t mean he won’t make me regret it, though.”
That makes her pause. He trusts me.
It’s not something she’s heard before. Not something she’s ever expected to hear.
She doesn’t trust people. People don’t trust her. That’s how the world works. That’s how she’s survived this long.
And yet, somehow, this man — this stubborn, infuriating man who should be dead in a ditch somewhere — is betting his life on the fact that she can be more than what she was made to be.
She doesn’t know if she believes him.
But she’s here.
And for now, that’s enough.
Clint leans against the wall outside the conference room, arms crossed, doing his best not to look as exhausted as he feels. The flight wasn’t bad — just long enough for the adrenaline to wear off and the reality of what he’d done to sink in.
Across from him, Phil Coulson stands stiffly, expression unreadable. That’s never a good sign.
“She’s in there?” Phil asks, tilting his head toward the door.
“Yeah,” Clint says, shifting his weight. “Sitting nice and quiet. Probably figuring out ten different ways to kill everyone in the building.”
Phil exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s warding off a migraine. “Barton.”
“Coulson.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Phil folds his arms. “Tell me why I shouldn’t have you thrown into the nearest holding cell for insubordination.”
Clint lets out a breathy chuckle, dragging a hand through his hair. “Oh, I don’t know. Because I just brought you a world-class assassin who wants to defect? Because she was about ten seconds from taking a bullet to the head just to get out? Because I did your damn job for you, and now I’m here, waiting for you to say ‘thank you, Barton, you’re a goddamn genius’?”
Phil stares at him, unimpressed.
Clint sighs. “Look, I get it. It’s risky. But you didn’t see her, Phil. She’s done. She wants out, and if we don’t take her, someone else will. And they won’t be nearly as nice about it.”
Phil rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not arguing that she’s valuable. I’m arguing that you, once again, went completely off-book and made a decision that wasn’t yours to make.”
Clint shrugs. “Worked out, though, didn’t it?”
Phil mutters something under his breath. Probably something creative. Clint smirks.
Before Phil can continue chewing him out, the click of approaching footsteps echoes down the hall.
Fury.
Clint straightens instinctively as the SHIELD director stops in front of them, his one good eye already narrowing in suspicion. He glances between Clint and Phil before jerking a thumb toward the conference room door.
“That the assassin you brought into my damn base?”
Clint gives a casual two-fingered salute. “That’s the one.”
Fury levels him with a stare that could peel paint off walls. “You better have one hell of an explanation, Barton, because I’m this close—” He holds his fingers barely an inch apart “—To grounding your ass for the rest of the year. Hell, I’d be fine for an indefinite amount of time.”
Clint opens his mouth, but Phil beats him to it.
“He made the right call.”
Clint blinks, tilting his head toward Phil, who is now standing squared to Fury, completely unflinching.
Fury’s gaze sharpens. “You sure about that?”
“She’s one of the most dangerous assets the KGB ever created, and she wants out,” Phil says evenly. “Letting her slip through our fingers would be a mistake. And you know that.”
Fury exhales sharply. “You don’t think she’s a Trojan horse?”
“She shot me, if that makes you feel better,” Clint adds helpfully.
Phil gives him a look that clearly says shut up.
Fury folds his arms, staring at the closed conference room door like he can see straight through it. “You’re taking responsibility for this?”
“Yes,” Phil says without hesitation.
Fury doesn’t react immediately. Then, with a quiet scoff, he shakes his head. “Alright, Coulson. She’s yours.”
Clint lifts a brow. “Just like that?”
Fury turns his glare on him. “Not just like that. You’re lucky Coulson’s vouching for you. Otherwise, you’d be on latrine duty for the next six months.”
“Damn,” Clint mutters. “Wouldn’t wanna steal Cap’s job.”
Fury ignores that, though Phil scowls. Fan boy. “Here’s how this is going to go,” He continues. “Coulson takes her in, assesses her, decides if she’s actually SHIELD material. Meanwhile, you are benched.”
Clint scowls. “Benched?”
Fury smirks. “Oh, I’m sorry — milkrunned.” He looks at Phil. “Three months. Nothing above Level Three clearance. If I so much as hear Barton’s name attached to anything riskier than tailing a low-level arms dealer, you’re both going to wish you’d picked different careers.”
Phil nods, a small but tight, knowing smile playing at his lips. “Understood.”
Clint groans. “I hate both of you.”
Phil claps him on the shoulder, right next to his gunshot wound.
Clint grits his teeth.
“Welcome to consequences, Barton,” Phil says, and with that, he steps past him, pushing open the conference room door.
The glimpse of red hair he catches in the corner of his eye is somewhat grounding though, reminding him that he doesn’t regret bringing in Natalia.
Fury lingers for a second longer, fixing Clint with a level look.
“Don’t make me regret this,” He warns.
Clint exhales. “I won’t, sir.”
Fury eyes him for another beat before shaking his head and walking off.
Clint leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling for a long moment.
Milkrun missions. Three months.
Yeah, this is definitely going to be hell.