Chapter 1
“Nice, Clint, you’re hitting a new PR–”
Clint peeked open an eye as Natasha’s voice got cut off by a familiar, driven set of footsteps entering the otherwise vacant SHIELD gym. The sharp click clack of the shoes — Phil.
“Phil, I don’t suppose you’re here to witness me hitting a new PR?”
“Ah, unfortunately, no,” Phil impatiently tapped his foot. Clint sighed as he swung himself out of the ramrod straight handstand he was maintaining on the gymnastics bar, landing silently and softly on the ground. “Ever been to Egypt?”
Clint glowered at the senior agent, while Natasha shook her head.
“Alright, so Natasha’s never been, and Clint, your face is telling me enough.”
“You’ve been to Egypt?” Natasha whipped her head around, genuine curiosity in her eyes.
“Once,” Clint grimaced, his body language asking Natasha to “drop it.” Luckily, it seemed as if her curiosity didn’t last too long… for now.
“Got a fresh op, Cairo drug cartel,” Phil held up a manila case file folder, beckoning for either one of them to look over the folder’s contents.
Natasha plucked the case file out of Phil’s hand, flipping through the pages. Clint frowned as he saw Natasha’s face morph into a look of interest; the last time he’d been in Egypt wasn’t a fun memory to remember.
“You coming with us, Phil?” Clint hurried to switch the focus from the op’s location to the logistics. “Or is Fury still having you benched from that hairline rib fracture, that big ol’ softie?”
“Of course I’m coming with you.” Phil, obviously, chose to ignore Clint’s jab, rolling his eyes.
“So, drug cartel, huh?”
“Two main objectives, this time. The Council wants an analysis on the most recent circulation of drugs, as well as elimination of the cartel head, Andrew Broz. We’re flying out in 30, check in with tech before meeting up at the hangar and we’ll finish scoping out once we’re in the air.” Phil tossed a brief wave, exiting the gym.
“He does realize it’s the middle of July, right?” Clint grumbled. It was hot enough in the States alone, but Egypt? Egyptian summer heat was one that Clint absolutely despised, and he held back a disgusted shudder as he imagined the horrid level of perspiration that they were bound to experience.
“Since when did that ever matter to him?” Natasha tutted. “At least it’s not Ecuador, it’s always hot there.”
“True. Your room or mine?” Clint took the case file Phil had left in Natasha’s hands, chewing on his lower lip. Whether he liked it or not, he had no choice but to take on the op.
“Yours, I left my Makarovs in your duffel bag,” Natasha pushed open the gym door, sighing as the Helicarrier’s cool air conditioned breeze hit them.
Clint hastily flipped through the case file, with only one page on his mind: Andrew Broz’s headshot. The last time he’d seen Broz was when the cartel leader was just a teenager, a few years younger than Clint. A sour look plastered on his face, Clint almost missed his own room’s door, Natasha’s rapid snapping pulling him out of his thoughts.
“Case look that interesting to you? You almost missed your own room, идиот.” Idiot.
“I guess I’m just memorizing everything before we have to go melt in Egypt,” Clint shrugged, masking his contemptuous expression. A questioning look flashed in Natasha’s eyes, but soon morphed into a look of indifference. From early on in their partnership, they’d agreed to not question one another for their actions, unless necessary. And it wasn’t unlike Clint’s usual character to memorize all the details before a mission, though, there were definitely moments where in the early days of their partnership, Natasha’s ingrained suspicion, à la Red Room’s “training,” made their routines and rituals clash.
“I mean, it can’t be that bad, can it?” Natasha quirked up an eyebrow.
“The desert region can get really cold at night, but generally Egypt is pretty hot. And we’re going undercover for a drug cartel, which is probably extra stuffy and disgusting with all the people huddled into smaller, designated regions,” Clint explained, habitually checking his guns. He glanced at his bow and quiver full of arrows; he was itching to take it with him, but knew he couldn’t. At least, not when Broz most likely witnessed Clint’s signature kill sign those many years ago.
“You think we’re getting new comms from tech today?”
“As long as it's not molar comms, I’m good.”
But with Clint’s luck these days, it was even a miracle that he hadn’t gotten himself too severely injured on the past three missions. Asking for non-molar comms? He was really pushing his luck.
And of course, Clint grimaced; he really had jinxed himself, hadn’t he?
“Alright, we only have molar comms that are properly functioning, so one molar comm for each person,” The tech specialist smiled, apology hinted in his eyes. The tech hall was one of the areas on the helicarrier that Clint inadvertently frequented; the vents above the tech hall were always flowing with cool air, somewhat easing the difficulties Clint faced with falling asleep. But with the molar comms faced in front of him, Clint was seriously considering relocating to another vent area.
Reluctantly, he took the molar comms from the specialist, handing one to Natasha, who, based on what he could see out of his periphery, was staring at him with a look of halfhearted pity.
“Thanks,” He mumbled to the tech specialist, who beamed at the recognition from the infamous agent Clint Barton, the Hawkeye himself.
Hurrying their steps to the hangar, Clint grumbled under his breath, “Stupid molar comms.” If there was one thing SHIELD taught Clint, it was that he was made for withstanding interrogations, no matter how gruesome and unbearable it was. And yet, Clint was also thrust into the life of paranoia and violence from such a young age, that he never experienced mundane pains, like going to the dentist. He had a vague memory of visiting the dentist when he was a child, accompanied by people who were rendered faceless in his memories, and absolutely hating the short time there. When he’d gotten tortured on one of his earliest missions at SHIELD, back in Monaco of ‘01, that very same haze of a memory had popped up in his head as a pair of ancient-looking pliers entered his mouth, one of his molars soon becoming a victim to the truly disgusting intrusion. He could sometimes still taste the rusted copper in his mouth.
“It’s not going to be like Monaco all over again,” Just as they’d discussed, Phil was waiting for them at the hangar, leaning against the fighter jet.
“What, no mother hen comments?” Clint smirked, choosing to ignore the handler’s note of concern.
“Everyone and their mother at SHIELD knows you’re the one calling me a mother hen, Clint.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, let’s get this show on the road,” Clint tossed a knife, Phil easily catching it with narrowed eyes. “Picked it off of a merc in Morocco, forgot to give it to you. Handle-heavy, just the way you like your knives.”
At Phil’s confused look, Clint sighed, shaking his head.
“For your birthday, obviously. I was paired up with the Cavalry in Morocco while you were recovering from those multiple rib fractures, and May pointed out that you’d lost your knife a few months ago in Montreal.”
“Happy late birthday, Phil,” Natasha smiled.
“I, um, wow,” Phil blinked, blowing out a deep breath. “Thank you, guys.”
“Is it just me or does he look like he’s about to cry, Nat?” That earned Clint a halfhearted punch to his arm, but the sight of Phil beaming made it worth the near-death experience he’d gone through to pick up that knife.
“You know what, after this mission, we’re going biking around the city and getting pizza,” Phil sheathed the new knife into the back of his trousers, winking at Clint and Natasha. The two shared a look, then stared at Phil, who was grinning in satisfaction.
“No 5 AM training?” Clint clasped his hands together, as if he was praying.
Phil shook his head in affirmation.
“And we hit up Chinatown?” Natasha quickly added, mirroring Clint’s body language.
Phil nodded, his face saying, Duh.
“You, you soft, old mother hen,” Clint pointed a finger at Phil, who now stood with an air of pride.
“You’re awesome, Phil,” Natasha bobbed her head in excitement and gratitude. “Happy birthday, again.”
“Thanks, really. But remember, this only stands if we actually go and complete the mission,” Phil grinned. Clint scowled, though only playful. “Buzzkill,” He rolled his eyes.
As he took his familiar seat at the pilot’s seat in the cockpit, Clint shook his head as he blew out a breath of laughter, listening to Phil and Natasha bicker over which was the better Chinese restaurant. Not to jinx himself too much, but Clint had an inexplicable feeling that Cairo wasn’t going to be as bad as the last time he visited.