Starfall
“Hey.”
A hand clapped his shoulder.
“Landed and docked. Get outta here, Barton.”
Clint blinked awake, squinting against the fluorescent lights of the Quinjet. He peeled off the aviation headset, yawned, and muttered a hoarse “thanks” to the pilot before grabbing his bag and heading down the ramp. Below, the landing deck was already crawling with mechs and ground crew, swarming the jet like ants at a picnic.
The elevator ride three levels down gave him just enough time to regret falling asleep mid-flight. His neck was killing him, twisted from the angle he’d passed out in. He rolled his shoulder and kneaded the knot with one hand. Damn jetlag. Damn caffeine. By this point he was running on fumes, kept upright by habit more than anything else.
First (and hopefully only) stop before bed: check-in. Rules were rules, even for him.
“Hawkeye, reporting in,” he said when he reached the desk. The receptionist—Norma, according to her shiny nametag—looked up from her computer. He didn’t recognize her. Must be new or something. Or maybe just the newest part of SHIELD’s constant rotation of paper pushers.
Norma handed over a clipboard without much fanfare. “Sign here.”
He scribbled his name, passed it back, and waited. She rifled through a few papers, then slid him a printed schedule. Two appointments stared back at him in black and white: a standard post-mission medical eval in the morning and some kind of vague meeting down on Level 7 that blocked out his entire afternoon.
That last one caught his attention. “No notes apart from that?” he asked, flipping the page over, hoping for something—anything—more. But there was nothing.
Norma shook her head. “Sorry. It’s above my pay grade.”
Of course it was. Clint sighed, letting the paper dangle between his fingers. Whatever Hill had planned for him, it’d better be worth dragging him halfway across the world.
“Romanoff in on this?” he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. Nat had been off with Rogers and his merry band of misfits lately, doing Fury’s dirty work. If this was one of Hill’s pet projects, though, she might’ve been roped into it, too. In which case, she’d know more than he did, at least.
Norma’s lips thinned. “You know I can’t share other employees’ schedules, Agent Barton. Company policy.”
Ah, a by-the-book type. Clint offered her his best ‘aw, shucks’ smile, a little rusty after two months of sandstorms and scorpions. Still, it did the trick. Her cheeks flushed pink, her brow furrowed, and—there it was. Jackpot.
That was the look of someone debating whether to toe the line or step right over it. She was pulling up Natasha’s file, no doubt, and wrestling with how to slip him something useful without bulldozing her own conscience in the process. Classic SHIELD desk jockey quandary.
“Her schedule’s... similar to yours,” Norma admitted, dropping her voice. “If you’re curious, maybe swing by medical before you turn in. But that’s all I can say.”
He grinned and tapped the counter with his knuckles. “You’re a gem, Norma.”
She rolled her eyes, but he caught the faintest smile as he walked off.
Sure, medical then. If Nat was here, she’d probably already had her post-op today. He’d catch her before she turned in, get the lowdown on tomorrow’s mystery meeting, and then call it a night. Simple enough plan.
He hit the elevator, punched 4, and leaned back to enjoy the ride. Two levels up, he was greeted by the all-too-familiar stench of antiseptic mixed with that faint, unpleasantly sweet tang of old milk that seemed to be standard hospital ambiance. Whoever designed medical facilities clearly thought olfactory comfort was optional.
“Hawkeye,” the guy at admittance greeted as Clint strolled up. He squinted at his screen, frowned, and then glanced back up. “You’re too early. You’re scheduled for tomorrow at 9AM.”
“Not here for me,” Clint said, flashing a quick smile. “Romanoff in?”
The frown deepened, this time without the courtesy of a second glance at his notes. “Missed her. She was out of here this morning.”
Figures. Norma’s hot tip had led him straight to a dead end.
“Got it,” Clint said with a nod. “Tomorrow, 9AM. I’ll be on time.”
He spun on his heel and headed back to the elevator. If Natasha wasn’t here, there was one last place to check before calling it quits. Down to the living quarters. If he struck out again, he’d chalk it up to bad luck and collapse in bed.
At reception, Clint leaned on the counter and asked, “You got a room for me?”
Agents like him didn’t usually get long-term setups on base. Too much time in the field to justify it. Fury liked to keep him mobile, not cozy.
The receptionist handed over a key marked 112. Short-term accommodations. He’d stayed there before. Decent bed, at least.
Before heading off, he asked, “What about Romanoff? You got her here?”
“102,” the guy said without looking up. Then he hesitated. “There’s a Do Not Disturb on it, just so you know.”
Clint smirked. “Got it. Go ahead and stick one on mine too.”
“Will do,” the receptionist said.
Unless you wanted Accounting to blow up your phone while you were dead to the world, Do Not Disturb was a no-brainer for anyone fresh off a mission. Emergencies could still cut through, but those were rare enough to roll the dice on.
Key in hand, Clint stopped in front of 102. He tilted his head, listening for any sound from inside—TV, music, something. He got zilch. Still, he knocked anyway. If she was in, she’d answer. If not, well, it was a straight line from here to bed.
But she was in. There was a shuffle, then a pause. He grinned into the peephole—always worth a shot—before finally hearing the scrape of the chain unlatching. The door cracked open.
And his grin dropped right out of his face.
“Fuck,” he muttered, staring outright.
Natasha stood there, looking him over like usual.
“Well, you look like a bum,” she rasped.
She was wrecked. The bruises hit first—dark rings around her neck, like someone had taken a full grip and squeezed. Her face was worse. Split lip, swollen cheek, a shiner so deep it bled purple.
“Says the roadkill,” Clint shot back, though the joke barely cleared his throat.
Her mouth twitched like she might smirk, but it didn’t stick. She stood there a beat longer, then stepped back and waved him in.
The moment the door closed behind them, Clint couldn’t hold it in. “What the hell happened to you?”
Natasha shrugged—casual, dismissive—then winced hard enough to crack the act. “Lost a hand-to-hand.”
“Against what? A freight train?”
He scanned her again, thoroughly this time. Her right arm was braced all the way up to her shoulder, there were late stage strangulation imprints around her throat and her face looked like Mike Tyson had used it for a punching bag. So much for the visible stuff.
“I’m fine,” she said preemptively, but it didn’t land. She limped toward the couch, every step careful and deliberate, and then eased herself down. Only it wasn’t so much sitting as it was a controlled drop.
“You’re not fine,” Clint argued, still standing there, too stunned to move.
Natasha sighed, leaning back into the cushions, her expression more tired than annoyed. “Since you’re not going anywhere, sit. But five minutes is all I’ll do. You’ll get the full rundown tomorrow, anyway.”
He sat, but his mind was already working overtime, spinning through possibilities, connections, and fallout. This wasn’t a team-up. Hill hadn’t dragged him here for a debrief and coffee. Something had gone sideways, and now they needed him to pick up wherever Natasha had left off.
“How bad?” he asked finally, his voice low. “And who did it?”
The details didn’t even matter, not right now. All Clint needed was name and a gun, and the gun was negotiable. He could handle that asshole bare-handed if it came to it.
“This isn’t a revenge play, Clint,” Natasha cautioned, cutting him off before he could get too far ahead of himself.
He exhaled, trying to fake some calm, but the tension wasn’t going anywhere. “How bad?” he asked again.
“Bad enough,” Natasha said. “But nothing I can’t bounce back from.” She nodded toward the brace. “Bad fracture. Rehab’s gonna be fun.”
“And the rest?” His eyes flicked to her neck, her face, the deep bruises along her collarbone.
“Looks worse than it feels.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like hell.”
“They’ve been generous with the good stuff,” she said, gesturing toward the kitchen counter. Clint turned to see a neat row of pill bottles, all bright yellow with white caps. Heavy-duty prescriptions, no doubt.
“When did this happen?”
“Twelve days ago. And your clock’s ticking. I don’t know what time zone you’re on, but I’d like to get some sleep before I have to repeat this all tomorrow in front of the peanut gallery.”
“Just tell me one thing,” he said, cutting to the point. He could piece together the rest later, let jetlag fuel him through the gaps. “Who did it?”
Natasha went quiet. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, the easygoing mask she’d been holding up completely fell away.
“Captain America.”
*
There were six of them in the room with a big wall-mounted screen on display. Standard debrief, VIP version. Everyone in the room carried a Level 6 clearance or higher, no lightweights allowed.
Natasha sat on one side of the table, next to Brock Rumlow. Clint didn’t miss the broken nose Rumlow was sporting, swollen and a little off-center. A twelve-day-old injury, maybe thirteen, if Clint had to guess. Interesting timing.
At the head of the table sat Hill and Director Fury. Clint wasn’t surprised to see Hill leading the charge, but Fury’s presence meant this was more than just an ordinary clusterfuck. Fury didn’t show up unless things were veering into SHTF territory.
Clint’s side of the table was less crowded, just him and one surprising addition: Colonel James Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force. That one threw him a bit. SHIELD didn’t like airing its dirty laundry outside the family, and collaborations with military brass were rare. Stark must’ve been either unavailable or deliberately skipped over in favor of his buddy.
Rhodes, to his credit, didn’t so much as blink at Natasha’s state. She’d either skipped make-up entirely or abandoned the effort halfway through, leaving the bruises on full display. Clint hadn’t decided whether it was a power move or sheer indifference. Probably a bit of both.
Hill kicked things off with a speech so short it could’ve fit on a Post-it note. “Top-secret briefing. Vegas rules. Let’s get to it.” Then she handed the floor to Natasha, who opened her SHIELD branded dossier and motioned for the rest of them to do the same.
“Now, if you’ll all turn to page one…”
The mission itself had been standard SHIELD fare on paper. Rumlow’s Strike Team Alpha, Natasha, and Steve Rogers had gone in to shut down a lab experimenting with things a little off the legal highway. Apparently, some genius had decided to revisit the same cocktail of supernatural and pseudoscience that had given the world both Captain America and Frankenstein’s monster. Enhancing humans into something they had no business becoming was back in vogue, riding the wave of post-Chitauri mania.
So, just another Tuesday in SHIELD’s world.
Except Clint couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this was window dressing for the real twist, the one Natasha had dropped on him yesterday. He’d brooded over it all night, running through every angle, and still hadn’t landed on anything that made sense.
Rumlow went on to give the most important specs. “Objective was straightforward. Strike Team Alpha secures the site, Rogers handles any immediate threats, and Romanoff retrieves data for Sci-Tech to lose their minds over later.”
Natasha clicked a button on the remote, and the screen on the wall came to life. A spread of body cam feeds, vitals, and map overlays filled the display—a synchronized replay of the mission, Command’s pride and joy. Or as the staff liked to call it, Fury’s Second Eye.
There were eight feeds total, but Clint didn’t waste time on all but two. His eyes flicked straight to the ones labeled N. ROMANOFF and S. ROGERS. If something worth his attention was going to happen, it’d be there.
Natasha and Rumlow narrated sparingly, pointing out key moments where context was necessary, but for the most part, the op had been clean. Textbook, even. Captain America didn’t do messy, after all.
Then Natasha called for attention on her feed specifically. The screen switched to show her perspective, the body cam catching a workstation as her hands flew over a keyboard. The resolution wasn’t great—Clint couldn’t see the details on the monitor—but he doubted they mattered.
“This is where it starts,” Natasha said.
Clint squinted at the screen. It looked routine at first—Natasha typing away, decrypting whatever files they’d sent her to grab. Then, without warning, the computer monitor disappeared in a flash of sparks, and she was launched backward into it. Her heart rate spiked on the attached vitals control.
The feed jittered as she scrambled to her feet, spinning just in time to give them all a too-close-for-comfort shot of an incoming fist. From there, it turned into a chaotic blur. If there was an award for most nauseating body cam footage, this would take it.
It was all happening too fast to get a clear read on who she was up against at first, especially since the first thirty seconds were nothing but Natasha taking hit after hit. And thirty seconds could feel like a damn eternity when you’re stuck eating punches like they’re an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The only clue came from the feed in the lower-right corner. It mirrored Natasha’s own. The tag read S. ROGERS.
They sat through the whole scuffle, three minutes of raw, unedited carnage, in which Captain America not only won against, but literally dismantled Black Widow. She didn’t stand a cat’s chance in hell, although not for lack of trying.
She managed a few impressive plays—plunging a knife into Steve’s thigh (off-screen but confirmed by the spike in his vitals) and locking him in one of her infamous crotch-holds. Clint had been on the receiving end of that move before—thankfully only in friendly sparring—and knew just how hard it was to escape.
Of course, he’d never tried to snap Natasha’s elbow over it, which proved to be a terribly effective method to disentangle her off one’s throat. Clint winced as the sound echoed faintly through the feed. With one arm down, outweighed and outserumed, Natasha held on for another gutsy forty seconds before Steve knocked her clean out of the fight.
Cue Rumlow and his bloodhounds, finally dragging their asses on scene after Command flagged the situation as critical. They made it just in time, seconds before Captain America could turn Natasha’s skull into mush. Rumlow did the only right thing: he fired first and left questions for later.
The shots didn’t take Steve down—“Would take a goddamn bazooka to set that guy straight,” as Rumlow put it—but it was enough to make him let go of Natasha, and that was the priority in the moment.
But instead of turning on Rumlow and his squad, Steve did something unexpected. He bolted.
“…so I take off after him,” Rumlow said, gesturing to the screen as he recounted the pursuit. “All the boys in tow, save for Mitchell, who stayed back with Romanoff…”
Clint focused on Burt Mitchell’s feed. His body cam showed Natasha, now sprawled on the ground, her breaths coming in short, shallow gulps. She wasn’t quite unconscious, but she wasn’t far off either. Her vitals were a mess—spiking one second, crashing the next, completely out of rhythm. Mitchell was crouched over her, one hand steadying her head, the other working to clear her airway, trying to stop her from choking. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Meanwhile, Rumlow was leading the chase, though ‘chase’ was probably generous. Watching Steve tear through the facility, it was clear Rumlow and his men could have as well been trying to catch the wind as it blew past them. There was a reason nobody wanted to be Captain America’s jogging partner.
The recording cut out.
“That’s when Command called the Abort,” Rumlow said, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “We doubled back, got Romanoff out for medevac, and tore the place apart trying to figure out what the hell had sent Cap off the rails. What we came up with was jack. Cap was on the loose, Widow about to get booked into an ICU retreat, and we were left holding the bag.”
They watched the footage three more times. The first pass was unabridged, raw and uninterrupted. The second came with commentary from Natasha and Rumlow, breaking down the details as they saw them. The third opened the floor for input, inviting the room to engage and toss out theories.
No one had any breakthroughs. Psych had already combed through every recorded word of dialogue between Natasha and Steve, hunting for potential triggers. They’d come up empty. The lead-up had been uneventful—banter, nothing more. Natasha had been focused on her file heist, and Steve had been standing watch. Then, out of nowhere, the fight broke loose.
“The priority right now is to find him,” Fury said, voice flat but heavy with implication. They all understood what he meant:find Captain America before someone else does. Steve Rogers was the poster boy for every lunatic obsessed with creating übermensch fantasies. There were plenty of people who’d kill for a chance to get their hands on him.
“We don’t know what caused this,” Hill added. “Whether it’s some kind of external influence or not. But we’re working under the assumption that, once found, he won’t come willingly.”
“That’s gonna be a problem,” Rhodes said, speaking for the first time. “Cap doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who can be dragged anywhere he doesn’t want to go.”
Hill gave a curt nod. “Agent Rumlow and his STRIKE team will lead the search. Agent Barton,” she turned toward Clint, “will be responsible for dosing Rogers with a tranquilizer formulated by Dr. Banner. If it’s strong enough to slow the Hulk, we estimate it’ll at least take Rogers down a peg.”
“Which is where you come in, Colonel,” Fury said. “We’ll need muscle on the ground to keep him occupied while Barton lines up the shot.”
“Tony won’t be thrilled if I have to wreck his armor over this,” Rhodes said. But he was on board, and maybe even a little too ready for the chance to square off with America’s golden boy.
“Do we have a location on him?” Clint asked.
“He has a tracking implant he doesn’t know about,” Fury said matter-of-factly. “It’s part of the hedging protocol for special assets. We tagged him before he was fully thawed.”
Clint blinked. “Well, that’s convenient.”
And just a little disturbing. Maybe it was time to get a full body scan at a facility that didn’t report to SHIELD.
Just in case.
*
The meeting dragged on until almost 8PM, by which point Clint was being tag-teamed by both hunger and exhaustion. When Fury finally called it, he barely resisted the urge to fist-pump his way out of the room.
He managed, somehow, to summon enough willpower to linger by the door, waiting for Natasha. She’d been waylaid by Hill, who was wrapping up with a polite wish for a speedy recovery. Clint caught only the tail end of their conversation before intercepting Natasha on her way out.
“Food?” he asked, his vocabulary officially reduced to caveman basics.
Natasha sidestepped him smoothly. “I’ve got a headache the size of a mountain. Turns out they’re not kidding about avoiding bright lights after a concussion.”
Clint fell into step beside her anyway, following her back to the staff quarters. There, he tried again.
“You sure you don’t want anything? I can swing by the mess hall and grab you something.”
“The only thing I want is a mouthful of painkillers,” Natasha replied, pressing her keycard to the door. “And I’m pretty sure I can hear them calling my name already. Good night, Clint.”
“Night, Nat.” He hesitated, then added, “And, hey, don’t take it to heart.”
“Take what to heart?”
“Your KO,” he said, deadpan. “Doesn’t count.”
Her expression didn’t budge, so Clint elaborated. “I had fifty bucks on you. Sitwell’s betting pool. But I’ll make a case to disregard the match. Totally unfair fight, and nobody can tell me otherwise.”
Natasha stared at him, utterly baffled, before firmly shutting the door in his face.
Clint stood there for a second, then shrugged.
Dinner it was.