Cairo, Egypt (23/08/2005)
Natalia paused in her shooting to wonder how on earth the mission had gone this wrong, and was rewarded with a bullet grazing her shoulder - far too close for comfort. Barton’s presence on her left reassured her that he was watching her back, but the lack of an extraction team grated, not for the first time.
She hadn’t even known that SHIELD’s normal protocol was that there was an extraction team in place. She had been making her own way back to base since her first mission in ‘94, and until she had started keeping an eye on Masha’s mission reports, she had had no idea about extraction plans. Natalia had cornered her when Masha got back from an op, and questioned her about the extraction. Had the mission gone so badly that Masha had needed to be picked up?
Masha’s answer confused Natalia, more than anything. Extraction plans had never been something common, never a right, only a privilege, if the operative was too badly damaged to make their own way home. According to Masha, Barton had never had an extraction plan, and when Natalia was taken on as his partner, that extended to her.
It didn’t bother her much - she hadn’t needed extraction with any frequency as a Red Room operative, but she worried for Barton. He was only twenty-one. He was far from as experienced as her - she couldn’t deny his skills, his skills were almost on par with hers, which was unheard of in a non-enhanced until now - but he lacked experience. He would do little things, things that reminded her that he had never been trained the same way she had. He moved with the grace of a gymnast, not a ballerina. He was never slow to show affection, physical or otherwise, yet he flinched from men he wasn’t used to, and hid behind jokes and sunglasses. He generally had plasters stuck on his nose or arms, and he would stop to pet every dog he saw. He had an innocence to him that seemed to disappear when he went into mission mode, when he could take out a target behind him without even looking with his bow and arrow. He always made his way back.
Yet he got injured so easily, his human body not designed for the fights he put it through. He struggled his way back, usually with some wound - she was reminded of the utter terror she’d locked away at Budapest when he was lying, prone on the ground - and even now, she had a bullet graze on her shoulder, he had a through-and-through in his side.
They had come here to break up a smuggling ring, and now they were trapped in what was once their cover, Natalia’s leg caught under rubble, Barton’s bow broken. They were firing, hoping to take out the men before they ran out of ammo, hoping to get Natalia free before the men caught up to them. She was down to Masha’s Beretta’s last mag, the bags of their ammo she had stashed a few days earlier decimated somewhere in the room, under the bricks and the section of ceiling that had fallen in.
The air was heavy with mortar dust, and Natalia could barely see the men she was shooting, though Barton was nailing his targets as always. The cracks in the ceiling tiles above her and Barton worried her, and she struggled more with her leg, freeing herself and pulling Barton towards the exit in time for the ceiling to come crashing down behind them.
Natalia was crouched down over Clint’s body, memories of Budapest flooding back. She knew she wouldn’t be able to wake him by yelling - his ears and her comms had been shorted out with an EMP early in the op - and she didn’t have water to splash on him or light to flash him with.
She was alone, with an unconscious body to protect, dozens of men to evade, and the plane home had left without them half an hour ago.
An extraction plan sounded nice right about now.
Natalia pushed back the fear - you are made of marble - and slung Clint over her shoulder, surprised at how light he was. She would need to talk with Coulson about getting him to eat more than coffee and sandwiches.
She had a clear exit to the roof, where men were probably going to be waiting, or she could wait it out here, where she could hold the fort in this one corner, maybe barricade her and Clint in with bits of the ceiling, and make her escape later.
Natalia waited for two hours. That was as long as she could make it without needing something to drink. She uncurled herself from the position she’d been hunched in, her muscles screaming at her, and pushed away the rubble she’d created her hiding spot with. Picking the still-unconscious Clint up, she flinched when her fingers came away red from lifting his head. She knew head wounds bled more than was necessary; she knew the blood was sluggish now, and he would probably be fine. She still worried.
Clint slung over her shoulder again, Natalia made her way up to the roof, drinking in the clear air and nearly sinking to her knees from relief. The air behind metres of rubble had been thick, dusty, and her breaths had been rattling before she stepped outside. Sunlight, dying and feeble, lit the roof in a half-light that made Natalia’s pale skin almost glow. It was nearing sunset, and the last vestiges of sunlight showed her the fire escape, which she descended very carefully.
Once on the streets of Cairo, dragging around an unconscious man would be much more conspicuous, so Natalia unashamedly hotwired a car, dumping Clint in the backseat. The car had a bottle of water in the glove compartment, and she drank it greedily, savouring each drop.
Natalia made it to a town on the outskirts of Al Minya, by which time night had well and truly fallen. She found a local kind enough to lend her his phone, Clint still stashed in the backseat, and called Coulson with an update, then Masha.
As soon as she had restocked the fuel in the car and woken Clint - who woke, thank god - she began following the Nile again, but only made it a few kilometres before the phone she had appropriated rang. Natalia had never been so glad to hear Masha’s voice.
“I’ve come to pick you up, Romanoff. Get Barton, get your kit, and get ready to come home.”