Chapter Text
Lying in the grass, the asset aimed at his target and shot the poisoned dart through the open window, right on the mole the man had on the neck. His victim collapsed onto his desk in less than one second. The asset swiftly stood up and slung his darts rifle across his shoulders before heading toward the manor where his mission resided.
He marched to the main entrance, stopped 18 seconds 45.56 feet before the door to avoid the rotating security cameras, walked 15.3 feet to the left to stay invisible to the guards patrolling in the garden and waited there 3.6 minutes for them to leave. Once he could not hear their steps nor their chatter anymore -meaning that they were more than 200.12 feet away- the soldier stealthily reached the front door and opened it soundlessly.
He did not need to worry about the security cameras in the house - he had already hacked the whole server treating the tapes and replaced them. The asset quickly crossed the first floor and climbed up the stairs – stepping over the two that creaked - counted four doors at his right and stepped into the office where his target’s corpse was already cooling down.
With practised ease, the soldier retrieved his flechette -that did not leave any trace behind, as the small needle was planted on the dark beauty spot that hid the entrance wound - and closed the window he'd shot the dart through. Making sure that he stayed out of the field of view, he fetched the vial of poison from his right pocket and poured it in the whiskey tumbler that the target had been drinking before he took him out.
In the same move, he leaned up the desk and retrieved the letter securely hidden in the inner pocket of his tac suit’s jacket before placing the note - the asset wrote it himself in mimicking the dead man’s handwriting- in front of his victim. It talked about the war, about Iraq, about civilians killed and guilt that was not bearable anymore. It looked convincing.
The soldier made sure that the office key was in the man’s vest pocket and looked around to make sure one last time that there was no sign of his passage – the handler told him that the target was the FBI’s second in command and warned him that a thorough investigation would be conducted no matter what- before leaving the room and closing the door with a double of the key.
He took the same path as previously and quitted the house without leaving a trace of his presence.
********************************************
The asset was still reporting the exact course of his mission to the handler when the phone rang, interrupting him and startling the two guards that were watching his slightest movements, ready to take him out at the first provocation. The officer let the room to converse more privately with his interlocutor – who spoke Russian, but with a Bulgarian accent- leaving them in the naked bureau they used for the rendez-vous.
The two men’s respiration rate upped to 30 % quicker than normal as soon as the officer crossed the door. The asset guessed that they were supposed to contain him if he had one of his episodes and attacked the handler, although he had already worked out six ways to eliminate them in less than 9 seconds – 5, if the younger one was even clumsier than the way he handled his gun was any indication.
He fixed his gaze on the wall and stayed perfectly steady, making sure not to give them any reason to think he had any willingness to fracture their skulls. They looked twitchy.
“Soldier!” the handler snapped as he came back 12.21 minutes later. “Change of plan. You have a new mission.”
This was not the usual procedure. The asset had received precise instructions: follow the handler’s commands and come back to the base for maintenance. The orders could not be overridden by any new mission, except if it was at least a B type priority one. He informed the handler of that and did not feel any delight in noticing the guards exchanging a scared glance.
“Boy, you have no idea of what’s coming down on you…” muttered the man with an almost apologetic expression in handing him a memory stick.
********************************************
“Objective of the mission?” the handler asked as soon as the soldier got acquainted with the files.
“Ascertain if the Black Widow committed treason.”
“How?”
“By monitoring her during her mission.”
“Yes, but how ?”
“I will pretend to help her in her investigations on a man named Clint Barton and find evidences of her betrayal or loyalty,” recited the soldier without hesitation.
The woman had been recently sent to acquire intelligence on Stark Industries and started collecting rookie mistakes one after the other right after that. The high graded interpreted that as a sign that she was bought by Stark and turned against them, but did not want to take any action without ensuring it.
The Black Widow was a valuable asset. Too valuable to dispose of her thoughtlessly. And too skilled too: according to her file, there was no doubt that any direct attack against her would result in the loss of numerous agents. That was the reason they were sending the Winter Soldier and not an operative whose speciality was infiltration: he would be able to handle her, should the reason occur.
“She is currently positioned in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn,” the asset continued in a blank voice. “And expects me to arrive tomorrow morning at 11.15 at her stakeout.”
“And what will you do if you find that she’s a rat?”
“Report to the leadership.”
“And then?”
“Dispose of her body”.
********************************************
“Another tracker, Romanova?! You’ve lost yet another tracker?! We gave you a simple assignment and you- three trackers in a week! And you still don’t know who Barton works for?”
Natasha rubbed her temple, phone at her ear. She hated Demidov. With every fiber of her being. But he was right, and she hated that, too. She had lost three goddamn trackers. In a week.
She found the first one on the floor at the store, after she’d stepped on it, crushing it into pieces with her own boot. She hid another tracker in the pocket of the rabbit’s jacket. Before Natasha’s very eyes, he offered it to a passer-by on the street who “looked cold”, in his opinion. The last one… he simply threw away the scarf she sewed the tracker in, even though he had almost maniacally clung to it for days prior that. There was no more doubt. Barton knew he had been followed. He was good. Very good. And he was mocking her.
“Report on SI mission progress,” the voice on the phone interrupted her thoughts.
Natasha closed her eyes for a second, drawing a silent breath.
“Stark’s security codes aren’t easy to override. If I try-”
“Do. You have. The data?”
“No,” the spy replied, clenching her teeth.
“I can’t believe your incompetence!”
Natasha put the phone away from her ear, ignoring Demidov’s tantrum. Her fingers reached out for her knife, fiddling with the blade.
“Well, send someone better,” she said quietly as soon as the shouting on the other side stopped.
There was a moment of silence. Natasha smirked, knowing exactly what Demidov’s face looked like at that moment: red and sweaty and gaping at her reply.
“... don’t get above yourself, Black Widow. And we are sending you... aid. For your Barton mission.”
“... what kind of ‘aid’?”
And there he was. Natasha had known the exact second he stepped on the roof where her tonight’s stakeout was, his steps inaudible behind her back. The spy turned around, her muscles tense, fingers ready to grab the guns at her thighs.
“Winter Soldier,” she greeted quietly.
The asset didn’t reply. He strolled past her to the surveillance equipment and proceeded to check the calibration.
********************************************
The asset arrived at his post eleven days ago.
Eleven days of excruciating observations.
At first, the soldier estimated that this mission would be far more easier than expected, judging by how much the Widow was wary of him. She seemed much leerier than the occasional agents he had to back up, who were at least relieved to receive his help - even if they were afraid of him.
But she was not at all comforted by his presence, far from it.
The woman was not strictly speaking scared of him either: her heart did not speed up when he moved and her posture was steady. She was just openly mistrustful.
That was not the behavior of a good and loyal agent, the soldier reckoned. It was suspicious.
He immediately informed his handler of his doubts - as required - and settled to observe the presumed rabbit next to the soon-to-be dead traitor.
Eleven days later, the asset regretted every single one dismissive thought he had ever had toward the incredibly patient and skilled woman.
The rabbit was a master in his field. He allied a flawlessly genuine and clumsy appearance with implacable and deadly competences, as the asset could testify just three hours after his arrival, when his suffering started.
The archer managed to lose them in walking his dog in the midday crowd in the Herbert Von King park. He probably spotted them despite their disguise as soon as they crossed the fences surrounding the entrance. The asset did not know what betrayed them: their camouflage was perfect for a late spring walk in a park and they never got in the rabbit field of view.
The Widow was wearing a banal flowery dress and her currently dark hair was tied up in a ponytail - she totally blended in the crowd. For his part, the soldier just wore a baseball jacket with jeans and paid extra attention to walk like a civilian and not an operative on a mission, with long and lazy steps.
The asset had insisted that they go on this unplanned undercover mission in haste and observed Natasha all along. He wanted to check if she was communicating with the rabbit to warn him that he was followed. She did not. The asset was certain of it. He had not let her any aperture to do so. That meant that the archer discovered that he was observed and chose to evaluate them.
Looking back, it was the only possible explanation why Barton had waited 27 minutes in a queue to “buy a pretzel” at a street vendor, forcing them to stay put on a bench 332 feet away - pretending to be a young couple to stay inconspicuous. The Widow and he even had to do small talk to consolidate their cover, in case Barton had a complice who eavesdropped them.
Small talk . For 27 minutes.
The man was simply testing their patience and immediately gave aforementioned pretzel to his mutt as soon as he finally obtained it.
Right after that, Barton must have given a signal to his beast, ordering it to make an unforeseen run in the middle of the crowd - how on Earth could a half blind limping dog run so fast? The man followed it immediately and disappeared in the gathering of civilians that came to take their lunch in the sun.
The soldier and the Widow instantly chased after him, but it was already too late. Barton had purely and simply vanished in the mass of commoners.
They only found him on their way back to their observation point to give their third feedback of the day to the handler. They were alerted by screams and almost came face to face with the guy as he was singlehandedly fistfighting four men.
Barton brought them to the ground without breaking a sweat in less than 1.2 minutes and left them in the gutter without a second glance, only fussing over his dog and promising him pizza for being “such a good doggo”.
The soldier thought at this point that they had a lead to untangle the truth and discover the archer’s true identity. Yet, when the asset interrogated the men later, they could not provide any useful information.
They mostly stuttered that the man was “bad for the business, the boss is not happy with him. But I don’t know anything! I swear !”, and the Widow and him had to explain to the handlers why they were late for their report and find a way to get rid of the bodies.
The high-ups were already not pleased.
After that, it all went even worse.
The asset and the Widow spent eleven days monitoring him as he watched TV, walked his mutt– and fed him with anything but dog food. Was is healthy? How could a dog eat so many hot dogs? – and drank cheap beer.
Eleven endless days.
The man never slept more than a few hours at a time before waking up with a jump - nightmares, obviously.
The Widow stated that it was usual for him when it occurred for the first time - probably the result of a shady past, more evidences required - and was restless when awake.
When he was not trying to fix a broken piece of furniture in the crappy building he owned or out to wander in unpredictable places in crossing the whole city from east to west without any clear direction, he went to the shooting range located 11 minutes on foot from his building.
He apparently had a deal with the owner and could access the range at any bloody time and shoot with any weapon he wanted. Yet, Barton favored his bows.
And the man could shoot.
The asset observed him drawing his bows for hours without any break and reaching the bull’s eye.
Every single time.
Sometimes, a small part in the soldier’s mind was impressed and told him that such an amazing sharpshooter could interest the hierarchy, and that the Red Room could find him a utility.
A few times, an even smaller voice whispered back that he could not allow that .
The smaller voice was always followed by a crippling headache that left him nauseous and unsteady, with an odd sensation of missing something.
The asset knew he had already lost too much time for this mission. He had to come back for recalibration soon, or the situation would worsen.
It always worsened.
The lack of sleep and the waiting were getting on the soldier’s nerves. The sooner the missions were complete, the better. At least, the serum his handlers gifted him with allowed him to fulfill his objective despite the tiredness, but that wasn’t the case of his partner.
The Widow looked like she was was at the end of her rope. She’d already spent more than two weeks on her previous mission and started showing signs of exhaustion. No amount of makeup could hide properly the dark rings around her eyes anymore.
More worrisome, after five days, the asset noticed that her hands were not as steady as they used to be when she was calibrating the surveillance equipment. She also started to jump at shadows or everyday city noises.
That was risky: even good agents were susceptible to make mistakes when they were in this state. And mistakes were more often than not deadly.
The rare hours of rest she could get on the freezing roof when the asset took watch were obviously not enough for the dame, and her wariness toward him did not allow her to sleep properly. Yet, the asset could not decently tell her to find a hotel room to get some real shut-eye as assessing her loyalty was his priority mission.
She wouldn’t accept it anyway. She didn’t want to miss the moment when Barton would make a mistake and lead them to whoever he worked for. The asset understood that.
They settled on the roof of a building with a line of sight giving the perfect access to the guy’s living room through the huge window without a curtain.They didn’t encounter any difficulty to access the top - except if you counted the glass debris that someone scattered there to discourage teens to climb on the roof that they had to sweep before taking position - but it was not really professional assassins-proof.
They had established a small camp and stayed there most of the time, monitoring their rabbit together. If the soldier had not been a ruthless killing machine and the Widow a lethal weapon, it could have been considered domestic.
Tonight though, they were quietly observing the man, wrapped up in blankets they had bought three days ago in a thrift shop. He had to take a few for himself before the Widow accepted one, but she seemed to be less uncomfortable now.
The rabbit – who was asleep half naked on his couch, clutching a bow as if it were a teddy bear - woke up with a jump at 1am.
He cleaned maniacally his whole flat by 2.34 am – almost finding Hydra’s new microbugs stuck behind the fridge in the process - before making a phone call. His handler, according to Natasha.
The man answered after two rings despite the fact that it was the middle of the night and spent more than 12 minutes explaining to the archer how to cook chicken stripes with chopped zucchinis.
“Is it a code? It seems suspicious,” the asset inquired Natasha when they hanged up.
“I guess so. But I cannot find a pattern. It has already happened twice before you arrived, and they talked about mundane topics like cooking or shows. Coulson is quite adamant about the fact that Barton should eat healthier , but I ignore what it is supposed to mean. I assume it’s a mission order because I doubt this guy ever cooked anything . He lives like a raccoon. As much as I know, he survives by eating trash.”
“And who is this Coulson?” the soldier cut, “You mentioned him in your reports.”
“No idea either. No one’s ever heard his name. It must be a fake identity.”
The asset grunted and was distracted from his inner deliberations by Barton’s movement in the kitchen. The man prepared a coffee pot and settled back on his couch, turning on the TV, before drinking directly from the pot.
“What… is he really?” the soldier started.
“Yup. He’s disgusting,” concluded Natasha with a cringe.