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“Are you seeing this, sir?” Barton looked down into the parking lot. It was raining, and between that and the lights, the shadows were all over the place. He wouldn’t have picked this perch, but the intel said the 084 would drop here. So here he was. In the rain. Again. Watching something big pick a fight with something tiny.
“I see it, Barton.”
Clint could almost hear the wince as Coulson shifted. Tahiti was not a magical place. Thank fuck Fury actually listened to Coulson for once and shut that shit down after the first trials. And while Tahiti wasn’t magical, the healer Thor brought back was most definitely magical. But Phil still had to finish healing the normal human way. Two more months on the outside, but more likely six weeks.
“She moves like Natasha, Phil.”
“She’s better than Natasha.” Phil hummed in thought. “Do you have any of those arrows from Budapest?”
“Yeah. Eye or chest?”
“If you’ve got more than one,” Coulson was tapping on his keyboard before continuing, “I’d suggest both. It’s large enough.”
Clint watched the girl in action a bit longer as he changed out his arrows from carbon fiber to a mixed wood composite of oak, ash, and thorn with blessed silver tips. He’d picked them up from a contact in Budapest before it became a cluster. Said they’d come in handy and that he should manufacture more in his spare time. Baba Ylena had reminded him of the circus’s fortune teller, who’d always been kind to Clint. He only wished that he would have listened more closely sometimes because she’d never been wrong.
“We should probably go over those Red Room files again, sir. She’s younger than Natasha.”
“Natasha is in her 70s; that’s not difficult.”
“Yes, but Natasha has had 60 years to perfect her craft.” Clint watched as the girl ducked underneath the thing’s third arm. “This girl is what, mid-20s?”
“From her clothing and shoes, I’d say yes.”
“But look at the way she anticipates the moves. There’s no way she’d learn that well in only a few years. That style of fighting didn’t even exist before about ten years ago.”
Clint could hear Phil tapping more regularly like he’d stopped focusing on the live feed and moved to something else. “Yes, it originated out of London somewhere around 2005, and is very popular with the girls if my intel is correct.”
The thing got a lucky hit in, and the girl went flying back into a controlled roll. Clint took the shot without taking his eyes off the girl. He knew he could manage something like that, but that was over a lifetime of tumbling, and even he couldn’t make it look that good.
The thing was down, but Coulson didn’t call in for retrieval.
“Coulson?”
“Good shot. Pack it up. We’re needed in DC.”
“What about cleanup?”
“Above our paygrade, Barton.” Clint could hear Phil closing his laptop. “Grab your arrows. If she wants one give it to her.”
“Sir?”
“Do it. I want to be in the air in thirty, and there’s a pancake place on the way.”
Pancakes did sound good. “Coffee?”
He could practically hear Phil rolling his eyes. “There’s always coffee, Barton. Whether or not it’s drinkable is another story.”
The girl did hold out a hand when he yanked one of the arrows out. He handed it over with a half-assed salute and jogged to the SUV that pulled up. It still screamed government vehicle, but at least this one didn’t have the SHIELD logo plastered all over it.
“So.” Clint got in the passenger seat. He did not laugh at the plastic covering because Phil handed him a warm, oh god, warm towel to dry off. “You gonna explain the 084?”
“Also above your pay grade,” Coulson sighed. “And mine. Fury called it as soon as he looked at the live feed. A sister organization, of sorts, had jurisdiction and that’s all he would say.”
“We fought aliens, Phil. How can that be above our pay grade?”
Phil didn’t respond. He just squeezed the steering wheel a little tighter.
“That same sister organization that cleaned up the shit show in Budapest?”
“The same.” Coulson put the car into gear and tilted his head towards the back. “You have dry clothes in the back with your bow case. I called in the order.”
Clint really couldn’t complain about the Op, pay grade BS aside. He’d gotten to shoot his bow, and now he was getting pancakes and coffee. “Wait, isn’t Steve in DC?”