Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

late spring, the U.S.S. Kennedy:

Bruised ribs, mild concussion, eighteen stitches--and one soggy cast.

Also? This medical corpsman had treated him before. Twice.

Because, yeah, he was on a ship and stuck in sickbay--again. It wasn’t that Clint really minded sickbay--the navy gave out good drugs, too--but it'd be nice to see something other than the ceiling of an aircraft carrier. At least once.

“OK." The medical corpsman finished wrapping the new cast. ”You know the drill; don’t move your arm until the plaster sets.” She checked the IV and left.

Clint let his head fall back against the padding of the exam table as the narcotics turned the pain into a distance haze.

This day? Totally and absolutely sucked. Everything had gone to hell at five in the morning with Agent May getting captured, and now it was two the next morning, and--

Why did every sickbay ceiling have holes where light fixtures had been changed out? Did they just randomly decide to put in new lights now and then?

Or were all navy ships just really, really old?

The door to the exam room opened. Clint turned his head, expecting to see the corpsman.

Instead, Coulson walked in--dressed in yet another one of those gray suits. He opened the folder he was carrying, “Agent Barton, I'd like to speak to you about your report.”

Yippee.

Time to go over his report for the third time.

Also? He was seriously under-dressed, in boxers and a half-set cast.

“I’m impressed." Coulson didn’t look impressed. He looked unhappy. “Not only did you and May apprehend the fugitives, you also uncovered and subsequently destroyed a major base of operations for one of China's most dangerous terrorist groups, a group with--”

“Weapons of mass destruction?"

“I was actually going to say, a weaponized virus, but yes." He frowned at the report. "So--how exactly did the Russians become involved?"

"I contacted them." OK, he'd called in a favor from an ex-boyfriend, but--close enough.

"You contacted the Russians," Coulson was still frowning, "to help with a covert U.S. op in a Chinese autonomous zone?"

"Well, sir, we needed backup and I figured, you know, Mexico."

"Mexico?"

"If somebody called the U S. army and said there were terrorists parked with bioweapons in Mexico, we'd have troops down there, like, yesterday."

"I--see your point." Coulson looked at him for a long moment, then glanced back down at the pages in the folder. "And the female--could you describe again how you found her?"

Same question the last guy had asked. Right down to 'female'.

"Her name is Laura." It was weird how nobody would say Laura's name. Weird--and kind of creepy.

Coulson looked up. And frowned. "I think it would be best if we didn't discuss--"

"Her name is Laura--sir."

Coulson frowned more. "She told you her name was Laura."

It was more of a statement than a question. Clint answered anyway. "Yes." He hesitated, then went ahead and asked--he could always blame the drugs. "Sir? Who is she?"

Coulson looked at him. And then continued to look at him. Finally, he spoke. "Congratulations, Agent Barton--you have just been promoted to Level Four. Because what I’m about to tell you is highly classified. Captain Rogers wasn't America's only super soldier. During the Cold War, the army had another program; a soldier called Weapon X. The project was halted when it became clear Weapon X was mentally unstable and a danger to himself, and to others. After the program was shut down, certain files and samples went missing."

He closed the folder. "Two years ago, a team of marines were inserted to take out what we believed to be a biowarfare lab. What they found, instead, was the lab had been making clones using those stolen samples."

Clones?

That was impossible.

But--

It did explain things.

Like the claws. And the fact nobody seemed to believe his report.

"So, Laura, she's a clone of this Weapon X?" Because yeah, that didn't sound nuts. At all.

"We're running DNA to confirm a match, but yes. The rest of the clones were destroyed, but one escaped. X-23." Coulson crossed his arms, tucking the folder under his left bicep. "X-23 killed five men, and incapacitated three others. I am telling you this because you need to realize just how dangerous X-23 is--and why your report makes no sense."

Clint turned his head, eyeing the guy. His report made complete sense--well, except the naked woman with claws part. "What do you mean?"

"Two years ago, Weapon X-23 was seven years old, and mute." Coulson was back to frowning, "The doctors estimate the female--Laura--is at least 18 years old."

late fall, Paris:

Sometimes, Natasha dreamt. Mostly, she remembered.

White.

The white whirl of falling snow.

His uniform, smelling of cinders and tobacco.

She pressed her face deeper into the scratchy warmth of wool, her throat raw from--

Nat woke with a jerk, mouth full of pillow. She propped herself up on one elbow and blinked at the afternoon sun streaming in through the window of her Paris hotel room.

late spring, China - Ningxia Autonomous Zone:

Shitshitshitshitshit!

Clint fumbled for the nearest door knob with his good hand, and half-stepped, half-fell into the room.

Scratch that, lab.

Ow!

Make that dimly lit lab.

He limped over, wedging himself in the shadows behind an enormous cryovac unit. Hunkered down, hugging his aching ribs with his one good arm. A couple of seconds later, an entire troop of soldiers--Clint held his breath--marched past the door and down the hall. He sagged against the cryovac in relief.

So--he'd managed to find a way inside and found a weapon, and he'd found a way to call in the cavalry.

Sort of.

Now he just had to find May, free her, and fend off, like, a gazillion soldiers until the cavalry arrived.

Wait--

Why was the light blue?

Clint got to his feet, edged cautiously around the other cryovac.

What the--

The dim bluish glow was coming from a large glass tube standing upright at the back of the room. Inside a naked woman floated in some sort of thick blue liquid.

He circled the glass tube slowly.

She was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her eyes were closed and an odd looking breathing mask covering most of her face. A few IV lines swirled around her, pumping different colored fluids into her veins. He glanced at the tube's main panel, which looked surprisingly old.

As in WWII old.

Clint looked back up at her.

Seriously, what the fuck?

He was--had been--a RAT. Despite all the media bullshit about weapons of mass destruction', there were normally three kinds of underground labs.

One - Chemicals and gas, to kill lots of people.

Two - Bacteria and viruses, to kill lots of people.

Three - Illegal drugs, to sell for money, to buy weapons--to kill lots of people.

Naked blue gel women? Definitely not a way to kill lots of people--

A door opened, and two soldiers strode in.

Shitshitshitshitshit!

Clint pulled his weapon, firing as he dived for safety behind a cabinet.

There was a gurgle and a thump, and the second soldier swore in German.

One down. One to go.

Clint took a deep breath, then popped his head out, fired again.

The other soldier went down with a scream, his gun wildly spraying the room with bullets.

Shit!!!!!

Clint dived for the floor--CRACK! He looked up, and oh fuckshitfuck, a fucking bullet must've hit the tube's glass.

POP! The control panel began crackling and sparking.

Uh--

A rippling arc of electricity suddenly shot upward. BOOM!!! Exploding water and glass rained down.

Owowowow!

Stuff finally stopped hitting him and Clint raised his head slowly--and blinked. Naked Woman was lying on the floor, frantically trying to pull off the breathing mask.

"Hey, here, let me help." He scrambled over, grabbed one of her hands, got a wild-eyed glare. "Easy, OK? I got it." He let go and fumbled his knife out, one-handed, slashed the strap.

She pulled off the mask--and sprang at him.

Ow!!!

The back of his skull hit the wall, and then Clint found himself pinned, two knives at his throat.

No, not knives, claws.

Wait--claws?!

"Stop! I just helped you!"

Naked Woman growled, but let go. She backed off a few feet, and glared.

OK, so she understood English. Because, yeah, that totally made sense.

Naked Woman suddenly cocked her head, stopped glaring. As if she heard something.

Uh oh.

Clint slowly, carefully, pulled his weapon out--

--and a dozen soldiers poured through the door.

Fuck!!!

Clint dived for the floor again.

Naked Woman sprang at the soldiers, a moving blur of kicks and punches and slicing claws.

Holy shit.

OK--scratch that. Naked blue gel women? Were fucking lethal.

He raised his weapon, picked off two soldiers that were left, and Naked Woman dropped the last soldier with a snap kick to the jaw.

Who are you?" Naked Woman walked over a body, not bothering to look down at where she was stepping. "You are not one of them."

"No, I'm--" Clint stopped, because he still had no idea which agency he'd just joined, "uh, American. My name's Clint, Clint Barton."

"The doctor--" Naked Woman's expression changed, the first flicker of real emotion in her eyes, "she called me Laura."

late fall, Paris:

Nat sat down on the park bench and opened her book.

It was a chilly fall day in Paris. Kids and moms swirled around her in their bright jackets. A couple strolled by, fingers intertwined.

She pretended to read.

The minutes trickled by.

She saw the child and nanny first, then Tatiana. The child wore a yellow dress, a red jacket. The nanny followed, shapeless in a black coat, serviceable brown walking shoes. Tatiana was dressed simply, but impeccably. Gray wool jacket, tailored white dress, matching heels.

Nat flipped a page. And another.

Tatiana sat down next to her. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her hair and makeup flawless. Nat could smell her perfume, something light and floral. "Natalia." It almost sounded like a question.

Nat kept her head down, eyes on the book. "I'm only here for some information."

"I see." For the first time since she'd spotted Nat, Tatiana relaxed.

It was enough.

Nat thrust the hat pin through the ear, into the brain. She pulled the bloody pin out, tucked it neatly into the paperback in her lap.

Kids chased each other around the slide. The nanny stood, her back to Nat, watching the child climb the ladder. Tatiana's mouth worked for a moment, then she slumped backwards.

A minute, maybe two, until somebody noticed.

Nat dropped the book into her purse, got to her feet. She placed her hands in her jacket pockets, strolled out of the square.

Four down.

Eight to go.

early spring, China - Ningxia autonomous zone:

Of course, Agent Melinda May not only freed herself, but she also wound up having to circle back for him--and Laura. It'd be funny as hell if they weren't currently pinned down, and running out of ammo.

"I'm out." May lowered her weapon, wiped blood out of her eyes. "You?"

Clint started to poke his head up, ducked when a bullet hit the wall above him. I got half a magazine."

Laura frowned, then slowly, almost reluctantly, handed over the second rifle she had taken. "There are five bullets left."

May gave Laura another long look, and Clint wondered again if she recognized Laura--or if it was the whole Laura-naked-thing. May took the rifle with a small nod, "All right. Here's what we--"

There was the sudden sound of automatic gunfire and the soldiers who had them pinned down began screaming. Then more gunfire.

One of the screams cut off abruptly.

That's when Clint heard it. Russian.

A big, booming voice that could only belong to one person.

Relief swept through him. He lowered his weapon, poked his head up. "What took you so long?"

Sasha grinned back at him, while his team fanned out to secure their position. "Your Russian is still horrible, Malysh."

"You called the Russians?!" May hissed at him.

"He's a friend. And the Russians are closest." Clint whispered back, glancing over at Laura. He didn't think he could pass her off as 'normal' but he had to try. "Play along, OK. No claws." He pushed himself to his feet, careful to point his weapon at the ground. Sasha's team tended to be trigger happy. "The bioweapons I told you about are the next level up. There's some cryovacs, too--but I didn't check what was in them."

Sasha started to give his men orders, stopping in mid-sentence when Laura and May stood up.

"We also freed this prisoner." He looked over at Laura, praying she wouldn't do anything--well, weird. Bad enough she was standing there naked. Naked and bloody. "There are four people locked in her former cell. They're wanted fugitives."

He kept his voice casual, hoping this would work. Sasha's men preferred to travel light, and they didn't like to deal with anything--or anyone--that would slow the team down.

Sasha looked from him to May. "You are working with Barton now?"

He is working for me, Alexander." May used Sasha's full name, her tone cool.

"You should keep two eyes on this one, May. He makes trouble." Sasha barked more orders at his men. Then he turned back towards them. "These prisoners? You will take them?"

"Yeah, I guess." Clint said it as reluctantly as he could. "Any chance we can get a lift to the nearest ship?" It was a reasonable request--there were always a few U.S. Navy ships hanging out in this part of the world.

Sasha considered this for a moment. "Only if you take the girl, too."

Laura scowled, but didn't move, and Clint nodded, careful not to show his relief. "Deal."

late fall, Belgium:

The studio was freezing, another Russian winter pushing through the cracks in the dirty window panes. Nat followed the other girls in, took her usual place at the bar. She began stretching, muscles tight from the bitter cold.

Tatiana was stretching too, her hands only inches from Nat's.

Nat tried to ignore her, focusing instead on--

"War's over, kid."

She let go of the bar, whirled.

Ivan pushed off from the wall. He took a drag on his cigarette, gave her a mirthless smile. "Doesn't mean we soldiers can go home, does it?"

Nat blinked at the memory, her face pressed against the cold glass of the train window. The shake and rattle of the car felt familiar, almost like a memory.

Ivan.

She wondered now if he'd always been there. A ghostly shadow in the back of her dreams, the vague sense of something missing from her memories--until Oslo.

One glancing blow to the head and suddenly she felt like she was going crazy, memories flooding in--

Nat sat up, fingers running through hair dyed blonde. Her memories of the Red Room had always been pieces of shattered glass; tiny shards that made sense, no matter how many times she held them up to the light.

But--since Oslo, she remembered.

She remembered the Red Room. But she also remembered years of practicing for the ballet, though her legs and feet did not show the scars of such hard training.

She remembered being a frightened child, hiding in the arms of a soldier in an army uniform. She remembered Ivan, his smile, his laugh, the smell of his cigarettes. She knew he didn't like onions and hated the Germans and--

The train began to slow for the next station.

Nat shoved the memories away, grabbed her coat and her book bag. She slipped into the corridor, blending into the milling crowd of students. She'd already stolen an ID, a dorm room, some classes. All she needed now was the opportunity to get close to her next target.

Four down; eight to go.

late spring, Iowa:

The Quinjet's engines kicked into reverse.

Clint jerked out of his half-doze. He started to straighten, stopped as a tinge of pain pushed through the haze of painkillers.

In the dim lights of Quinjet's interior, Laura's eyes darted toward him, then away.

He knew that look. And if it were him?

He'd run.

Because--yeah.

Hey." He waited until she looked back at him. "One month. Just give it one month, OK?"

She didn't reply. Huddled in his sweatshirt, her feet tucked under her, Laura looked like she was nine or ten, instead of twenty.

Then again, maybe she really was nine or ten.

"Barton? We're landing now." The pilot at the controls--Hill?--set the Quinjet down with the same easy confidence she'd used on the take off three hours ago.

Clint wondered about that; the pilot didn't look much older than twenty herself.

Also? None of his business.

The ramp lowered, showing nothing but dark fields and endless night sky.

Iowa. Fuuuuuck.

Clint fumbled at the buckle of the harness, got to his feet. He tugged at the sling's strap where it cut into his neck, then grabbed his go bag with his good hand, headed down the ramp. Laura silently followed.

A minute later, the ramp folded back up, and the Quinjet took off.

Clint turned, looking across the fields towards the farmhouse. Several windows were lit up and the porch light was on. It looked like one of those stupid paintings.

Iowa.

As in Iowa.

Fan--fucking--tastic.

Well, he was only stuck here until Fury showed up--or until Laura ran.

He glanced over at her.

Laura scowled back, but edged closer.

Clint sighed and began trudging towards the farmhouse. They were halfway there, when Laura stopped in the middle of the field, tipped her head back.

Clint stopped, too.

How long had she been locked up in a lab? When was the last time she'd seen stars?

"You see those four stars? How they make a box?" He pointed to the same stars his brother used to point to. "That's the Little Dipper."

Instead of answering, she scowled and started walking.

Clint sighed. Again.

He didn't get it.

No, he did get it.

Three days. She'd only known him for three days.

There was no way he'd trust anybody he'd only known for three days.

Hell, he still didn't really trust anyone, cept maybe other RATs. And the folks in--

Oh.

Oh, holy shit.

The farmhouse? Was beautiful.

Custom-planed wood, beautifully carved molding. He squinted up, trying to see the carving on the corbels in the dark.

Also? Not really a farmhouse.

Clint followed enough renovation blogs to know that much. Well, OK, it was a farmhouse now--but the person who'd built the place must've had some major cash lying around.

It needed to be painted.

Badly.

And one end of the porch was sagging.

He wondered if it was a foundation problem or rotten boards or --

The front door opened.

Agent Cohen was not what Clint was expecting. She was tiny, silver-haired, and leaning on a cane. "You're here. Finally." Her smile was warm and friendly. "Watch your step; there's a couple of loose boards."

Laura picked her way to the porch, and scowled some more. "What is this place?"

Agent Cohen's smile widened, "It's a safe place. Come in--I know it's late, but I made dinner. You're hungry, right?"

late fall, Belgium:

Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov.

Nat stared up at the ceiling, listening to the steady breathing of her roommate, sleeping an arm's length away in the cramped dorm room.

Today she'd found him.

She should've stayed focused on the next target, but the university was old and sprawling; it's network an antiquated mess. Easy enough, even with her limited skills. Easy to access the backdoors of a few programs; while hiding her identity in the chaos that was the university's user database. Three lines in a hospital record dated May 5th, 1943.

Ivan Petrovich. Died 4:12 am. No family.

It was proof. Proof she wasn't crazy. Or--

Maybe she was.

Nat closed her eyes. She could smell the tobacco and ash, feel the press of wet wool against her cheek.

It was the bullet Ivan had taken at Sevastopol--it had finally killed him.

Her breath caught in her throat, and Nat opened her eyes, staring up into the dark.

early spring, Iowa:

The smell of coffee pulled Clint from sleep. He cracked one eye open--and then remembered.

Laura.

He sat up, grunting as bruised ribs protested. The nest of blankets she'd made in the corner was empty. But--surely Agent Cohen would've woken him up if Laura had fled.

Probably.

He got to his feet with another grunt, padded to the bathroom to pee.

OK, list.

Pants.
Painkillers.
Coffee.

And carpet. If this was his house, he'd rip up the wall-to-wall carpet. No way a beautiful house like this should ever have carpet. Ever. Luckily, it wasn't his place, 'cuz sanding and restoring wooden floors? Was a bitch.

Clint washed his one good hand, started to wipe his palm on a towel, stopped when the towel rack wobbled. He checked, and yup, the anchor bolt was pulling out of the plaster.

Loose tile, too.

Wow, this place could use some work. He ran a finger over the chipped porcelain sink, touched the mirror. The medicine cabinet was old and well made, but beginning to rust--

His dream suddenly came back to him. He'd been huddled against Barney, and his brother had been singing to him. Clint snorted at the idea of Barney singing--then immediately swore, because hello, bruised ribs.

He went back into the bedroom, wriggled out of his boxers and into a pair of sweats. He looked at the bag, decided he would deal with getting into a shirt after coffee. He rummaged through his bag, found his pain meds--aww, fuck.

Childproof lid.

But--

There were two people downstairs who could open it for him.

If Laura was still here.

Clint made his way down the stairs, mentally adding other stuff to the list. A loose riser, a couple of missing spindles. One of the hall sidelights was cracked and the light fixture hanging from the ceiling was modern and tacky and ugly.

And the carpet.

The stupid carpet had to go.

Scratch that. The stupid carpet and the stupid wallpaper. Somebody had added striped wallpaper in the hall, and it was too colorful and too modern. The whole place in fact, looked like it had been updated in the eighties--

He stopped walking as he caught a glimpse of Laura through one of the windows. Clint backtracked, stepped out onto the porch.

She was curled up on a bench, nose in a book.

So she did know how to read--she'd only been pretending she couldn't back on the ship. "Laura?"

She looked up.

"Um," He held out the painkillers. "Open? Please?"

"Yes." She laid the book down, took the bottle. She read the directions, unscrewed the lid. Handed the pill bottle back. "Clint? I promise."

"Promise?" He shook out two pills, then shook out two more. There was no reason to have a job with Uncle Sam unless he could enjoy a legal high now and then.

"I will stay. One month. Like you asked."

Clint dry swallowed the pills, eyed her.

She wasn't glaring.

Or scowling.

Or glaring and scowling. And she'd said his name, for the first time, like, since they'd met--three days ago.

"OK." He let her take the bottle, put the lid back on. "Want to tell me what changed your mind?"

"I thought you were lying, but you were telling the truth." Her eyes were guarded. "This is a real house."

Shit.

Of course.

She must've thought he was dragging her off to another lab--while probably half-hoping maybe this time things would be different. Because it was never the lies. Or even the people kicking you in the teeth while they lied to you.

It was the stupid, stupid hope.

No matter how bad things got, it was impossible not to hope that maybe, just once, things might turn out OK.

"Look." He moved the book--Black Beauty--sat down next to her. Pushed down the ache in his ribs from the movement. "When I was younger, I made some choices, some bad choices. And this guy we're waiting for? He gave me a chance when nobody else would. He's not going to lock you back up in some lab."

Laura stared down at her hands, "Agent Coulson said the army wants to kill me."

"Yeah, well, that's why we're laying low until Fury shows up."

"Clint?" She looked back at him, her eyes still guarded. "I did something bad, didn't I. Before?"

He had to ask, even though his gut told him he was going to regret it. "Before?"

"Before I was wiped." She said it matter-of-factly, as if it was an everyday sort of thing. "What did I do this time?"

Wiped?

This time?

As in--mind wiped?

She was still looking at him, waiting.

Because, yeah--the truth. He took a deep breath. "You killed some men, Laura. Some marines.

He expected horror, but instead she tilted her head, her expression confused. "But, that is what I am made to do."

winter, Belgium:

The night was icy cold and dark, a nearly full moon obscured by thick clouds. Nat could feel her breath hanging in the frosty air as she threaded through the dark and abandoned factory. She'd only been here twice, but her feet unerringly found and followed the path she'd mapped out.

She stopped in the middle of the factory's main room, pivoted left. Carefully, carefully, she counted steps.

Twenty, twenty-one.

Glass crunched under her boots.

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

Something scurried away in the dark.

Twenty-eight. Two steps left--

Stop.

She knelt and reached out, fingers questing through icy, wet leaves--and found it. The rough lip of the shaft. The plans had said the shaft was 75 feet deep--but Americans always exaggerated, so maybe 40 feet.

Deep enough.

Nat pulled out the rough scrap of material she'd torn from a bed sheet then stuffed into a rain gutter. It was now rumpled and soiled, and she had to smooth the cloth before laying it across the opening.

She stood, took two steps right, and checked her work. In the thick shadows the sheet blended with the concrete, hiding any evidence of the hole.

Perfect.

Nat counted her steps back to the door of the room, settled a shoulder against the door frame.

Bits of memory pushed through. Ivan and her, crouched in the ruins of a cavernous building. He smelled of wet wool and gun oil and sweat. Dawn's first light played across the scarred wooden floor--scattering colors from the broken stained glass windows over her hands.

Her hands--holding a rifle. It was dusk, the fading light turning the church's splintered pews into jagged shadows. She was the one who stank, of blood and diesel fuel.

Somewhere overhead there was the drone of planes, the Luftwaffe returning--

Car engine.

Nat snapped back to the present. She slowed her breathing, listening. A few minutes later, she heard it. The hollow strike of boot heels on concrete, echoing through the dark.

Zhanna.

She tensed, listening as the footsteps came closer and close. Zhanna had been sharpened by her time in the world--becoming far more cautious, far more street smart. Nat hadn't been able to get close enough, so--tonight was her only chance.

And then--

Seven more to go.

early spring, Iowa:

Clint stepped back into the house, and his gaze went straight to the carpet. Seriously, what idiot carpeted the hall and the stairs of such a beautiful old house? He patted the door frame with his good hand. "I'm sorry, girl."

That's when he saw it--or rather, he figured out what was nagging at him.

The stairs were wrong.

They were well made, probably of old heart pine--but sturdy and functional. The stairs didn't fit with the beautifully carved porch. He closed the door, leaned against it.

He measured the length and width of hall--

Got it.

The house had once been smaller--and had faced east, not west. The bottom half of the stairs had been flipped to face the other way, towards the new front door. Which meant the front parlor must've once been the old back porch.

Maybe a sleeping porch?

That would explain the low ceiling. And the hall--

Had been narrower. The stairs used to butt up against the wall of the original house. Someone widened the hall, then added another set of rooms on the other side of the hall.

He pushed off the door.

Ow.

Clint winced at the twinge that pushed through the painkiller haze, and turned.

The single door on either side was wrong, too. The space only made sense if there'd once been a set of double doors on each side of the foyer, with maybe transoms above.

Probably altered by the same idiot that picked out the super ugly wallpaper. The moron had gotten rid of the original doors in the foyer--and probably come up with the brilliant's idea of carpeting over the floors.

So--list.

Rip up the carpet.
Fix the spindles and the riser.
Find some doors and transoms that made sense for such a great space.

And--

He raised his eyes, looking at the ugly dropped ceiling and the ugly ceiling tiles and the super ugly modern light. He could imagine what the space would look like with its original high plaster ceilings--

No. This was not his house.

"You deserve better." Clint patted the door frame one more time, and followed the smell of coffee through the front parlor, into the tiny sitting room, and then into the even tinier kitchen.

"Good morning, Clint. I hope you slept well." Agent Cohen--Lila--was dipping bread into batter. "I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, and I'm making French toast. It's your favorite, right?"

"Um, yes." Clint poured himself a cup of coffee, trying to remember if he had mentioned French toast last night. He didn't think he had--
The sink was still dripping.

"You know, I can fix that." He took a swallow, and oh holy shit, he loved people who bought expensive coffee.

"I know, you offered to fix it last night--twice. I also told you I don't ask people with broken arms to take care of my plumbing problems." Lila dunked another slice of bread into the batter, laid both slices in the pan. "Shouldn't you be wearing your sling?"

"I don't need it."

"Mmhmm. You might want to follow your doctor's orders." She checked the flame under the pan, "She does have a medical degree, you know."

Clint set the cup down. How did Lila know the ship's head doc was a woman--oh. Coulson must've sent over his medical file.

"Why don't you sit down? Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

"Thanks." Clint went into the dining room, sat down.

It was just--strange.

They'd arrived at nearly ten last night because of an unexpected delay and Lila'd had a hot dinner waiting. Then the French toast this morning, and…

Get a grip, Barton.

Lila was a nice old lady.

Who somehow knew he liked French toast.

He took another sip of his coffee--and his dream came back to him.

Cold.

The orphanage was so, so cold and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't get warm, and he couldn't stop coughing and then his brother was there. Wrapping him in another blanket, holding him.

Singing.

It was the same song Mom always sang when she tucked him in.

Not a dream.

A memory.

He'd forgotten. Forgotten how Barney liked to hum that song, and how Mom used to sing it and then she would tuck him in and--

"I hope I didn't make too much." Lila set a tray groaning with food on the table. "Nick says I need to learn to cook for civilians now I'm retired, but I'm afraid I spent too many years cooking for an army. Guess you can't teach an old cook new tricks."

"You were a cook?" Clint picked up a fork, speared a piece of French toast. "I thought you were an agent."

Lila laughed, "Only on paper. Even SHIELD marches on its stomach. Oh, there's the phone." She hurried out of the room, talking to herself. "That'll be Ruby or Mabel, checking to see why I wasn't at bingo last night."

Bingo?

Clint made a mental note to ask her about the next bingo game as he took a bite--oh, oh fuuuck. He took another bite, and moaned. It was so damn goooood. Hell, it was even better than the French toast that Suzie, Ed's wife, made.

He scarfed down two slices, and reached for the bowl piled high with eggs. Eggs scrambled with cheese and--sausage?

He dug his fork in, and that's when Laura appeared in the door, hugging her book to her chest. Her gaze was laser focused on the food.

"Hungry?'

She shook her head, "I ate. Before you woke up."

There it was again. That reluctance to admit she was hungry.

It made something twist in Clint's chest--an odd, fierce protectiveness that he wasn't used to feeling for--or towards--anyone. "Go, grab a plate. I can't eat all of this."

She eyed him for a second then disappeared back into the kitchen.

He quickly added, raising his voice, "And a fork."

Not that he had any business nagging anybody about table manners, but Coulson was right. Laura needed to start behaving like--well, a normal person.

Instead of a dangerous super-soldier clone. At least, Coulson said she was dangerous--but then he'd packed her off to a remote farmhouse.

To be babysat by a guy with a broken arm.

And a retired cook.

Clint frowned, helping himself to more eggs. It made no sense. If she was half as dangerous as--

Laura reappeared with a fork and a plate, sat down across from him. And immediately popped one claw, snagged a piece of French toast.

"Laura--"

He got an eye roll, but she dropped the toast on her plate and sheathed the claw. Picked up her fork. "Happy?"

"Yeah, but remember what Coulson told you--"

He got another eye roll.

"Three bites; lay your fork down." She stuffed in three enormous bites of French toast, balanced the fork on the edge of her plate. She chewed for a minute, swallowed. "There are tools in the barn. I checked."

"Tools?"

That earned him a third eye roll. "Tools. The kind you use to fix sinks." Laura held her hand up, making a snapping motion like she was holding a puppet. "There are three in the barn."

It took Clint a moment to figure out what she was trying to say. "You mean a plumber's wrench."

"Plumber's wrench." She rolled the words around in her mouth. "The sink leaks, too. Lila mopped this morning, but said not to tell you."

"Except you're telling me."

For the first time since he'd met her, Laura smiled. A small, conspiratorial smile. "Yes--because you can fix the sink, right?"

"Probably, if I got the right tools." He held up his casted arm. "But I only have one hand, so you'll have to help."

She stopped chewing mid-bite, and stared at him.

Clint laughed at her shocked expression. "Guess you've never fixed a sink before, huh?"

She shook her head and another small smile stole across her face, "But--I can learn."

winter, Belgium:

As the train pulled away from the station, Nat tucked her cold feet under her.

She could still hear Zhanna's scream. It reminded her of something--

Her hands, slick with blood. She pressed down harder on the German's soldier broken leg; Ivan grinning as the prisoner screamed again--

Nat opened the book with enough force to crack the spine. She found her place, forced herself to begin reading the next chapter.

one week later, Iowa:

Fortified by coffee and yet another enormous breakfast, Clint stepped out onto the back porch. A cool front had come in. The morning air was chilly and he was glad Lila'd nagged him into wearing a coat. He stood for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the smell of new plantings in the fields beyond.

He'd missed this. The cabin was great, but there was always something missing and now he knew it was. Deep down, he was still a kid from Iowa.

And weirdly, he was OK with that.

Well--mostly OK with it.

He went down the steps, circled back to the front of the house--and smiled. The porch was still being held up by the jacks he had borrowed from the neighbor down the road, but the front steps were finished and the new footings poured. It was just a matter of attaching the posts to the footings.

He did good work.

Scratch that, they did good work. Laura'd done most of the physical stuff and he'd done the pain-in-the-ass stuff. Like measuring and math and planning. Well, he'd stolen the plan from a blog, but still--

They did good work.

There was a low spot right behind the front steps. Over the years, standing water had rotted away the steps and several of the posts that supported the porch. There were all kinds of expensive ways to fix the problem, but the cheap fix was a poor man's French drain.

They'd dug a big hole where the low spot was, filled it half way with gravel, then dug a sloping trench to another part of the yard. There, they had dug another hole and filled that hole halfway with gravel.

Finally, they'd laid a long piece of PVC pipe in the trench, and buried each end of the pipe by filling both holes with more gravel. Gravity did the rest, channeling the water from the first hole into the pipe and then down into the second hole.

So, yeah. Cheap, and surprisingly, fairly easy.

Laura was strong, scarily strong. She'd dug the holes and the trench in half the time it would've taken him. Clint directed and measured--and somehow bought enough pipe and gravel and wood and concrete during his one trip to the hardware store, and honestly, that? Should go into the Guinness book of world records.

He'd never made just one trip into town for any project.

Ever.

The hardest part of the project had been replacing the posts and the steps. They'd removed the rotted wood, dug out the old footings, poured new concrete footings, and finally, rebuilt the front steps. Clint could've done it faster, half-assed it--but he'd wanted to do it right.

It was also fun teaching Laura carpentry.

Well--mostly fun.

She'd gotten pissed off two days into the project and sliced an electric drill in half, but then again, he'd gotten so mad working on the cabin, he'd once thrown a hammer through the sheetrock in the bathroom.

Nobody was perfect--though it sucked she'd destroyed the better of the two drills.

Laura came around the corner of the house at that moment, scowling. "She made me wash the dishes. You don't have to wash dishes."

"Because I can't get my cast wet." Secretly, Clint agreed with Lila. It was good for Laura to learn how to do chores--even the ones she hated. "You ready to help me put in the posts?"

"Sure--just, no more digging."

He grinned at the way she wrinkled her nose when she mentioned digging. "Trust me, digging? Doesn't suck half as bad as sanding floors."

She tilted her head, scrunching her nose up again, this time in puzzlement. "Why would you sand floors?"

early spring, Berlin:

After Oslo, she'd made her choice, but--Nat still felt it.

Alone.

She shuffled forward, held out her plate with trembling hands.

Assassins were loners, and yet, there was always the faceless others to depend on. A team of people whose job it was to find Nat shelter, weapons, transportation. Now it was just her, and she needed money--money and food.

The spoon dropped meat and sauce onto her plate. The scent reminded her of--

She couldn't remember.

One of the women smiled at Nat, placed bread on the plate.

She ducked her head and let her hands tremble more. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the two men sitting at a table, watching her. She'd already noticed the one man's shoes. Leather and new.

German soup kitchens seldom asked for I.D. or proof of need.

She shuffled to the nearest empty table, sat down. Stared down at her food, fork shaking in her hand.

And waited.

An addict. Pretty and alone.

Mr. New Shoes partner straightened the collar of his coat, got to his feet. He started walking her way.

It was almost too easy.

Nat tore off a piece of her roll. Money, food--and the guy's coat. He was short and thin, it would fit her.

Then London--and the next target.

spring, Iowa:

Clint swore. He was tired and he was sore and all he needed was some sandpaper and the porch would be done. Except there was no damn sandpaper left.

Anywhere.

He swore some more, rummaging through the shelf over the workbench again. Exterior paint, spray paint, baling wire, twine--and a few old tractor manuals.

No sandpaper.

He squatted and dug through the crap under the bench. Tackle box, electric sander that didn't work, another old hammer and OK, how many fucking hammers was he going to find in this barn? More paint, more twine, and holy shit, was that--

He slid the tackle box over, teased out the chisel where it was wedged against the wall.

Oh fuck, yes. Another Marple paring chisel.

He'd been wanting Marples for years--and now he'd found eight.

Eight.

But--no sandpaper.

Which meant a second trip to town. Fuuuuck.

"Great." Clint thumped his forehead against the bench. "I finally get my hands on some Marples--and what I really need is some fucking sandpaper."

He stood, grunting as the motion pulled at his almost healed ribs--and stared at the package of sandpaper wedged between two cans of spray paint on the shelf above the workbench.

The shelf he'd just checked.

Twice.

He slowly reached up, pulled the package down. It was unopened, a mix of different grits, and so old the design on the package was faded.

OK, what the fuck? How much weird crap could happen in one week?

Like the hammers.

He'd complained once--once--about mislaying a hammer. Since then, he'd been finding hammers all over the damn place.

There was also the concrete.

There'd been enough concrete to pour all the footings--because somehow they had four extra bags. Four bags of concrete Clint knew he hadn't bought.

Also? The water sealant for the steps--

"Laura said I would find you here. You know, for a man who supposed to be on medical leave, you've been keeping busy."

He jumped at Fury's voice.

Clint turned, eyes narrowing. Screw it. There was something funny about the farm and he wanted answers. "I'd like to know what's going on--sir."

Fury looked at him--and then he gave a low chuckle. "I told Coulson you would figure it out. Come on, I have something I want to show you."

Instead of following, Clint just stood there, his feet rooted to the floor. Because that look Fury had just gave him? He'd never had anybody look at him like that--ever.

"Barton? The porch can wait." Fury looked over his shoulder, and yeah, the look on his face was still there.

Pride. You've become one damn fine soldier.

"Yes, sir." Clint dropped the packet of sandpaper on the workbench, and followed Fury to the far end of the barn.

He half-expected Fury to hit a button, reveal some kind of secret room or other shit, but instead Fury kicked aside the hay, grabbed the iron ring hidden underneath, and pulled.

Clint watched, confused. He'd found the same trap door four days ago. There was nothing under the barn but a small, hand-dug room--and the remains of a very old still.

"Override security, protocol Tango-One-One-Three-Eight. Authority: Nicholas J. Fury." Fury said it--then waited.

A moment later, a vaguely dog-like robot bounded out of the hole. Well, if the dog was army green, and made out of scrap metal.

And had two gun turrets on its back.

"Sit." Fury ordered, and the robot did a strange little move where it picked up each front leg, before folding its two back legs and--

It took Clint a second to realize the robot was trying to bark. Something must've been messed up, because it sounded more like a squeak.

A very loud squeak.

"Recognize Captain Clinton Barton--codename Hawkeye." Fury put his hand in his coat pocket. "It's a WWII proto-type; it hasn't been updated with current ranks."

"Yes, sir." Clint was trying very hard not to take a step or two backwards. The thing had both guns trained on him, and its odd, black-lensed eyes were creeping him out.

Dog-robot gave another squeak, and wriggled its antenna-tail.

"Good boy." Fury actually patted the damn thing.

Dog-robot leaned into Fury, turning its head to nose his arm. From this angle, Clint could see that the robot was welded from jeep parts. Something had happened to the left side of its head--it was missing an ear, there was a mismatch of metal patches, and the left eye lens was smaller.

"Just once--I know you've been cooped up all week" Fury gave it another friendly pat, pulled a tennis ball out of his pocket, threw it.

Dog-robot squeaked, and bounded across the barn, opening enormous jaws that looked scarily capable of crushing things--and carefully, gently picked up the tennis ball. It did the odd thing with its front legs again--

Prancing.

The thing was trying to prance, like a real dog would. Except--Dog-robot kind of sucked at it.

It bounded back over, braking hard, both front paws sliding in the hay--and dropped the ball at Clint's feet.

He looked down.

Dog-robot tilted its battered head, wriggled its antenna-tail.

Um--

Dog-robot wriggled its entire back end.

Which, OK, was cute.

Sort of.

He gave in, tossed the ball. Dog-robot immediately gave another squeak, ran after it.

Fury waited until it picked up the ball. "Lucky?" Dog-robot squeaked and Fury started down the steps, "Follow Captain Barton."

Clint fell in behind Fury--and blinked. Instead of stopping at the dirt floor of the tiny cellar, the stairs now made a half turn and continued down a dark shaft that hadn't been there before.

"Lights." Fury spoke, and a row of florescent lights flickered on.