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Clint likes to watch. Not that way, okay, get your mind out of the gutter. He just likes to watch people, spaces, the way people move through spaces, with each other, around each other. This table in the cafeteria is one of his favorite spots when he has down time - good sight lines, his back to the wall, a view outside through the large windows towards the terrace outside. The entrance to his left, the food area to his right, and one of the main traffic areas in front of him, but not so close as to have people stepping on his toes. The lunch rush is winding down anyway, and it's fewer people now, either to grab a late lunch or in a meeting in a more relaxed atmosphere.
Like Coulson, a few tables away, in front of the window, his back to Clint. He's in a discussion with a woman with mid-length dark blond hair. She's showing him something on her laptop, talking animatedly. Coulson has taken off his jacket as concession to the late summer sun, and draped it over one of the free chairs. Clint can faintly see the outline of his undershirt through the white dress shirt stretched over his back and shoulders. The hair on his nape is a little tousled. A cup of coffee sits next to Coulson's elbow, steam rising and curling slowly in a ray of sunshine.
Clint doesn't feel creepy with the way he watches (and hopes no one else does) - he's just idling, after all, and it's not like he fantasizes or anything, or hatches plans. He just watches. He has his hearing aides out and the world is mostly silent around him, like an animated painting.
Take for example Jasper Sitwell, who just came in, and now walks past Clint to the bar to get himself something to drink: he moves differently than most field agents in SHIELD - more fluid, more expressive. He too has ample combat training, but as far as Clint would guess, never was military. Doesn't have that edge to himself, that economy of energy. He's easier with people, too - the way he now wanders over to Coulson, lightly touches the other man's shoulder both in greeting and to get his attention. They talk, and then Coulson rises, grabs his jacket and presumably excuses himself from his previous engagement. Sitwell turns to Clint in that moment, waggles his fingers in greeting and signs a quick Hello and How are you. Clint waves back, and catches Coulson's eye, too, when he looks over. Clint gives them both a slightly dorky thumbs up, and enjoys the easy laugh of Sitwell and the way Coulson's lips quirk. They leave, and Clint picks another agent to watch.
He's still surprised that it was Coulson and Sitwell who came to pick him up, back in London. As he learnt later on, they are normally too high up the ranks for your average pick up, but then again they get assigned the special cases. Clint doesn't think he's a special case, but he's grateful nonetheless. He's not sure if he would have survived anyone else.
~~~
"Take Hawkeye."
Coulson looks faintly surprised at Fury's order.
"He's not a full agent yet. He has neither the clearance nor the experience."
"I know, but he never misses, and we can't afford to miss if we should really finally manage to get the Black Widow in front of the crosshairs. Are you sure it's solid?"
Coulson huffs. "Yes. It all checks out, verified by three independent sources, and before you ask, Nick, we checked their credibility, too. Twice. It's not planted, it's not a trap, and it's trustworthy intel."
Fury grins at him. "I like how I can always trust you to do the homework, Phil. As I said - take Hawkeye. You can chaperone him. It's gonna be a pain in the ass, but he's our best shot, even without any polish or proper training."
"Alright. Just don't come crying to me when things go off the rails," Coulson sighs and makes a note. Fury grins even wider. "Don't tell me you mind a bit of excitement. 'Off the rails' is practically your specialty by now."
Coulson flips him the bird without even looking up from his notes.
~~~
Clint is puzzled by his new orders, but packs his bow and his favorite rifle and goes where he's told. To at long last travel legally is pretty cool too, especially combined with his SHIELD ID. Nobody checks their luggage, or asks about customs or anything, SHIELD even splurges on the travel budget for once and they get booked into business class. Coulson settles in and immediately starts to work on his laptop, while Clint curls up with a book, and falls asleep soon after. They're heading to Sicily, for a termination. Clint is a little unhappy about his first assignment being murder, but then again he has seen an abridged kill list of their target. The world will be a safer and more stable place without her. If that means another blemish on Clint's soul, then so be it.
They get settled in a small town that's a bit touristy but it's nearly off-season already. The rooms are small but cozy, and Clint goes for a run in the morning. He's put on weight and muscles since joining SHIELD, but needs to stay limber. When he comes back to the town square on the first day, he's surprised to find Coulson sitting outside one of the cafés, reading the newspaper and eating some sort of… white mush?
"Morning sir," Clint says, still out of breath and braces himself on his knees. "Didn't expect you out and about this early."
"I like the air at this time of the day," Coulson replies easily, and puts away his newspaper. "And this café has some of the best granita available."
"What's that? Granita?"
"A sort of almond sorbet, usually enjoyed for breakfast with a brioche," Coulson explains, and taps the little bowl with his spoon. "It's far too warm around here in summer for coffee or the likes."
Clint just nods, feeling vaguely out of his depths when it comes to cultural habits outside of Iowa. And even there… Anyway.
To his surprise, Coulson gives him a faint smile. "Want to try a bite? There's extra spoons over there by the entrance."
"Oh! Uh, sure," Clint says, and goes to grab himself a spoon. It feels weird to share Coulson's food, but would feel equally rude to decline the offer.
He takes half a spoon full of the white mush, eyes it skeptically, and gives it a little sniff before putting it in his mouth. It smells sweet, and nutty, and somewhat like marzipan. And tastes pretty much like that too, a delicious refreshing iciness around it all. Clint gives an appreciative hum around his spoon.
"Ish goo'!"
"I'm glad you approve of my breakfast," Coulson says with a wry smile. Clint grins and pulls the spoon from his mouth with a slurp. "Any hope for seconds?"
"I'm sure the waiter will come around soon," Coulson deadpans, but rips off a piece of the brioche, too, and hands it to Clint. "But maybe shower first." The bread is soft and buttery, and Clint hums happily. He salutes and walks the rest of the way to the hotel, hands in his pockets and thinking of food.
During the day, they scout out the area and all possible perches. Clint gets a detailed introduction into the surrounding plan and meets and greets with the other agents of the mission, who are managed by Sitwell. They consider whether or not to install a backup sniper, but dismiss the plan. The town square will be practically surrounded by agents as is.
"Just don't miss, I guess," Sitwell grins and ducks out of the way of Clint's lazy punch.
On the actual day of the mission, Clint skips both breakfast and his run. Instead, he grabs his rifle case, throws on the high-viz vest that is supposed to make him seem more inconspicuous, and heads to his position. It's on top of some scaffolding on the side of some historic building, and he drops the high-viz vest on the second storey. From the second-highest level, he has an excellent view on the little square in the center of town where the mission is supposed to go down.
He screws together the rifle and silencer, checks the scope and settles in to wait. Breathes evenly and looks into the distance, slows down his breath, his heart rate, his mind. A little later his commline comes to life with a short beep.
"Hawkeye, check in," Sitwell drawls in his ear.
"Hawkeye checking in. I'm in position, equipment checked and ready. Awaiting further instruction."
"Copy that. Agent Coulson is observing from zone one. Spot him for me, will you?"
Clint raises the rifle, and peers through the scope, fingers far away from the trigger. A quick sweep around, and there he is: Coulson's settled outside the café again, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He's reading a newspaper and occasionally checks his phone.
"Spotted at eight o'clock. Unassuming average white male, middle aged, jeans, blue polo, newspaper, receding hairline."
Sitwell laughs a little. "Sounds like Coulson alright, but don't tell him I said that."
"I won't if you won't."
"Copy. I'll call back in once we have confirmation of target approach," Sitwell says, voice smooth and relaxed. "Radio silence until then."
"Even if I get bored?"
"Even then, Hawkeye. Count Coulson's freckles if you can't take it anymore."
Clint sights again. Coulson doesn't seem to really have any freckles, but maybe a slight sunburn across the bridge of his nose.
It takes something like half an hour before Clint gets the update that their target is on the way. "You'll be looking for a red-haired woman, mid-twenties, wearing a yellow dress with red flower pattern, white trainers, possibly sunglasses. She'll be carrying an off-white tote bag with a library print. Arrival by bus, right at the square center. Target has a seat at the back, so probably will also exit at the back. Ideal target zone is next to that tree and the flower stall. Order to engage will be given for a thirty second span."
Clint repeats the description back to Sitwell and readies himself.
The bus arrives. A couple random people get off and disperse. The red-haired woman is the last one to step through the door before the bus drives away again. She walks a few steps and stops next to the tree in the center, close to the flower stall. Down in the square, normal life slows down, nearly grinds to a halt. There is barely anyone about who is not a SHIELD agent undercover, traffic held up purposely outside the square by well-timed red lights.
"Fire at will," Sitwell's voice is clear and clipped. Clint's finger curls around the trigger. The woman down in the square looks around, hasn't moved yet. She reaches up, pushes up her sunglasses into her hair like a hairband. Turns slightly on the spot, just a fraction. Clint watches her through the scope, studies her face, her eyes, the spot right between them where he can see the faintest hint of a frown.
Clint breathes in and out slowly.
At the end of the exhale, he fires.
Dirt and pebbles fly from a spot right next to her left foot. Her gaze sharpens, focuses upward in Clint's direction, feet sliding an inch further apart to widen her stance.
Clint holds the stillness at the end of his breath. Fires again. The strap of her tote bag rips apart, the bag dropping down to the ground. He fires a third shot, close to her right foot, and that's the last - she turns, runs. On his own move up and away, Clint's scope passes over Coulson who has dropped all pretense, and is up and already moving, too.
It’s been five seconds. Six, at most. Down in the square, all hell breaks loose.
Clint drops the rifle, carelessly, and scrambles down the scaffolding as fast as he can. At the bottom, he slips behind some folded tarp for a few seconds when another SHIELD agent rushes into the construction site and towards the way up - presumably to get to Clint. Who slips out once the other agent is past and runs down the road, away from the town center.
He doesn't really know where he's headed - hell, he doesn’t even really know why he did what he just did! The morning runs have given him a good overview of the city, but in the end, it's a small island they're on, and SHIELD will easily be able to control all ways in and out.
Basically, Clint is fucked.
He reaches the edge of town, where the cliff starts and carefully starts to make his way down the narrow path towards the beach below. Maybe he can swim some distance, avoid tracks, get away from easy view. In a perfect world, there would be an abandoned fishing boat somewhere which he could "borrow".
An odd rustle behind him makes him turn half-way, but there's nothing behind him. Clint scrambles further down, still on edge, doesn’t really watch where he’s going - and gets clotheslined by Coulson's arm against his throat.
Clint slips on the gravel and goes down hard, barely avoids hitting his head on the rocky ground. Before he can even realize he's flat on his back, Coulson is on top of him, pins him down with hands and knees, and Clint feels the cold nuzzle of a gun pressed against his head.
"What is your connection to the Black Widow?" Coulson demands, and his eyes are hard, his face stony.
Clint knew this was coming, sooner or later, but he hadn't thought Coulson would guess that accurately where Clint would run, would be this quick to take him down, would flip that easily between his calm and friendly handler persona and this tough as nails agent. The memory of sweet almonds is a ghost in Clint's mouth, and he is tongue tied, his heart aching.
The comm line in his ear is deadly silent, the connection severed the moment he went against orders. He never misses. They know he didn't shoot her on purpose.
Clint knows silence well, but this is different, this is personal.
"Barton. I asked you a question," Coulson says again, sharp and furious. This is maybe the most emotion Clint has ever seen him express. Clint would shake his head, but the gun against his head has him frozen in place.
The metallic click of a safety being undone is loud in their silence. "Get off him," a female voice says, and Coulson looks up. The motion has his knee grind painfully against Clint's arm, but he keeps his mouth shut.
"You have five seconds before I blow your brains out," the voice continues and after a heartbeat of hesitation, Coulson moves off of Clint. Who scrambles backwards, away from his former boss, up into a sitting position.
A few meters further up the path stands the Black Widow, an assault rifle securely trained on Coulson.
"You. Get up," she commands, but doesn't even glance over to Clint. He gets to his feet, uncertain and unsettled. Coulson has his gun lowered, but he too is watching carefully, ready to use every little opening he gets.
"A life for a life," she says, "tit for tat. Now get out of the way."
Clint doesn't move. Well, not much, anyway, apart from shuffling a little on the spot until he is more directly in the line of fire between Coulson and the Black Widow.
"Don't hurt him. Please. Don't… just, please," he begs, and she just huffs, unimpressed.
"Natasha Romanov, you are under arrest," Coulson says from behind him, and Clint half-turns, can't believe the sheer nerve of the man. "As are you, Clint Barton."
"You and what army," the Black Widow sneers, and Clint wants to agree that it doesn't look particularly good for Coulson. The words die in his mouth however - on cue, atop the cliff and further below them, more than a dozen SHIELD agents appear, all armed to the teeth and in full riot gear. Of course there was a back-up back-up-plan. There always is. The Black Widow must see them, too, because after a moment, she lowers her gun, flicks the safety back on.
"I see how it is," she says, and suddenly there is that look in her eyes again, that look that had made Clint disobey his orders and follow his gut.
"Drop the gun," Coulson commands, and she does. Even kicks it so that it slides a little ways away, out of her immediate reach. "Hands behind your heads, both of you," he continues, and Clint and the Black Widow obey.
The first agent in line behind her is Sitwell, and he grabs her arms and pulls them backwards, cuffs her hands together while he recites the usual phrases that inform her of her rights.
Clint is grabbed and manhandled by Coulson, the pull turning him around so that he faces the sea far below them. Clint blinks, the sun on his face, and just lets Coulson's voice wash over him as he too gets cuffed and read his rights.
The view is amazing from where they stand - the sky a brilliant clear blue, the sea dark below, the cliffside rocky gray and dotted with occasional dark green. Clint drinks it all in, pulls it into his heart, because this right here might be his last view of freedom before he will get locked up. Forever probably.
Too soon he is pulled away, and back up on the road he gets manhandled into a windowless van. They change his cuffs so that his hands are in front again, allowing him to sit normally. In exchange for that small comfort, his feet too get cuffed, wrists and ankles connected to a loose chain around his waist that lets him move, but not take large steps or swing his arms around.
Barely an hour later, he is locked up alone in an interrogation cell with no windows and no clear idea where he might even be. When he curls up on himself, he can manage to reach his ears. So he pulls out his hearing aids, first one, then the other. There won't be any use anyway. It's not like anyone will care about what he has to say.
The world switches over into silence. An agent he has never seen before comes in, asks questions, and leaves when Clint barely even looks at him. He closes his eyes, tries to pull back to mind the view from the cliff. Sun, sky, ocean.
The vibrations through the table and the ground tell him that other people come in and leave again. Some talk at him. Some are silent. At least no one gets violent. At least not yet. The time between visits gets longer.
He remembers the view, fresh morning air, and the taste of almonds and soft buttery bread, the smell of pine trees in summer and freshly brewed coffee. He'd like a hug, but it's been far too long to even think of someone touching him without any practical intent - medical, training, arrest. He sits with his head bowed and his eyes closed.
Clint breathes in and out, and wishes he could just vanish. The door opens and closes one last time. Who cares. Clint has lost track anyway.
A hand touches his, gentle fingers tapping his left wrist first to announce themselves and then gently grab it to turn his hand sideways. Something warm and solid is pushed against his palm, and Clint's hand automatically curls to hold it - a cup, most likely, the ceramic smooth and warm. Surprised, Clint's eyes blink open, and he has to blink again a few times against the light. Sitwell across from him sits back with a smile, identical cup in his hand, raising it to his mouth to take a drink. Clint's eyes flick over, and there's Coulson, back in his suit, standing off to the side. He's not paying them any attention, engrossed in whatever he's reading on that tablet. A third cup stands on that side of the desk, steaming gently.
Sitwell turns to the side, says something to Coulson, who just shrugs. He replies something too, without looking up, and Sitwell puts down his cup and starts to dig through his pockets until he comes up with a set of keys.
"I'll unlock your cuffs now," he signs, and doesn't wait for a reply from Clint. The handcuffs are easy, and quickly done, but for the chains on his feet and around his waist, Sitwell has to get up and walk around the table and get on his knees next to Clint. He expects some quip like "Try not to kick me," but nothing comes. Sitwell gathers up the chain-and-cuff ensemble and drops it on the table, off to the side, next to Clint’s hearing aids. So far no one has tried to make him put them back in. Clint carefully stretches his legs, wraps both hands around the mug.
"Two sugars and a dash of milk," Sitwell signs, "Americano." He grins when Clint lets his surprise show. He hadn't expected Sitwell to know his coffee preference. Wouldn't expect anyone to know it, actually. Sitwell points to his own mug. "Cappuccino, and Coulson has a decaf Americano, because the fucker has had three espressos already since noon and needs to slow the fuck down."
Off to the side, Coulson must reply something to that, because Sitwell glances over, and answers back, but Clint keeps his eyes resolutely on the table. A few moments later, the two agents seem to have finished their discussion and Sitwell scoots over a little with his chair. Out of the corner of his eye, Clint watches Coulson sit down. He arranges the tablet and mug next to each other, the edge of the tablet parallel to the edge of the table. Folds his hands on the table in front of him.
Clint swallows and closes his eyes. Thinks of the blue sky, the gray rocks, and the deep blue sea. The sun on his skin. The last seconds of freedom. If he can just keep this in his heart, he will be fine, no matter what they throw at him. He opens his eyes again.
And for a moment, isn’t sure if his brain didn’t just short-circuit. Coulson is looking at him, calm and patient, and his eyes - his eyes are the blue of the ocean, the blue Clint wants to remember, wants to keep in his heart and hold on to no matter what. His breath stutters in his chest.
“Hawkeye,” Coulson signs, because that’s Clint’s name, too, “talk to us. Talk to me. Nothing in your file suggests you even knew the Black Widow existed until you got sent on this op. What happened?”
And Clint gives up. Gives in. Gives in to the wish to belong, to the faint and fragile hope that maybe, just maybe they will understand.
“She wanted to die,” he signs, small and meek, and drops his hands on the table again.
'That was the order anyway’, they’ll say, or, cruelly, ‘well wasn’t that convenient.’
Sitwell and Coulson don’t move, don't speak. Clint glances up again, eyes flickering between the two agents across from him.
“She wanted to die,” he repeats, and this time Coulson makes a small gesture for him to go on. “She wanted to die,” he signs for the third time, “and she shouldn’t have to. I mean - not like that. She's tired, I think, of… of everything. She knew we were there, she knew what was coming. She pushed her hair from her face to make it easier for me to aim. Looked my way. Held still. This was supposed to - she wanted to use us to commit suicide.”
Coulson raises an eyebrow. Then he turns slightly so that he faces Sitwell, but when he speaks, he signs along. “The Black Widow has confessed to all charges we placed before her. Guilty on all accounts. A death sentence is practically guaranteed.”
“All of them?” Sitwell asks, an odd expression on his face.
“All of them. Even the ones we know she didn’t do, or could not have done in any way, because she was, for example, on a different continent at the time.”
Sitwell grins without humor. “Impressive work ethic.”
Coulson turns back to face Clint again. “What would you have us do?”
Clint twitches, surprised and confused, but Coulson looks serious.
“Offer her a job. Offer her to come in, like you did with me.” Clint doesn’t say a home, a purpose, a place to belong, like SHIELD has become for him. He won't give that much away.
Coulson considers for a moment, then nods slowly. Next to him, Sitwell has leant back until he’s balancing on the two back legs of his chair.
“Should we call Fury?”
Coulson considers that too, but then smiles very faintly. “Let’s start at the beginning first. One thing after the other.”
Sitwell lets his chair drop forward again and Clint can feel the thump when it connects. “Yeah yeah, when there’s lots to do, you have to start at the beginning and then hope that it will eventually be over. I know, I know. Just remember it's you he'll be shouting at.”
“What about me?” Clint asks, carefully. Even if the Black Widow lets herself be recruited, he still disobeyed an order.
“Hang in there for another few minutes,” Sitwell signs, and gives him an encouraging smile. “I’ll come back as soon as we have an answer. Enjoy your coffee in the meantime, Agent Barton." He winks exaggeratedly.
Coulson and Sitwell leave, their still steaming cups left behind. Clint presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he can see coloured spots, and then rubs his face. Stares at nothing and tries not to think too hard while he waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long. The door opens, and Sitwell leans in, his phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. He gestures for Clint to come over and follow him, and then winces when whoever is on the other end of the call apparently starts to shout.
“Fury,” he signs, when Clint looks at him curiously as they walk down the hallway next to each other. He leads them outside the building, and Clint realizes they are at the local airport they arrived at, in a hangar to the side. Sitwell walks further along, guides them to a small collection of chairs and tables that stand at a corner in front of the building. The area around them is quiet and deserted. The sun is low already, but the space is still bathed in sunlight, and Clint has to squint to see. In the far distance, he can just make out the sea, dark and glittering underneath the horizon. Sitwell leaves him there alone, but returns shortly after. Instead of his phone, he now holds all their coffee mugs and Clint’s hearing aides in his hands.
“She’s surprised, but not totally opposed to the idea,” he signs, once he has deposited his cargo. “Fury’s coming over.”
Clint nods, mute, and they sit together in silence. After a while, he takes the hearing aides and carefully puts them back in. Somewhere behind them, a bird is singing. The mug makes a clanking noise when he puts it back on the metal table. The coffee is good enough to even be palatable when only lukewarm. Sitwell occasionally hums parts of some off-key melody.
Some time later, the door behind them opens. Coulson steps out, followed by the Black Widow. She’s still wearing the yellow summer dress and white trainers, but something about the way she moves makes it clear that she’s a fighter and not some harmless girl. She too isn’t wearing cuffs anymore.
“Meet the Black Widow,” Coulson signs behind her, when they come to stand next to Clint’s and Sitwell’s table.
“I got my ears in again,” Clint says, and tries to ignore the way the Black Widow stares at him.
“Ah,” Coulson says and lowers his hands. “In that case: Agent Barton, meet Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow.”
“Uh, hi,” Clint says, and gives her a little wave. Her eyes narrow.
“You owe me my life,” she says, her accent indeterminable.
“You mean, you owe me your life,” Clint replies, slightly confused.
“No. You owe me. You did not ask if I wanted it.” Her eyes are dark and angry.
Clint frowns. “You didn’t ask if I wanted it, either.”
“Was your job.”
“Yeah, well,” Clint shrugs, more nonchalant than he feels. “I made a different call. Tough luck.”
"You are a sentimental fool."
Clint glances between her, Sitwell, Coulson. "I've been called worse. And hey, I like it here, like this. You might, too, who knows."
She sits down at their table. "I have not yet decided if I will stay."
"Neither have we," Coulson replies dryly from where he is standing. Clint has to squint when he looks at him. The sun is a bright halo behind Coulson and puts his face in the shadow, making it impossible to see his eyes or read his expression. He looks like the shadow of a deadly saint against the blue and gold backdrop of the evening sky.
"Fury's ETA is in three hours. Anyone want pizza? I'm ordering in," Sitwell says, tapping on his phone, apparently unconcerned and unbothered by the whole situation. Clint realizes with a start that he didn't eat all day, feels suddenly hungry.
"Yeah, I'm in. Large pepperoni, please."
Natasha nods. "Yes. Extra cheese."
Sitwell's cheerful grin is bright like the sun. Coulson moves to take a seat, too, becomes human again, just a guy in his suit and with a sunburn across his nose.
(When Sitwell brings out their pizzas a little later, Natasha switches out hers with Clint's and gives him the stink eye when he opens his mouth to complain. Coulson just watches them, one eyebrow raised.
"Seems to me like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, don't you think?" Sitwell says, grinning, and digs into his own slices. Coulson, the madman, uses a knife and fork on his, all prim and proper.
Hours later, Fury arrives with the noise and wind of a SHIELD helicopter, gets out before it has fully settled down. He comes marching over, black leather coat billowing out behind him, silhouette sharp against the floodlights of the airport.
He stops next to their table, a frown on his face at the scene in front of him: Two (Three? Clint still isn’t sure how he’s counted) agents and a wanted assassin, playing cards. Natasha lowers her hand and gets up without a word, follows Fury inside. Given the last few hours, Clint has hope for the future.
Sitwell picks up Nat’s cards, flips them over, and huffs, because her bluffs are impossible to call. Sitwell too cheats like the devil, and yet…
And yet, Coulson watches every move of his fingers every time it’s Clint’s turn to shuffle and deal the cards. Clint in turn watches him, puts in one or two tricks and flourishes, just for him, just to see the minute twitch at the corners of Coulson’s eyes. He can feel a smile tugging at his mouth and feels playful in a way he hasn’t for ages.
Tomorrow they will fly back to the US, leaving behind the warm and fragrant air of Sicily.
Clint doesn’t mind. He has his memories, safe in his heart.
Sun. Sky. Sea. Blue and Gold. A saint and savior for the lost and broken hearted. Second chances, and sweet almonds.