Chapter Text
The mission brief had been clear; infiltrate, retrieve information, leave. A stealth mission.
Fury's lectures were familiar to both Clint and Natasha now, after about ten years working with S.H.I.E.L.D. But then, so was how to undertake a stealth mission. Fury was probably right to be… well, furious.
“...Did you just walk in and forget all of your training? Or are you just incompetent, useless little-”
Clint winced a little as Fury braked hard, almost running a red light.
“-Idiots. Don't think I didn't catch that look, Barton. Having one less eye doesn't mean I can't drive and debrief you on your absolutely monumental cock-up. So please, do share whatever excuses you've been formulating.”
Natasha raised her head from the rear window -frame.
“It can't have been us,” she replied wearily.
“Mmm, heard that one before, Agent Romanoff. Anything else? Or can you see that this one is definitely on you?”
“I'm not joking. We followed our information - exact timings, codes, everything - but they had men waiting. According to their timetables, six times the number they normally have. You know what that means, Fury.”
“Impossible. Background checks are thorough for any new hires, and I personally approve all of them. There is no way-”
“Where did the info come from on this one?” Clint interrupted, “Given that the mission was a little last-minute, there couldn't have been an agent planted inside…”
Fury swerved to avoid a young cyclist, calling her something vulgar and blasting his horn. The journey back to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ passed in silence. Once the car was parked in the car park, he sighed.
“You can still deal with twelve idiots quietly.”
“Seventeen.”
-°•—°•-
Clint leaned on the sink as streaks of dust and blood swirled down the drain. His head prickled uncomfortably with the start of a headache, and his bruised knuckles throbbed from the ice-cold water. He looked up at the mirror. His lower lip was split, and a purple bruise blossomed on his cheekbone. Not too bad, all things considered. He brushed his damp hands on his thighs and walked towards the door. Only as he reached up to pull it open did he notice the bright shine of blood on his hand. He froze, looking down to see the glistening red that had spread over his outer thigh. He backtracked, locking himself into a stall and sitting down on the closed toilet.
It was a bullet graze, bleeding profusely despite its diminutive size. The adrenaline must have numbed it earlier, he hadn't even noticed. He'd probably bled all over Fury’s car. And, speaking of, he really needed to get to the official debrief soon. He gently peeled his sticky trousers off it, grimacing as his fingers brushed the open flesh. Half of his leg was smeared with bright red blood, and more continued to well in the wound, running in rivers down his knee.
He had no bandages with him, and no time to find any before he was expected at debrief. Instead, he unzipped his sleeveless jacket and pulled off the t-shirt he wore underneath. He ripped it into a wide strip with his teeth, spiralling up from the hem to get the longest piece possible. He wrapped it tightly over the wound. It would have to do for now. He used the shoulders of the shirt to mop up the blood on his leg and trousers until it was passably ok.
He tossed the blood soaked shirt into the trash as he walked up the corridor to the elevators. His leg hurt a lot more now, and he had to repress a limp as he put his weight on it. Of course Fury’s office was on the top floor. Clint hated elevators, but there was no way he was taking the stairs.
-°•—°•-
Natasha knelt by the sinks, running the end of her long, red braid under the tap. The pink water swirled away. It wasn't her blood, which made a change, but it was also kind of disgusting. And she sure as hell didn't want to sit through an undoubtedly lengthy debrief whilst marinating in someone else's blood.
Her reflection betrayed how badly she was hiding her exhaustion. The split by her eyebrow and the one under her jaw had clotted over, and though there was a slight smear of blood by her eye, she chose not to wash it off, not wanting to destroy the scab. She squeezed the now-clear water from her hair and stood with a wince. Fractured rib? Well, getting slammed into walls does do that. Nothing she wasn't used to.
Natasha left, heading for the elevators. No way she was taking the stairs right now.
-°•—°•-
“Barton.”
“Romanoff.”
The two stood side-by-side as the elevator ascended to Fury's floor.
“Couldn't handle the stairs, huh?”
“Ah, you know, I'm getting old. You just wait.”
They waited quietly. There was no need for small talk - they knew each other well enough now, and they were both exhausted from the mission.
Clint looked over at Natasha
“You all alright?”
“Yeah. No thanks to Fury and his informants”
“The great Black Widow. Thwarted by some guy from IT.”
Natasha just rolled her eyes as the doors opened.