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Entry tags:
Avengers - Shadows
Title: Shadows
Genre: Gen, Clint & Natasha friendship with undertones of more
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~7,000 words
Warning: violence, language, death of bad guys
Synopsis: Shadows and light, magic and mundane, death and immortality - they all blend into one reality anyway.
Author Notes: More of a fusion than a crossover. For this story, the Avengers canon coexists with a Highlander-esque world.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
"I hate this part," Clint complained. He coughed and blood stained his lips. He swiped at them with the back of his hand, fingers already painted a sticky red from trying to hold his insides in place. "Can't you speed it up?" he asked.
Natasha shook her head and kept watch. It was bad enough that this was taking place here, now, with enough people close enough to bear as witness if they happened to come that one step closer. One such witness moved, golden ring upon his finger, sigil glinting in the light. She took the shot, prevented him from furthering the damage already done by his colleagues. "I'm a little busy here," she replied, gun at the ready, eyes tracing shadows that moved more than nature allowed.
He didn't reply, and she spared him a glance, watched as he succumbed to the inevitable. She took down another shadow before it could materialize into an attacker and silently cursed when she heard the telltale sounds of repulsors approaching. She keyed her comm back on in time to hear Stark's voice, digitized and panicked, as he said, "Shit, Barton's down. It doesn't look good."
"The situation is under control," Natasha told him. She let off another shot, same direction as before. "Please focus on my eleven o'clock position. The insurgents appear to primarily be coming from that location. I will cover Barton."
"There's nothing to cover," Stark protested. He sounded resigned, and pissed. "JARVIS shows no heartbeat, no respiration..." He left as directed though, and soon her forward left lit with multiple blasts.
She estimated another twenty-five minutes passed, gave herself another five before Stark returned and ten total before her other teammates descended. "Come on," she grumbled.
Six minutes later and Stark circled in the air above her, sensors searching for anyone they missed. Seven, and there was a deep, heaving gasp followed by a harsh, "Fuck, I hate that."
Stark fell more than landed beside them, the rooftop shaking with the force of his impact. There was profanity and questions and she ignored it all as Clint shakily pushed himself upright. A clink signaled a bullet's ring on concrete, a groan her partner's realization how much the congealed blood clung to his tattered uniform and still healing skin.
Barton picked up the bullet and rolled it between his fingers. "R and D will want this, especially if it beat their armor," he commented.
"You don't want it as a trophy?" she asked archly. She was still moderately pissed he had pulled this now of all times.
He held up another mottled piece of metal that had fallen into his lap and said, "Apparently there's enough to go 'round."
"He was dead," Stark insisted. His faceplate was up now, seeing with his own eyes for a change, possibly not trusting his invention.
"He's clearly alive," Natasha blinked with false innocence.
"The suit records everything; I have video, sensor feeds - do you really want to question me on this?" he demanded. "He was dead. I... He was dead." He was shaking, she could see it in his features even if his suit held him in place.
The door to the rooftop opened and a very startled Rogers appeared, breathless from undoubtedly running up the twelve flights. Another shake, lighter than before, signaled Thor's arrival, an exhausted and shirtless Banner in hand.
"I think the cat's out of the bag on this one, Nat," Clint winced. "You have to admit, it's kinda a surprise this didn't happen sooner."
She holstered her weapons and tried not to glare at him. "Given your propensity for stupidly sticking your neck out without safeguards in place, it's a wonder they didn't know yet," she reluctantly agreed.
He clambered to his feet and swayed enough to the side that she felt the need to steady him. "Whoa," he said, trying to right himself. "I need a burger. Like seven of them. They must have gotten me more than I thought."
"You. Were. Dead," Stark accused.
Clint rolled his neck, vertebrae popping and settling back into place. "Yeah, funny little story about that. More like a complete history lesson, really. Can we do this back at the tower though? Preferably with food?"
Natasha brushed off flakes of her own blood, suit ripped to reveal pink and healing skin below. "I could go for a cheeseburger," she agreed. "Maybe a shake?"
The others were either too numb to argue or decided to go with the flow for now, she didn't know and didn't care. Instead, she found herself seated on the couch, staining the upholstery, burger in hand while ignoring wide eyed looks and unvoiced questions. To be fair, Clint was getting more of those than she, but he was still stained crimson and deflecting enough that she was still getting her share.
"Someone's been keeping secrets," Tony accused. He sat in an overstuffed chair, drink in hand still unsipped.
Clint took the tumbler from him easily enough and downed it in one go before returning his attention to burger number two. "We're spies," he pointed out, mouth full of grease and meat. "We're supposed to keep secrets."
"There's keeping quiet about international intrigue, and then there's lying to your teammates about something fundamentally important," Tony protested.
"We didn't lie," Natasha replied. She wiped her hands on her napkin and sipped from her shake. The cool sweetness felt wonderful as it slid down her throat. "We simply didn't share."
"Lie through omission then," he tried.
Clint shook his head. "You never asked so we never omitted." Subterfuge often lay in the details, and they had learned to use them well.
It was Bruce who cut to the chase. "You also didn't volunteer something significant about your person that may have an impact upon your teammates," he pointed out. "Much like we know Tony has his suit for protection, Thor has alien physiology to contend with, Steve was given a serum that makes him heal quickly, and I turn big and green and indestructible, knowing you are essentially immortal would have been helpful."
Thor leaned forward, the demolished remains of multiple burgers before him. "They did not know?" he asked, surprised. He reached for his second shake, but did not drink it yet.
"No, we thought he was a normal human and, wait, you did?" Tony demanded, changing tracks mid-sentence.
Thor nodded and shrugged as if it were obvious, which it probably had been to him. "I thought it was common knowledge that Clinton and Natasha were of the Old," he said, and Natasha winced in anticipation.
"Wait, Natasha is too?" Steve asked, incredulity coloring his tone. His own food was long forgotten in front of him. "I mean, I thought your healing and such were related to the serum trials of the Red Room, not..."
Thor looked as though he was ready to apologize for betraying her trust, but she waved him off. Clint was correct, it was time the truth was known, to her friends and teammates if no one else save for Fury himself.
"Story time?" Clint guessed.
She leaned back against the cushions and agreed, "Story time."
"I'll go first," he offered, which was fair since he got them into this mess. He set his food to the side for the moment, though he eyed Stark's glass as though wishing for another. "Okay, so there are people born with the potential to be like us. No one's figured out the why or how yet, mainly because we'd like not to be science experiments. Anyway, they live their lives and might never be the wiser until they're triggered. Once they're triggered, their life goes to hell in a hand basket and their screwed."
"What triggers it?" Steve asked. Natasha could not tell if it was the need to strategize or simple curiosity that led him to ask, but doubted they could brush it off. He was essentially their team leader, and he should at least know the basics. With as much weirdness as they had run into to date, it was likely only time before their own kind added to the mix.
"A really fucking painful and violent death," Clint replied. Then, with a shrug, "I mean, every death is painful, let's be honest here, but there's the whole violence aspect to it really. I personally like the theory that there's magic involved and the energy from the violence is a trigger for a protection and vengeance thing, like our kind were originally created to serve a purpose of protecting others, possibly those better suited to rule or some shit, but who knows for sure? History's totally forgotten, if it ever knew in the first place."
Bruce seemed to contemplate that for a moment before he pointed out, "But that means it could be triggered at any time, or not at all?"
"Got it in one," Clint agreed. "We can usually tell when one of our own is around, both pre- and post-triggering. Some live happy, full lives and die peacefully in their sleep aged ninety or whatever. Some get turned far too young to protect theirselves from the assholes out there and never get a real chance. Most are somewhere in between."
"So, like in the movie Highlander, right?" Tony asked, excited. "You have to fight to the death and the kids wouldn't have a shot. Where's your sword? You have one, right?" Natasha tried not to roll her eyes. Just because she expected the comparison didn't mean she had to appreciate it.
"Mackie made a mint off that crap," Clint grumbled. Louder, he explained, "Yes and no. Yes, there's fighting to the death, but mainly because people are megalomaniac assholes who think this life is some sort of sign they should be invincible. Kids rarely get a chance because a) assholes, and b) we do try to protect them when we can, but their reasoning skills grow as much as they do, which is to say not at all, and there are still ways for them to be killed by conventional methods."
Natasha decided it was time to step into the potential fray. "If you want to call us 'immortals' you can, but it's not technically accurate. We can still be killed, but there are specific methods for insuring a permanent death."
"Decapitation?" Bruce guessed, which meant he too had seen the film. She had a feeling it was to be the fare for the next movie night.
"In extreme cases, though severing the spinal column tends to have the same effect," she admitted. Of course, said severing tended to be a full separation of the upper and lower halves of the body, but she did not feel the need to dwell on that. There were other ways as well, but she did like to keep some secrets as they had served her well over her long years.
"Do you get a Quickening?" Tony asked.
"The energy used to keep us alive is released, and we can absorb some of that life force to restore or improve our own," she agreed, not willing to argue the terminology. "There are those who seek that out, like a high of sorts, and are convinced it makes them more powerful."
"It tends to feed into that whole megalomaniac thing," Clint chimed in. He had turned back to his own shake, a bit of chocolate smeared at his lips, looking childlike in contrast to the years she knew he held.
"If you were to sort our kind into three defining groups, that would be one," she said. "They challenge any and everyone and truly believe only one can survive in the end. Others have removed themselves from society as much as possible, not wishing to see the life cycle of those they care about come to an inevitable end time and time again. They tend to meditate, try to further understand mankind and what makes us, well, us."
"And the third?" Steve asked.
She smiled and bumped her shoulder off of Clint's. Thankfully he had put his shake back down and was only reaching for his fries. "Find someone to keep them company on their journey, protect and be protected by them, and just try to make the most out of the life gifted to them."
"Have you ever had to... Have you ever killed before?" Bruce asked.
"I'm an assassin; I've killed plenty in my time," she pointed out. She knew that's not what he meant though, so she admitted, "I have come across more than an single one of us that needed to be taken down, and I have needed to defend myself more than once as well."
She knew there was more on his mind though, so she was in no way surprised when he asked, "So the serum, the one the Red Room gave you, it didn't actually work? The only successful recipient in all these years has been Steve?"
Clint took that as his queue to get up and go to the bar, pouring them both something strong and decent, knowing her history nearly as well as she did herself at this point, and knowing how little she wished to speak of it, even when it was clearly necessary. She waited for him to return and settle back in at her side before she explained, "The Red Room trials were unsuccessful for the most part. I was not the only recipient, but I was the only one with the potential to be triggered that I know of. The serum did have a positive effect, my reflexes were improved as was my overall strength, but it was not enough. They increased the dosage to dangerous levels in an attempt to recreate Erskine's work, and my body succumbed to the damage it caused." It was her first death, and by far the most painful. She didn't know if her memory had been improved by the serum or the trigger, but she remembered every excruciating detail of it, no matter how hard she tried to forget.
"Did they know? I mean, did they know that you were triggered instead of a successful candidate?" Bruce asked. She didn't know which weighed more heavily on his mind: his own failure, or the fact there had only been one true success in a lifetime of trials.
She downed her shot and held the glass out for another. This time is was Steve who obliged. "They did not know about our kind, else they would have sought out far more candidates. As it was, there was much... experimenting, to see what worked and why it didn't work on others with the same dosing. Eventually, they decided not to waste their success and I was allowed on missions, where I escaped to my own life."
Steve handed her the refill, and reminded her that he was not stupid when he asked, "When was that?"
"1946."
He blinked. "I was..."
"Yes," she agreed, and offered him her glass in case he needed it.
He declined and Clint pretended he didn't notice or understand the meaningful glances thrown his way. When Tony pointedly cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows at him, Barton relented enough to say, "It's easy enough to hide the whole not aging thing when you're constantly traveling." She noted he listed no dates.
"And your supposed brother?" Steve prompted, retaking his previous seat. Of course he had actually done his homework on the team.
"Is, for all intents and purposes, really my brother," Clint replied easily enough. "Barney and I were raised together by one of our kind. That man was killed in front of us by another who knew what we were and we escaped before he could kill us and then kill us. Ended up not mattering when Barney was dumb enough to get us both dead doing something stupid anyway. He sides more with the 'there can be only one' bullshit, but can't quite bring himself to kill me yet, at least not for the final time."
Natasha knew there was more to it than that, just as she knew it likely was not to be shared, tonight if ever. They had already managed in one sitting what it took SHIELD months to get out of them, which spoke a lot about just who they trusted more as far as she was concerned.
"You truly don't believe only one of you will win out in the end?" Bruce asked, surprised. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, actively paying attention, actively trying to figure out the latest scientific marvel that had presented itself.
Clint flopped back against the couch in an inelegant sprawl. "New potentials are being born all the time, like at least weekly if not more. Anything can trigger them at any moment, right? So do you really think its possible for one guy - or girl - to go around mass murdering them all to live out some sort of holy whatever? They'd have to constantly off all the newbies even if they made their way through the rest of us." He shook his head. "The fact that there are newbies should be enough to figure out that whole 'one' bullshit is just that: bullshit."
"It's a simple matter of math, really," Natasha said. She swirled what was left of her drink in her glass and took another, smaller sip. "If you are constantly adding variables to the equation, the equation itself is unsolvable."
He nodded as though that made sense, for now at least.
"There's one thing I don't get," Tony said. She was willing to bet there was more than one, but that he planned on wheedling it out of them over time, hoping to catch more of the actual truth via casual conversation versus the cover stories they usually relied upon. She looked to him expectantly, not promising anything other than to let him ask his question. "Where's your swords? Like, seriously, if that's the number one way to off the people trying to kill you, wouldn't you always have one on you?"
Clint laughed and slid out a knife that had not been obviously available. It was a standard ka-bar, military issue, the sharpened edge only about eight inches in length and the thing as a whole not quite a foot long when you included the tang and handle. "You can still do a lot of damage with a blade this small," he pointed out. It disappeared again as though it was never there, a trick borne from more than his spy experiences. "There's also the whole 'magic might actually exist' thing. Things hide in plain sight; sometimes even our own kind don't see them until the last moment. We've seen Strange and his ilk, not to mention Loki's mind games, enough to know there's more at work in the world than simple physics. Something keeps us alive. Something warns us when another is around. Something transfers from one of us to another upon death. Our kind, our race for lack of a better term, has been trying to figure it out for centuries. Some to extend the lives of the ones they love, and some to break what they see as a curse of living on when the world dies around them."
Tony made a face, possibly at the fact technology had not yet given them an answer. He had never liked so-called magic, blatantly called it science that he simply hadn't figured out yet. "If they really want out, why not just..." He drew his finger across his throat and made a lewd noise, proving Natasha's first suspicion incorrect. She was surprised, but covered it well.
"The will to live is strong," Thor replied. He, more than any of the others, understood what it was like to live for literally thousands of years. "The magics that keep them alive do so for a reason."
"Some offer themselves up," Natasha admitted. She had seen it. She had accepted it. She had regretted it. "What transfers, in death, is like a part of that person. If someone is so depressed, so intent upon their own demise, do you really want to take that into yourself?" Her drink now gone, she resorted to finishing off her shake, smooth chocolate a substitute for harsh grain.
"We've got enough problems of our own without having to deal with someone else's angst that may or may not have a source we understand," Clint agreed.
"I've never seen you train," Steve said quietly. He was clearly concerned, as though afraid that they had let their skills go to waste as they focused on the needs of the team instead. Either that, or he wanted to know just how good they were should they come up against one of their own, Natasha wasn't sure. She had misjudged one of her teammates that evening, and would prefer not to do so to another.
Living the life of spies, they had avoided the worst of the worst for the most part. They might happen across one or two on a mission, but she could usually sweet talk whoever it was into looking for a temporary ally, or simply take them down if it didn't jeopardize the original target. Only once had she asked to be pulled from a mission, and it was solely not put other agents at risk, something Fury had questioned, then appreciated when he found out who was involved. The fact that particular someone disappeared shortly thereafter was not a surprise, though some small part of her lamented the loss of the energy that might have been converted into something positive had the taker been powerful enough.
"You've seen our usual regiment," she prevaricated. They trained constantly, though usually in methods near identical to the standard agent with only a few alterations.
"It's usually enough to at least incapacitate and evade," Clint agreed. The problem, of course, was that this only worked because no one saw them, no one knew who to track down once they revived. Living the life of the Avengers they were more in the public eye, it was more likely for someone to take notice, more likely for someone to seek them out for revenge or to finish the job.
"We'll show you sometime," Natasha promised. It was unlikely their team leader would let the matter drop, but he would at least respect a request for reprieve given the events of the day. Besides, she did enjoy a good, full-on, no-holds-barred spar. It had been a while since she had truly shown what she was capable of. "I need to sleep and Barton here probably needs to pass out for a few hours to make up for dying."
Steve relented and let them disappear off to their rooms after disposing of their detritus. She wasn't dumb enough to think the others weren't staying up late talking about them, nor was she stupid enough to try to escape now. Not to mention she rather liked and, dare she say, trusted her current team, at least for the time being. They had a good purpose and she put her skills to use in a positive way. It helped to make up for the times she hadn't, helped balance out the not quite evil but definitely less than good times of before.
She had planned on demonstrating her skills in a nice controlled setting, such as the gym within the tower itself, using bokkens instead of live steel. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
Four days later, and she had joined Steve for an early morning run in the park. He claimed the fresh air did him good, and she appreciated the change from the same boring walls of the gym as she made her circuit. The sun was barely an orange tinge on the horizon and the park relatively empty in deference to the early hour. They were keeping pace with each other, about to round another corner when she felt it.
She came to a complete stop and Steve ran on a few more paces before he noticed she was no longer at his side. "What is it?" he asked. He looked around the surrounding area, eyes searching the shadows, but appeared to find nothing.
She watched one of the shadows coalesce into a man, a being such as herself, broad and muscled and easily twice her size. He had a blade in hand already and spun it in front of him as though to intimidate. The action served to highlight something else entirely, one of the still-lit lamps from the walkway glinting off the golden ring he wore, the sigil familiar from less than a week before.
"Do not interfere," she warned Steve.
He looked as though she had slapped him, told him not to do the one thing he was bred and built to do in life: protect. "You're unarmed," he pointed out, which was a lie as he knew she never left her room without a weapon of some kind secreted away on her person.
She pulled no gun, but did remove a Bowie knife, blade over a foot long, a weapon she had found to be far more commercially available in the modern age and very similar to the short sword her mentor had trained her with all those years ago.
"I'm not even going to ask where you hid that," he sighed. He didn't sound resigned though, not yet, which meant he was still debating stepping forward and getting in her way.
"Best that you don't," she replied. Her opponent stepped closer now and she did everything but physically push her teammate to the side. "These are the men from Saturday, look at his ring and know it's doubtful he came alone. Feel free to take care of the others in case he decides not to play by the rules."
The rules were something neither Clint nor herself had explained quite yet, mainly to give themselves leeway. Stark and Banner had assumed they were the same as that film of theirs, and it was close enough to work for now. Thor had mentioned something in passing that was similar, but perhaps related to his own peoples' fighting style versus what her kind had deemed right and proper. They were relatively simple: immortal against immortal and don't involve those not of your own kind. Chivalry dictated it should be one-on-one, though she herself had fought two-on-two more than once in her admittedly short life. Chivalry also dictated you shouldn't just shoot your opponent and cut off his head, but she had done that as well when clearly outmatched. She wasn't exactly proud of that one, but the man had still been alive and breathing and attempting to take her head when she took his, so it had done little other than even the odds. It was simple logistics, and she had always been good at those.
Despite the size difference, she didn't think she was outmatched this time. Bigger did not necessarily mean better. Her opponent favored his left side and was at least twenty pounds past his ideal weight. She'd like to know more about why he sought her out now, but assumed it was related to the earlier mission and that Stark's hacking abilities could answer the majority of her questions if needed.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," she said by way of greeting. She could feel the shiver of energy running through her veins, the preparation for a battle like only her kind could ever experience.
"My employer was quite displeased at this weekend's events. I assured him I knew of a way to at least reduce the number of would-be heroes he would have to deal with," the man replied. She assumed he was a lackey, or serving as one now in an attempt to climb his way to power. Plotting, waiting, strategizing, but not quite with the full ambition of some she had come across in her time.
He looked around, saw Steve and dismissed the American icon as inconsequential. "Where is your archer friend? It was him I was first after, hoped to use you against him, found a pleasant surprise instead." She placed his speech patterns as Slavic, having spent enough time in English-speaking areas to rid himself of the majority of his accent. Older than he seemed then, but that could be said for so many.
"Barton's busy communing with his pillows, or possibly his coffee pot," she said without apology. "Looks like it's just you and me instead. Well, you, me, the half a dozen thugs you have hidden behind you, and Captain America, who should keep them busy while we attend to business."
The man frowned, but signaled his cohorts forward. Most ran directly at Steve, though one attempted to fire a shot at her that she neatly dodged. It gave her opponent an opening though, and a right and proper battle began.
He used a Roman short sword, not much bigger than her own knife, but with the advantage of a double-edge. He was clearly used to the brute force method, slashing and hacking more than finesse or skill. She was able to flit away, keep his blade from touching her skin while her own sliced key locations that would weaken and throw off what little control he had. He managed a small nick to her side, to the soft skin just above her hipbone. Her shirt shredded easily enough, though the skin below it began to heal almost immediately.
She could hear Steve battle the minions, the sound of fists and grunts and misfired pistols providing a soundtrack to her own fight. Her opponent caught his blade on hers, a sword far more sturdy than a knife, and pressed downward with a grin. She released the handle, letting his strike carry through as she hit just the end of the hilt to force it upwards, reached up and over his blade to grab it again and slice it across his wrist. The position weakened him, but also left her vulnerable for a moment, and he struck, fist connecting solidly with her jaw. She reeled backwards while he switched to his less dominant hand, and she regained her footing while he tested his new grip.
She backed up slightly, putting a good three yards between them. She wasn't running away, but she was preparing to run. Bowie in her right hand, she flipped a small butterfly knife open with her left. It flew from her fingers as her feet raced forward, the metal striking the meat of his shoulder, causing him to drop his blade even further with his already weaker hold. She followed through in a move similar to what she liked to use on the mat to take her sparring partner down, but did not wrap her legs around the man's throat to pull him to the ground. Instead, she used his bulk to propel herself upwards and over, her momentum carrying both her and her blade around him, the edge slicing deep and severing his head from his body.
She dropped back to the pavement, knowing she only had a brief respite to catch her breath. She looked to Steve and found him watching her with wide, wide eyes, five men unconscious at his feet and another attempting to crawl away before he was stopped with a well-placed kick.
"So, that's, um..." he tried, but didn't get far.
"Wait for it," she warned. She widened her stance in preparation, already feeling the almost static charge as it formed around the body. The first spark caught her off guard as always; she never quite knew just when or where it would strike, simply that it would. The second and third felt less like touching metal on a dry cold day and more like that of jumper cables on a car battery in their magnitude. Soon enough, the energy was pouring from the man, cascading around and through her body, anything she couldn't absorb sparking off of nearby metal and being taken by the earth itself when that failed. She resisted the urge to scream, refused to associate an intricate part of her very being with actual torture despite the pain associated with it. Mere moments and an eternity later, it ebbed and dissipated, and she feared the time had come to unlock her knees as it was entirely possible they were the only things keeping her upright and standing.
Steve was there though, ignoring the little lines of blue that slithered up his hands when he attempted to hold her upright. He flinched, but held her steady, stayed there with her when he could have saved himself the pain. She knew he wouldn't leave, even as she knew he needn't have remained. "Are you alright?" he asked. He looked to a nearby bench, likely to find a seat for them both, but it was well and truly fried.
She closed her eyes for a moment, watched as glimpses of the man's memories streamed by, hoped to sort out something important before it was lost to the ether. She saw the ring, the sigil, the way it was just a small part of something far bigger in the grand scheme of things. She saw his first death and his first head and the way he stole a sword he thought had history in hopes of giving himself some.
"Natasha?" Steve prompted.
That was her. That was the persona she had chosen to be, for now. She took a breath, pushed away the tatters of the man's life and settled the cloak of who she was and who she wanted to be about her, and opened her eyes. "He knows about Clint; it's possible his employer does as well," she warned.
Steve pulled out his phone and called the tower, told Tony to up the security measures and surveillance for the time being. He then called SHIELD for cleanup, told them of the six lackeys and turned to mention the body, seeming surprised to find her shake her head at the attempt.
"We have our own methods," she told him, really not having the energy or patience to go into the matter any deeper. Maybe later. For now, she had far more important matters to attend to.
The trip back to the tower was a blur, though she could honestly not say how long it took. The sun was far higher in the sky, the giant buildings stretching their darkness out across the little land they themselves did not consume. Steve attempted to talk to the agents without actually telling them anything, but Natasha simply stated the appropriate protocol and it became far above the usual clearance level. She expected a call from Fury later, but knew the issue would be handled sufficiently for now.
She was hyper-sensitive, every nerve on fire, the walls of the elevator on the ride up to the residential area too close, too suffocating even as Steve tried to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. The doors slid open and she strode forward, breathed deep of air slightly less stale, warmed with familiar scents of friends and tea and the burnt toast of breakfast.
Her team was there, each and every one, concerned expressions about them all. Someone was speaking, likely Stark, but she ignored him, heard only white noise as she sought out one person, found him and clung to him. "You're alive," she whispered fiercely into his ear.
"Hey, hey, isn't that my line?" Clint asked. He smoothed his hands up and down her back and she swore she felt each and every callus as they rubbed across her spine.
She took a breath, and then another, smelling sweet soap and the salty tang of sweat. She forced herself to push away, to not show such an obvious weakness, even as Clint still gripped her arm, even as she still dug her fingers into the hard tendons of his elbow. She looked to him, saw the familiar and the trusting, saw the life and the force of will that she knew as well as her own, but spoke to the room in general as she ordered, "Energine Industries. Find them. Destroy them. They are a front for the agency that attacked last week, and the same agency that now knows about and has targeted us specifically."
"Nat," Clint warned.
"We handle any immortals, the group as a whole handles the company trying to become a world superpower through weapons creations and sales," she promised.
He nodded, didn't even ask how she knew or where she obtained the knowledge, why her accent was heavy and the flow of her words careful and forced.
"We could..." Tony started, but she cut him off.
"We help with Energine as they are intricately tied to the original and ongoing mission for which every one of us was a part of. This man I just fought, current alias Brandon Coralis, worked for them and our paths crossed by chance. There is very little likelihood that another of our kind will be involved but, should there be, we handle it based upon our rules and our terms," she told him. Words were difficult and exhaustion near overwhelming and she knew she was not getting her point across. It was frustrating, and possibly tired her even more. She searched her mind for words that were her own, found things old and mottled and wrong.
Thankfully Thor, bless his heart, understood. "It is a separation of customs," he explained. "You would not interfere with an entirely Asgardian matter, and Asgardians would not interfere with entirely Midgardian matters without your explicit permission."
"What he said," Clint agreed, and then he was pulling her, guiding her, leading her to the peace she had so recently earned. They left the small crowd of concerned teammates, and she was honestly not certain if any reason was given or leave was even granted, nor did she care. She found herself in her own room, Clint at her side, familiarity all around her.
He stripped her of known weapons and placed them all within easy reach. He then pushed her to the bed where she sat heavily, body foreign and frayed, and he removed her running shoes and socks and tucked them neatly out of the way. Next, he reached for her tee shirt, and gently pried the fabric away from where it had adhered to her skin with long dried blood, lifted it over her head, and added it atop the shoes. He reached for her bra, but she stopped him, held his hands in her own and were surprised they were steady.
He crouched in front of her, eyes locked with her own, head so very vulnerable with his hands restrained and her weapons easily obtainable. "You are Natalia Romanova. Your team knows you as Natasha Romanov, code name Black Widow," he recited.
She released one hand and ran it through his hair, found it damp and the skin of his scalp warm beneath. "I'm fine, Clint," she told him, the words making it so. "He wasn't that strong; I know who I am." She knew; she simply needed to reconnect with that knowledge.
The fingers of his free hand drifted to what should have been her wound, calluses catching on dried flecks of blood instead. "You have your rituals, and I have mine," he smiled, eyes far too shadowed for it to be real. She raised an eyebrow in challenge, and he relented, hung his head in defeat. "I can feel him, in you. His energy is still settling, combining with your own."
"Mine will win," she assured him.
"I know it will," he agreed. He looked back up to her again, and she saw the man he truly was reflected back at her. "I also know you dream. Every time you fight, every time you win, you dream. It doesn't trigger you to remember their past as much as your own."
"Stay with me then?" she offered, lips flitting into a smile. It was a gift and an offer in one. "Remind me of who I am in case I forget." She meant who she was now versus the person she had been created to be, knew she didn't have to explain it any further than that to the man who knew her far too well.
"Always," he promised.
He stripped his jeans off and climbed into the bed behind her, her in her bra and yoga pants and him in his tee shirt and boxers. The blinds were pulled and the bright light of day reduced to small slivers of white-gold against the shadows. He pulled her close, tucked the blanket around them both, pressed his lips to her temple right where it ached the most, and held on tight. His breath was warm against her skin, the sheets soft and familiar, the room as a whole something she recognized as her own, something she created for herself just as she had created the persona within.
She did not sleep, not immediately. She stared at the photographs and nicknacks, ran her gaze over memories given physical form. When she finally let her eyes drift close, she saw who she once was overlaid with who she was now and the shadow of the potential of who she may someday become.
She did dream, just as Clint said she would. More importantly though, she awoke. And when she did, those she cared about most were ready and willing to stand at her side, a force of good and light against the darkness, a force of friendship and trust against the unknowns of time itself.
The shadows never stood a chance.
Feedback is always welcomed,
Genre: Gen, Clint & Natasha friendship with undertones of more
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~7,000 words
Warning: violence, language, death of bad guys
Synopsis: Shadows and light, magic and mundane, death and immortality - they all blend into one reality anyway.
Author Notes: More of a fusion than a crossover. For this story, the Avengers canon coexists with a Highlander-esque world.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
"I hate this part," Clint complained. He coughed and blood stained his lips. He swiped at them with the back of his hand, fingers already painted a sticky red from trying to hold his insides in place. "Can't you speed it up?" he asked.
Natasha shook her head and kept watch. It was bad enough that this was taking place here, now, with enough people close enough to bear as witness if they happened to come that one step closer. One such witness moved, golden ring upon his finger, sigil glinting in the light. She took the shot, prevented him from furthering the damage already done by his colleagues. "I'm a little busy here," she replied, gun at the ready, eyes tracing shadows that moved more than nature allowed.
He didn't reply, and she spared him a glance, watched as he succumbed to the inevitable. She took down another shadow before it could materialize into an attacker and silently cursed when she heard the telltale sounds of repulsors approaching. She keyed her comm back on in time to hear Stark's voice, digitized and panicked, as he said, "Shit, Barton's down. It doesn't look good."
"The situation is under control," Natasha told him. She let off another shot, same direction as before. "Please focus on my eleven o'clock position. The insurgents appear to primarily be coming from that location. I will cover Barton."
"There's nothing to cover," Stark protested. He sounded resigned, and pissed. "JARVIS shows no heartbeat, no respiration..." He left as directed though, and soon her forward left lit with multiple blasts.
She estimated another twenty-five minutes passed, gave herself another five before Stark returned and ten total before her other teammates descended. "Come on," she grumbled.
Six minutes later and Stark circled in the air above her, sensors searching for anyone they missed. Seven, and there was a deep, heaving gasp followed by a harsh, "Fuck, I hate that."
Stark fell more than landed beside them, the rooftop shaking with the force of his impact. There was profanity and questions and she ignored it all as Clint shakily pushed himself upright. A clink signaled a bullet's ring on concrete, a groan her partner's realization how much the congealed blood clung to his tattered uniform and still healing skin.
Barton picked up the bullet and rolled it between his fingers. "R and D will want this, especially if it beat their armor," he commented.
"You don't want it as a trophy?" she asked archly. She was still moderately pissed he had pulled this now of all times.
He held up another mottled piece of metal that had fallen into his lap and said, "Apparently there's enough to go 'round."
"He was dead," Stark insisted. His faceplate was up now, seeing with his own eyes for a change, possibly not trusting his invention.
"He's clearly alive," Natasha blinked with false innocence.
"The suit records everything; I have video, sensor feeds - do you really want to question me on this?" he demanded. "He was dead. I... He was dead." He was shaking, she could see it in his features even if his suit held him in place.
The door to the rooftop opened and a very startled Rogers appeared, breathless from undoubtedly running up the twelve flights. Another shake, lighter than before, signaled Thor's arrival, an exhausted and shirtless Banner in hand.
"I think the cat's out of the bag on this one, Nat," Clint winced. "You have to admit, it's kinda a surprise this didn't happen sooner."
She holstered her weapons and tried not to glare at him. "Given your propensity for stupidly sticking your neck out without safeguards in place, it's a wonder they didn't know yet," she reluctantly agreed.
He clambered to his feet and swayed enough to the side that she felt the need to steady him. "Whoa," he said, trying to right himself. "I need a burger. Like seven of them. They must have gotten me more than I thought."
"You. Were. Dead," Stark accused.
Clint rolled his neck, vertebrae popping and settling back into place. "Yeah, funny little story about that. More like a complete history lesson, really. Can we do this back at the tower though? Preferably with food?"
Natasha brushed off flakes of her own blood, suit ripped to reveal pink and healing skin below. "I could go for a cheeseburger," she agreed. "Maybe a shake?"
The others were either too numb to argue or decided to go with the flow for now, she didn't know and didn't care. Instead, she found herself seated on the couch, staining the upholstery, burger in hand while ignoring wide eyed looks and unvoiced questions. To be fair, Clint was getting more of those than she, but he was still stained crimson and deflecting enough that she was still getting her share.
"Someone's been keeping secrets," Tony accused. He sat in an overstuffed chair, drink in hand still unsipped.
Clint took the tumbler from him easily enough and downed it in one go before returning his attention to burger number two. "We're spies," he pointed out, mouth full of grease and meat. "We're supposed to keep secrets."
"There's keeping quiet about international intrigue, and then there's lying to your teammates about something fundamentally important," Tony protested.
"We didn't lie," Natasha replied. She wiped her hands on her napkin and sipped from her shake. The cool sweetness felt wonderful as it slid down her throat. "We simply didn't share."
"Lie through omission then," he tried.
Clint shook his head. "You never asked so we never omitted." Subterfuge often lay in the details, and they had learned to use them well.
It was Bruce who cut to the chase. "You also didn't volunteer something significant about your person that may have an impact upon your teammates," he pointed out. "Much like we know Tony has his suit for protection, Thor has alien physiology to contend with, Steve was given a serum that makes him heal quickly, and I turn big and green and indestructible, knowing you are essentially immortal would have been helpful."
Thor leaned forward, the demolished remains of multiple burgers before him. "They did not know?" he asked, surprised. He reached for his second shake, but did not drink it yet.
"No, we thought he was a normal human and, wait, you did?" Tony demanded, changing tracks mid-sentence.
Thor nodded and shrugged as if it were obvious, which it probably had been to him. "I thought it was common knowledge that Clinton and Natasha were of the Old," he said, and Natasha winced in anticipation.
"Wait, Natasha is too?" Steve asked, incredulity coloring his tone. His own food was long forgotten in front of him. "I mean, I thought your healing and such were related to the serum trials of the Red Room, not..."
Thor looked as though he was ready to apologize for betraying her trust, but she waved him off. Clint was correct, it was time the truth was known, to her friends and teammates if no one else save for Fury himself.
"Story time?" Clint guessed.
She leaned back against the cushions and agreed, "Story time."
"I'll go first," he offered, which was fair since he got them into this mess. He set his food to the side for the moment, though he eyed Stark's glass as though wishing for another. "Okay, so there are people born with the potential to be like us. No one's figured out the why or how yet, mainly because we'd like not to be science experiments. Anyway, they live their lives and might never be the wiser until they're triggered. Once they're triggered, their life goes to hell in a hand basket and their screwed."
"What triggers it?" Steve asked. Natasha could not tell if it was the need to strategize or simple curiosity that led him to ask, but doubted they could brush it off. He was essentially their team leader, and he should at least know the basics. With as much weirdness as they had run into to date, it was likely only time before their own kind added to the mix.
"A really fucking painful and violent death," Clint replied. Then, with a shrug, "I mean, every death is painful, let's be honest here, but there's the whole violence aspect to it really. I personally like the theory that there's magic involved and the energy from the violence is a trigger for a protection and vengeance thing, like our kind were originally created to serve a purpose of protecting others, possibly those better suited to rule or some shit, but who knows for sure? History's totally forgotten, if it ever knew in the first place."
Bruce seemed to contemplate that for a moment before he pointed out, "But that means it could be triggered at any time, or not at all?"
"Got it in one," Clint agreed. "We can usually tell when one of our own is around, both pre- and post-triggering. Some live happy, full lives and die peacefully in their sleep aged ninety or whatever. Some get turned far too young to protect theirselves from the assholes out there and never get a real chance. Most are somewhere in between."
"So, like in the movie Highlander, right?" Tony asked, excited. "You have to fight to the death and the kids wouldn't have a shot. Where's your sword? You have one, right?" Natasha tried not to roll her eyes. Just because she expected the comparison didn't mean she had to appreciate it.
"Mackie made a mint off that crap," Clint grumbled. Louder, he explained, "Yes and no. Yes, there's fighting to the death, but mainly because people are megalomaniac assholes who think this life is some sort of sign they should be invincible. Kids rarely get a chance because a) assholes, and b) we do try to protect them when we can, but their reasoning skills grow as much as they do, which is to say not at all, and there are still ways for them to be killed by conventional methods."
Natasha decided it was time to step into the potential fray. "If you want to call us 'immortals' you can, but it's not technically accurate. We can still be killed, but there are specific methods for insuring a permanent death."
"Decapitation?" Bruce guessed, which meant he too had seen the film. She had a feeling it was to be the fare for the next movie night.
"In extreme cases, though severing the spinal column tends to have the same effect," she admitted. Of course, said severing tended to be a full separation of the upper and lower halves of the body, but she did not feel the need to dwell on that. There were other ways as well, but she did like to keep some secrets as they had served her well over her long years.
"Do you get a Quickening?" Tony asked.
"The energy used to keep us alive is released, and we can absorb some of that life force to restore or improve our own," she agreed, not willing to argue the terminology. "There are those who seek that out, like a high of sorts, and are convinced it makes them more powerful."
"It tends to feed into that whole megalomaniac thing," Clint chimed in. He had turned back to his own shake, a bit of chocolate smeared at his lips, looking childlike in contrast to the years she knew he held.
"If you were to sort our kind into three defining groups, that would be one," she said. "They challenge any and everyone and truly believe only one can survive in the end. Others have removed themselves from society as much as possible, not wishing to see the life cycle of those they care about come to an inevitable end time and time again. They tend to meditate, try to further understand mankind and what makes us, well, us."
"And the third?" Steve asked.
She smiled and bumped her shoulder off of Clint's. Thankfully he had put his shake back down and was only reaching for his fries. "Find someone to keep them company on their journey, protect and be protected by them, and just try to make the most out of the life gifted to them."
"Have you ever had to... Have you ever killed before?" Bruce asked.
"I'm an assassin; I've killed plenty in my time," she pointed out. She knew that's not what he meant though, so she admitted, "I have come across more than an single one of us that needed to be taken down, and I have needed to defend myself more than once as well."
She knew there was more on his mind though, so she was in no way surprised when he asked, "So the serum, the one the Red Room gave you, it didn't actually work? The only successful recipient in all these years has been Steve?"
Clint took that as his queue to get up and go to the bar, pouring them both something strong and decent, knowing her history nearly as well as she did herself at this point, and knowing how little she wished to speak of it, even when it was clearly necessary. She waited for him to return and settle back in at her side before she explained, "The Red Room trials were unsuccessful for the most part. I was not the only recipient, but I was the only one with the potential to be triggered that I know of. The serum did have a positive effect, my reflexes were improved as was my overall strength, but it was not enough. They increased the dosage to dangerous levels in an attempt to recreate Erskine's work, and my body succumbed to the damage it caused." It was her first death, and by far the most painful. She didn't know if her memory had been improved by the serum or the trigger, but she remembered every excruciating detail of it, no matter how hard she tried to forget.
"Did they know? I mean, did they know that you were triggered instead of a successful candidate?" Bruce asked. She didn't know which weighed more heavily on his mind: his own failure, or the fact there had only been one true success in a lifetime of trials.
She downed her shot and held the glass out for another. This time is was Steve who obliged. "They did not know about our kind, else they would have sought out far more candidates. As it was, there was much... experimenting, to see what worked and why it didn't work on others with the same dosing. Eventually, they decided not to waste their success and I was allowed on missions, where I escaped to my own life."
Steve handed her the refill, and reminded her that he was not stupid when he asked, "When was that?"
"1946."
He blinked. "I was..."
"Yes," she agreed, and offered him her glass in case he needed it.
He declined and Clint pretended he didn't notice or understand the meaningful glances thrown his way. When Tony pointedly cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows at him, Barton relented enough to say, "It's easy enough to hide the whole not aging thing when you're constantly traveling." She noted he listed no dates.
"And your supposed brother?" Steve prompted, retaking his previous seat. Of course he had actually done his homework on the team.
"Is, for all intents and purposes, really my brother," Clint replied easily enough. "Barney and I were raised together by one of our kind. That man was killed in front of us by another who knew what we were and we escaped before he could kill us and then kill us. Ended up not mattering when Barney was dumb enough to get us both dead doing something stupid anyway. He sides more with the 'there can be only one' bullshit, but can't quite bring himself to kill me yet, at least not for the final time."
Natasha knew there was more to it than that, just as she knew it likely was not to be shared, tonight if ever. They had already managed in one sitting what it took SHIELD months to get out of them, which spoke a lot about just who they trusted more as far as she was concerned.
"You truly don't believe only one of you will win out in the end?" Bruce asked, surprised. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, actively paying attention, actively trying to figure out the latest scientific marvel that had presented itself.
Clint flopped back against the couch in an inelegant sprawl. "New potentials are being born all the time, like at least weekly if not more. Anything can trigger them at any moment, right? So do you really think its possible for one guy - or girl - to go around mass murdering them all to live out some sort of holy whatever? They'd have to constantly off all the newbies even if they made their way through the rest of us." He shook his head. "The fact that there are newbies should be enough to figure out that whole 'one' bullshit is just that: bullshit."
"It's a simple matter of math, really," Natasha said. She swirled what was left of her drink in her glass and took another, smaller sip. "If you are constantly adding variables to the equation, the equation itself is unsolvable."
He nodded as though that made sense, for now at least.
"There's one thing I don't get," Tony said. She was willing to bet there was more than one, but that he planned on wheedling it out of them over time, hoping to catch more of the actual truth via casual conversation versus the cover stories they usually relied upon. She looked to him expectantly, not promising anything other than to let him ask his question. "Where's your swords? Like, seriously, if that's the number one way to off the people trying to kill you, wouldn't you always have one on you?"
Clint laughed and slid out a knife that had not been obviously available. It was a standard ka-bar, military issue, the sharpened edge only about eight inches in length and the thing as a whole not quite a foot long when you included the tang and handle. "You can still do a lot of damage with a blade this small," he pointed out. It disappeared again as though it was never there, a trick borne from more than his spy experiences. "There's also the whole 'magic might actually exist' thing. Things hide in plain sight; sometimes even our own kind don't see them until the last moment. We've seen Strange and his ilk, not to mention Loki's mind games, enough to know there's more at work in the world than simple physics. Something keeps us alive. Something warns us when another is around. Something transfers from one of us to another upon death. Our kind, our race for lack of a better term, has been trying to figure it out for centuries. Some to extend the lives of the ones they love, and some to break what they see as a curse of living on when the world dies around them."
Tony made a face, possibly at the fact technology had not yet given them an answer. He had never liked so-called magic, blatantly called it science that he simply hadn't figured out yet. "If they really want out, why not just..." He drew his finger across his throat and made a lewd noise, proving Natasha's first suspicion incorrect. She was surprised, but covered it well.
"The will to live is strong," Thor replied. He, more than any of the others, understood what it was like to live for literally thousands of years. "The magics that keep them alive do so for a reason."
"Some offer themselves up," Natasha admitted. She had seen it. She had accepted it. She had regretted it. "What transfers, in death, is like a part of that person. If someone is so depressed, so intent upon their own demise, do you really want to take that into yourself?" Her drink now gone, she resorted to finishing off her shake, smooth chocolate a substitute for harsh grain.
"We've got enough problems of our own without having to deal with someone else's angst that may or may not have a source we understand," Clint agreed.
"I've never seen you train," Steve said quietly. He was clearly concerned, as though afraid that they had let their skills go to waste as they focused on the needs of the team instead. Either that, or he wanted to know just how good they were should they come up against one of their own, Natasha wasn't sure. She had misjudged one of her teammates that evening, and would prefer not to do so to another.
Living the life of spies, they had avoided the worst of the worst for the most part. They might happen across one or two on a mission, but she could usually sweet talk whoever it was into looking for a temporary ally, or simply take them down if it didn't jeopardize the original target. Only once had she asked to be pulled from a mission, and it was solely not put other agents at risk, something Fury had questioned, then appreciated when he found out who was involved. The fact that particular someone disappeared shortly thereafter was not a surprise, though some small part of her lamented the loss of the energy that might have been converted into something positive had the taker been powerful enough.
"You've seen our usual regiment," she prevaricated. They trained constantly, though usually in methods near identical to the standard agent with only a few alterations.
"It's usually enough to at least incapacitate and evade," Clint agreed. The problem, of course, was that this only worked because no one saw them, no one knew who to track down once they revived. Living the life of the Avengers they were more in the public eye, it was more likely for someone to take notice, more likely for someone to seek them out for revenge or to finish the job.
"We'll show you sometime," Natasha promised. It was unlikely their team leader would let the matter drop, but he would at least respect a request for reprieve given the events of the day. Besides, she did enjoy a good, full-on, no-holds-barred spar. It had been a while since she had truly shown what she was capable of. "I need to sleep and Barton here probably needs to pass out for a few hours to make up for dying."
Steve relented and let them disappear off to their rooms after disposing of their detritus. She wasn't dumb enough to think the others weren't staying up late talking about them, nor was she stupid enough to try to escape now. Not to mention she rather liked and, dare she say, trusted her current team, at least for the time being. They had a good purpose and she put her skills to use in a positive way. It helped to make up for the times she hadn't, helped balance out the not quite evil but definitely less than good times of before.
She had planned on demonstrating her skills in a nice controlled setting, such as the gym within the tower itself, using bokkens instead of live steel. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
Four days later, and she had joined Steve for an early morning run in the park. He claimed the fresh air did him good, and she appreciated the change from the same boring walls of the gym as she made her circuit. The sun was barely an orange tinge on the horizon and the park relatively empty in deference to the early hour. They were keeping pace with each other, about to round another corner when she felt it.
She came to a complete stop and Steve ran on a few more paces before he noticed she was no longer at his side. "What is it?" he asked. He looked around the surrounding area, eyes searching the shadows, but appeared to find nothing.
She watched one of the shadows coalesce into a man, a being such as herself, broad and muscled and easily twice her size. He had a blade in hand already and spun it in front of him as though to intimidate. The action served to highlight something else entirely, one of the still-lit lamps from the walkway glinting off the golden ring he wore, the sigil familiar from less than a week before.
"Do not interfere," she warned Steve.
He looked as though she had slapped him, told him not to do the one thing he was bred and built to do in life: protect. "You're unarmed," he pointed out, which was a lie as he knew she never left her room without a weapon of some kind secreted away on her person.
She pulled no gun, but did remove a Bowie knife, blade over a foot long, a weapon she had found to be far more commercially available in the modern age and very similar to the short sword her mentor had trained her with all those years ago.
"I'm not even going to ask where you hid that," he sighed. He didn't sound resigned though, not yet, which meant he was still debating stepping forward and getting in her way.
"Best that you don't," she replied. Her opponent stepped closer now and she did everything but physically push her teammate to the side. "These are the men from Saturday, look at his ring and know it's doubtful he came alone. Feel free to take care of the others in case he decides not to play by the rules."
The rules were something neither Clint nor herself had explained quite yet, mainly to give themselves leeway. Stark and Banner had assumed they were the same as that film of theirs, and it was close enough to work for now. Thor had mentioned something in passing that was similar, but perhaps related to his own peoples' fighting style versus what her kind had deemed right and proper. They were relatively simple: immortal against immortal and don't involve those not of your own kind. Chivalry dictated it should be one-on-one, though she herself had fought two-on-two more than once in her admittedly short life. Chivalry also dictated you shouldn't just shoot your opponent and cut off his head, but she had done that as well when clearly outmatched. She wasn't exactly proud of that one, but the man had still been alive and breathing and attempting to take her head when she took his, so it had done little other than even the odds. It was simple logistics, and she had always been good at those.
Despite the size difference, she didn't think she was outmatched this time. Bigger did not necessarily mean better. Her opponent favored his left side and was at least twenty pounds past his ideal weight. She'd like to know more about why he sought her out now, but assumed it was related to the earlier mission and that Stark's hacking abilities could answer the majority of her questions if needed.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," she said by way of greeting. She could feel the shiver of energy running through her veins, the preparation for a battle like only her kind could ever experience.
"My employer was quite displeased at this weekend's events. I assured him I knew of a way to at least reduce the number of would-be heroes he would have to deal with," the man replied. She assumed he was a lackey, or serving as one now in an attempt to climb his way to power. Plotting, waiting, strategizing, but not quite with the full ambition of some she had come across in her time.
He looked around, saw Steve and dismissed the American icon as inconsequential. "Where is your archer friend? It was him I was first after, hoped to use you against him, found a pleasant surprise instead." She placed his speech patterns as Slavic, having spent enough time in English-speaking areas to rid himself of the majority of his accent. Older than he seemed then, but that could be said for so many.
"Barton's busy communing with his pillows, or possibly his coffee pot," she said without apology. "Looks like it's just you and me instead. Well, you, me, the half a dozen thugs you have hidden behind you, and Captain America, who should keep them busy while we attend to business."
The man frowned, but signaled his cohorts forward. Most ran directly at Steve, though one attempted to fire a shot at her that she neatly dodged. It gave her opponent an opening though, and a right and proper battle began.
He used a Roman short sword, not much bigger than her own knife, but with the advantage of a double-edge. He was clearly used to the brute force method, slashing and hacking more than finesse or skill. She was able to flit away, keep his blade from touching her skin while her own sliced key locations that would weaken and throw off what little control he had. He managed a small nick to her side, to the soft skin just above her hipbone. Her shirt shredded easily enough, though the skin below it began to heal almost immediately.
She could hear Steve battle the minions, the sound of fists and grunts and misfired pistols providing a soundtrack to her own fight. Her opponent caught his blade on hers, a sword far more sturdy than a knife, and pressed downward with a grin. She released the handle, letting his strike carry through as she hit just the end of the hilt to force it upwards, reached up and over his blade to grab it again and slice it across his wrist. The position weakened him, but also left her vulnerable for a moment, and he struck, fist connecting solidly with her jaw. She reeled backwards while he switched to his less dominant hand, and she regained her footing while he tested his new grip.
She backed up slightly, putting a good three yards between them. She wasn't running away, but she was preparing to run. Bowie in her right hand, she flipped a small butterfly knife open with her left. It flew from her fingers as her feet raced forward, the metal striking the meat of his shoulder, causing him to drop his blade even further with his already weaker hold. She followed through in a move similar to what she liked to use on the mat to take her sparring partner down, but did not wrap her legs around the man's throat to pull him to the ground. Instead, she used his bulk to propel herself upwards and over, her momentum carrying both her and her blade around him, the edge slicing deep and severing his head from his body.
She dropped back to the pavement, knowing she only had a brief respite to catch her breath. She looked to Steve and found him watching her with wide, wide eyes, five men unconscious at his feet and another attempting to crawl away before he was stopped with a well-placed kick.
"So, that's, um..." he tried, but didn't get far.
"Wait for it," she warned. She widened her stance in preparation, already feeling the almost static charge as it formed around the body. The first spark caught her off guard as always; she never quite knew just when or where it would strike, simply that it would. The second and third felt less like touching metal on a dry cold day and more like that of jumper cables on a car battery in their magnitude. Soon enough, the energy was pouring from the man, cascading around and through her body, anything she couldn't absorb sparking off of nearby metal and being taken by the earth itself when that failed. She resisted the urge to scream, refused to associate an intricate part of her very being with actual torture despite the pain associated with it. Mere moments and an eternity later, it ebbed and dissipated, and she feared the time had come to unlock her knees as it was entirely possible they were the only things keeping her upright and standing.
Steve was there though, ignoring the little lines of blue that slithered up his hands when he attempted to hold her upright. He flinched, but held her steady, stayed there with her when he could have saved himself the pain. She knew he wouldn't leave, even as she knew he needn't have remained. "Are you alright?" he asked. He looked to a nearby bench, likely to find a seat for them both, but it was well and truly fried.
She closed her eyes for a moment, watched as glimpses of the man's memories streamed by, hoped to sort out something important before it was lost to the ether. She saw the ring, the sigil, the way it was just a small part of something far bigger in the grand scheme of things. She saw his first death and his first head and the way he stole a sword he thought had history in hopes of giving himself some.
"Natasha?" Steve prompted.
That was her. That was the persona she had chosen to be, for now. She took a breath, pushed away the tatters of the man's life and settled the cloak of who she was and who she wanted to be about her, and opened her eyes. "He knows about Clint; it's possible his employer does as well," she warned.
Steve pulled out his phone and called the tower, told Tony to up the security measures and surveillance for the time being. He then called SHIELD for cleanup, told them of the six lackeys and turned to mention the body, seeming surprised to find her shake her head at the attempt.
"We have our own methods," she told him, really not having the energy or patience to go into the matter any deeper. Maybe later. For now, she had far more important matters to attend to.
The trip back to the tower was a blur, though she could honestly not say how long it took. The sun was far higher in the sky, the giant buildings stretching their darkness out across the little land they themselves did not consume. Steve attempted to talk to the agents without actually telling them anything, but Natasha simply stated the appropriate protocol and it became far above the usual clearance level. She expected a call from Fury later, but knew the issue would be handled sufficiently for now.
She was hyper-sensitive, every nerve on fire, the walls of the elevator on the ride up to the residential area too close, too suffocating even as Steve tried to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. The doors slid open and she strode forward, breathed deep of air slightly less stale, warmed with familiar scents of friends and tea and the burnt toast of breakfast.
Her team was there, each and every one, concerned expressions about them all. Someone was speaking, likely Stark, but she ignored him, heard only white noise as she sought out one person, found him and clung to him. "You're alive," she whispered fiercely into his ear.
"Hey, hey, isn't that my line?" Clint asked. He smoothed his hands up and down her back and she swore she felt each and every callus as they rubbed across her spine.
She took a breath, and then another, smelling sweet soap and the salty tang of sweat. She forced herself to push away, to not show such an obvious weakness, even as Clint still gripped her arm, even as she still dug her fingers into the hard tendons of his elbow. She looked to him, saw the familiar and the trusting, saw the life and the force of will that she knew as well as her own, but spoke to the room in general as she ordered, "Energine Industries. Find them. Destroy them. They are a front for the agency that attacked last week, and the same agency that now knows about and has targeted us specifically."
"Nat," Clint warned.
"We handle any immortals, the group as a whole handles the company trying to become a world superpower through weapons creations and sales," she promised.
He nodded, didn't even ask how she knew or where she obtained the knowledge, why her accent was heavy and the flow of her words careful and forced.
"We could..." Tony started, but she cut him off.
"We help with Energine as they are intricately tied to the original and ongoing mission for which every one of us was a part of. This man I just fought, current alias Brandon Coralis, worked for them and our paths crossed by chance. There is very little likelihood that another of our kind will be involved but, should there be, we handle it based upon our rules and our terms," she told him. Words were difficult and exhaustion near overwhelming and she knew she was not getting her point across. It was frustrating, and possibly tired her even more. She searched her mind for words that were her own, found things old and mottled and wrong.
Thankfully Thor, bless his heart, understood. "It is a separation of customs," he explained. "You would not interfere with an entirely Asgardian matter, and Asgardians would not interfere with entirely Midgardian matters without your explicit permission."
"What he said," Clint agreed, and then he was pulling her, guiding her, leading her to the peace she had so recently earned. They left the small crowd of concerned teammates, and she was honestly not certain if any reason was given or leave was even granted, nor did she care. She found herself in her own room, Clint at her side, familiarity all around her.
He stripped her of known weapons and placed them all within easy reach. He then pushed her to the bed where she sat heavily, body foreign and frayed, and he removed her running shoes and socks and tucked them neatly out of the way. Next, he reached for her tee shirt, and gently pried the fabric away from where it had adhered to her skin with long dried blood, lifted it over her head, and added it atop the shoes. He reached for her bra, but she stopped him, held his hands in her own and were surprised they were steady.
He crouched in front of her, eyes locked with her own, head so very vulnerable with his hands restrained and her weapons easily obtainable. "You are Natalia Romanova. Your team knows you as Natasha Romanov, code name Black Widow," he recited.
She released one hand and ran it through his hair, found it damp and the skin of his scalp warm beneath. "I'm fine, Clint," she told him, the words making it so. "He wasn't that strong; I know who I am." She knew; she simply needed to reconnect with that knowledge.
The fingers of his free hand drifted to what should have been her wound, calluses catching on dried flecks of blood instead. "You have your rituals, and I have mine," he smiled, eyes far too shadowed for it to be real. She raised an eyebrow in challenge, and he relented, hung his head in defeat. "I can feel him, in you. His energy is still settling, combining with your own."
"Mine will win," she assured him.
"I know it will," he agreed. He looked back up to her again, and she saw the man he truly was reflected back at her. "I also know you dream. Every time you fight, every time you win, you dream. It doesn't trigger you to remember their past as much as your own."
"Stay with me then?" she offered, lips flitting into a smile. It was a gift and an offer in one. "Remind me of who I am in case I forget." She meant who she was now versus the person she had been created to be, knew she didn't have to explain it any further than that to the man who knew her far too well.
"Always," he promised.
He stripped his jeans off and climbed into the bed behind her, her in her bra and yoga pants and him in his tee shirt and boxers. The blinds were pulled and the bright light of day reduced to small slivers of white-gold against the shadows. He pulled her close, tucked the blanket around them both, pressed his lips to her temple right where it ached the most, and held on tight. His breath was warm against her skin, the sheets soft and familiar, the room as a whole something she recognized as her own, something she created for herself just as she had created the persona within.
She did not sleep, not immediately. She stared at the photographs and nicknacks, ran her gaze over memories given physical form. When she finally let her eyes drift close, she saw who she once was overlaid with who she was now and the shadow of the potential of who she may someday become.
She did dream, just as Clint said she would. More importantly though, she awoke. And when she did, those she cared about most were ready and willing to stand at her side, a force of good and light against the darkness, a force of friendship and trust against the unknowns of time itself.
The shadows never stood a chance.
Feedback is always welcomed,