Marvel One Shots

Undercover

At first glance, the scene could almost be taken as domestic. A man was tying a tie, peering into the mirror in concentration. A woman was accessorizing her outfit. Normal, right? Until you realized that the 'accessory' was a gun.

Clint huffed in frustration, hands falling to his sides. He looked over at Natasha as she put her gun in it's holster. "Nice gun." He said approvingly.

Natasha stood, smoothing her dress. "Oh, you know what they say. 'Accessories make the outfit'." She quoted sarcastically, walking smoothly up to the mirror to stand beside him. Clint grimaced as Natasha reached up to straighten his tie, fixing it with deft movements until it stood perfectly straight. "You'd think that with all the missions we went on, that you would know how to tie a bowtie correctly by now." She commented drily.

"I have you to tie it, so why do I need to learn?" Clint replied cooly, a trace of a grin on his face before he shrugged the vest of his suit on. He inspected himself in the mirror with a discontented glare, buttoning the vest. "I look like a busboy. Remind me again why we had to do the recon instead of more junior agents?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You only look like a busboy because you haven't put the jacket on yet. And we have to do the recon because there was rumor of Baron Helmut Zemo being there-" At Clint's snort of disbelief, Natasha raised her hands defensively. "Fury knows it's unlikely, but he figures that if anyone can fight him it's us." She pressed the jacket into his hands, frowning slightly as she looked him over. "And Barton, fix your hair before we leave."

Clint buttoned his jacket, sighing over-dramatically. "You are starting to sound like my mother, Romanoff." He griped good-naturedly as he ran a hand through his hair. "Better?" He quipped sarcastically.

"Not really, but it'll do." Natasha shrugged her shoulders, teasing him. They seemed to do that a lot these days. Tease each other, banter, joke. It was almost like a normal friendship between average, everyday, non-assassin type people. But Natasha knew that she trusted Barton more than she could ever trust 'just a friend'. They were more than that. They were partners. Natasha knew than he always had her back.

Her train of thought was de-railed whenever Clint whined playfully in response to her sarcastic jibe. "How come you always get to correct my outfits, but I never get to correct yours?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow and laughed. "It's simple, Barton." She smoothed her hair once more before turning away from the mirror.

"Do tell, Madame Natasha." Clint retorted, opening the door for her to exit.

Natasha patted his shoulder in a patronizing way. "I always look perfect."

And as she swept out the door, Clint couldn't help but chuckle and agree. She did look perfect, per usual. She had the perfect dress, (a lovely dark red ensemble that showed just enough skin, but was modest enough to conceal her weapons) she had the perfect hair, the perfect makeup. And as Clint was shutting the door behind them, he realized that it wasn't that all of those things were perfect in and of themselves, but that they were perfect because Natasha made them perfect to him.

Woah,okay there Prince Charming. Let's just shut the door on those feelings. So long, bonjour, and adiós amigos. Is there an delete button for you mind? Because one of those would be really helpful right now. It's time for business.

-2.5 hours later, at the house of Peter Bäumer, German weapons manufacturer-

Clint tried to not recoil as a greasy looking French man kissed Natasha's cheeks. Ew. When the French man turned to greet him, Clint felt grateful that he was too tall for the customary kiss. Instead, the man shook his hand zealously, babbling so excitedly in French that Clint could hardly understand. It wasn't that Clint couldn't speak French fluently, he could. But the man was speaking so rapidly, and with such an odd dialect and intonation, that even Natasha was having trouble translating.

They spoke to the man for several minutes before Clint felt Natasha's hand slip into his. It was unusual, but Natasha was the better actor of the two. Maybe she was selling the part? It wasn't until a few seconds later when he realized that that wasn't the case. She was tapping her thumb lightly against the back of his hand. Must be Morse code. • - • • - •• -

Okay, so his morse code was a little bit rustier than he would like to admit. The good news was, he knew that she was either saying E-X-S-T or E-X-I-T. And considering that it was unlikely that she would abbreviate 'exist', he decided that she was probably saying 'exit', which meant that something was wrong. Which meant-

Clint stepped forward mid-thought, gently interrupting the man in the middle of a sentence with a wave of his hand. "Excusez-nous, monsieur, mais nous avons des affaires en attente."

Before the Frenchman could open his mouth to respond, the two agents had turned and disappeared into the thick of the crowd, Clint blindly following as Natasha tugged him towards an exit. "I've got good news and bad news."

"Good news first?" Clint requested, disgruntled at being pulled along so quickly. He was slightly puzzled as to why Natasha had alerted him. He hadn't noticed anything, other than the distinctly large amount of security. Then again, this Peter Bäumer guy was a weapons manufacturer, so it was somewhat understandable.

Natasha replied. "The good news is, your French has improved a lot since the first time we went to France."

"And the bad news?" Clint asked hesitantly.

"I suspect that that man works for Baron Zemo, along with several others we have spoken to tonight. At first I couldn't place the accent, as they attempted to cover it up with rather outlandish dialects, but it's definitely German."

Clint's hand strayed upward as he instinctively reached towards his gun holster, but he forced himself to lower his hand. Their cover might still be intact, and nothing blows a cover like pulling a gun out in the midst of a group of civilians.

A glance towards Natasha told Clint all that he needed to know. Their cover hadn't been blown. Yet. But they still needed to get out of the building. Strike Team Delta was absolutely not combat ready. They had exactly 19 bullets available to them. Natasha had a small handgun in her thigh holster, which only had 5 bullets in a round, and Clint had two pistols, holding 7 bullets each, strapped to holsters on his ankle and shoulder.

PRO-TIP: It doesn't matter what you see in the movies. You can't take a legion of evil minions down with only a handgun.

Even if your aim is perfect in a shooting range, shooting at a fast-moving target (who is shooting back) is quite considerably different. Natasha was an incredible marksman, and Clint was even better, but they were also smart. A good agent never puts themselves or their partners into a dangerous situation whenever they can avoid it.

So they high-tailed it out of there. They were almost out of the door whenever Clint grabbed Natasha's arm in a warning. He looked over at her, and found her already looking back at him. So they had both heard it. The sound of someone loading a cartridge into a gun. Both agents reached immediately for their pistols, pulling them out discreetly. Natasha tapped Clint's shoulder, switching to sign language. "I'll take the left, you get right."

Clint nodded, counting down on his hands. "Three, two, -" The sharp crack of someone shooting at them stopped the countdown. The bullet went wide, and Clint turned around with a growl. "One. I never get to one! You go first just for that."

He shot the man directly in front of him, while Natasha dispatched the two coming up on his side. They both knew that once shots were fired, the window of escape got exponentially smaller. Zemo's other agents on the inside would be alerted, and would likely be coming out in just a few seconds.

Natasha looked at Clint. "Run."

They sprinted out of the door, making it about 25 yards before their progress was suddenly halted by the fact that they were being shot at. Natasha and Clint ducked behind an gaudy, cherub-covered marble fountain. "I hate going undercover." Clint griped as he fired his gun, each bullet finding it's target.

Natasha shot at three men who were rapidly advancing. "Funny, I thought that we were under fire." Her gun clicked empty. "I'm out."

Clint paused for a second, taking his backup out of the holster and pressing it into Natasha's hand. "Your comedic sense is just outstanding, Romanoff." He retorted sarcastically, firing his gun again.

Natasha ducked as a bullet got just a bit too close for comfort, hitting the piece of fountain that was hanging over her head. "We're talking too much-" She halted while she shot at a sniper that was hiding on the roof of the mansion. "For a fire fight." She finished.

Clint shrugged in response, shooting the last man advancing towards them. He took the empty magazine out of his pistol, holstering the gun as he stood up. "Technically, we aren't in a fire fight anymore." He started towards their car nonchalantly, glancing back to make sure that Natasha was following.

Sure enough, she was close behind. The pair quickened their pace, walking as quickly as they could away from the scene of the crime without raising suspicion. They made an odd pair, those two. As far as Natasha was concerned, they stood out altogether too much. Because really, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to notice a tall, athletic blond man and a short red-headed woman with a gun. Then again, Natasha didn't really want to change her look, and she definitely didn't want to change Clint's. He looked familiar, (God knows that she needed more people like that) and comforting. She liked it.Yesterday
10:57Natasha kept thinking on this as they climbed into the car, unwittingly staring at Clint as he reloaded his gun as a precaution. Upon hearing Natasha's response (or the lack of it), Clint turned to look at her. "Natasha? Are you okay?"

Her brow crinkled discontentedly when she realized that she was 1) staring rather obviously at Clint, and 2) he was still waiting for her to continue their banter. If she hadn't known better, she probably would have flushed in embarrassment. It was a rare day whenever the Black Widow got flustered, though it was happening more and more often nowadays, especially whenever she was around Clint. Natasha decided that whenever they got back to base she would have to analyze her ah- attachment to him. If the Black Widow couldn't afford to be attached to people, then neither could Natasha Romanoff.

After quite an awkward pause, Natasha picked up their banter again. "Oh! Yes! We weren't technically in a fire fight, just like that time when I didn't 'technically' beat you in under 30 seconds because you were wearing socks or something stupid like that. How about next time we are in a fire fight, we play the silent game."

Clint started up the car, getting out the instructions for the rendezvous point. "I'll have you know that those gym floors were very slippery! Having my socks on was a distinct disadvantage. Also, if I win the silent game, will you buy me a pizza?"

Natasha huffed in amusement. "Oh please! You know what, if you can beat me, I'll buy you two pizzas, how about that?"

Clint looked over at Natasha, eyebrow raised, a cocky smile on his face. "You are so on, Romanoff."