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sarea
Now that all has been revealed, I'm going to be posting my ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
be_compromised Secret Santa Exchange story here for archival/anal completist purposes. If you read the fic at the comm, this one is nearly entirely the same. But because I can never leave anything well enough alone, I'm going through it again and finding little nitpicks that I'm fixing. >.> There shouldn't be anything significantly different.
Title: Chasing the Light (AO3)
Author:sarea_okelani
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Phil Coulson, Original Characters
Author's Notes: Apologies for the long notes, but I have a lot of people to thank! This story was written forittykat as part of the be_compromised Secret Santa Exchange. My prompt can be found at the end of the story; I don’t want to give away too much at the beginning! :-)
Thanks go out to a number of lovely ladies:anuna_81 and cybermathwitch for running a great exchange, ittykat for the fun and challenging prompt(s), daxcat79 for the awesome banner below, and my two tireless betas, jade_okelani and adelagia. Without Jade, I don’t know if this story would have gotten written. Parts of this story gave me fits while writing, and whenever I encounter a roadblock, I tend to avoid writing altogether. But she gave me daily writing assignments and encouragement, and little by little, it got done. Adelagia helped me remove one of those early roadblocks. I could not, for the life of me, figure out a way to do what I wanted to do, and on one of our foodie trips up to Vancouver we talked it through and she helped me find a solution. Hurrah! And of course, that’s on top of the beta duties they both took on after the story was done (when they both independently said that I needed to add a scene or two at the end, I agreed with their wisdom immediately. OK no, I kicked and whined and resisted, but ended up listening to them anyway, and of course now the story is better). I am blessed to have two such good friends who allow me to abuse them in this manner.
Summary: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.
“Chasing the Light”
by Sarea Okelani
//\\
Every bridge that keeps on burning
Every leaf that you keep on turning
Every road that you find uncertain
Pray for you now, baby that you'll figure it out
As you keep chasing the light
Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders. She’s used to watching his back, both literally and figuratively, but she’s never before had to wonder whether his fortitude is real or manufactured. Can he possibly be as calm as he seems? Clint is generally unflappable, prone to making cocky comments even while hell rains down around them (it was one of the first things she learned about working with him), but this is different.
She shadows him to the thick glass door, but stops at the entryway while he continues through it. He doesn’t turn to look at her or say a word until he’s on the other side; then he pivots and resolutely shuts the door in her face. He grins at Natasha, and it resembles the same grin he’s given her a thousand times. Natasha studies him for signs of uncertainty, of being shaken or frightened. She can see through bravado, has seen through it in other people on countless other occasions, when it meant her life or theirs, and she’s the one who’s still here.
But Clint is just being Clint as he always is, and she can’t understand it.
He’s acting like this is a circumstance like any other, but it’s not. Natasha isn’t prone to hysterics, to needless worrying, to optimism, but his equanimity right now is a puzzling thing.
Clint mouths something at her and gestures at his own forehead.
“What? I can’t hear you,” Natasha says.
Clint locates an intercom next to the door, fiddling with some buttons there.
“I said” – he’s activated a microphone of some kind, and his voice buzzes a bit from static, “you have a line right here.” He points at his forehead again, moving his finger up and down.
Natasha knows it’s his way of telling her that she’s frowning, which she didn’t know she was doing, and makes an effort to smooth out her features.
“Better,” he says, then turns away and starts stripping off his Kevlar.
His name is on the tip of her tongue, but she has no idea what she wants to follow that with, so she bites it instead.
//\\
Natasha signed the credit card receipt, ignoring the interested look of the motel clerk manning the front desk. He looked and smelled like an individual whose personal hygiene wasn’t high on his priority list. He had a least a hundred and fifty pounds on Natasha, and as he gave her yet another lascivious grin, she almost hoped he’d start something so she could use that weight against him and add a few more gaps in his already-challenged gum line.
He looked at the receipt. “Thank you for yer business... Natalie.” A brown-tinged grin. Apparently he was a regular smoker, and had had eggs for breakfast. Natasha hid her revulsion with practiced ease.
Fleabag motels, sketchy rental cars, and greasy diner food. This was what she’d signed up for, apparently, when she’d agreed to work for the American government. Not to mention the sometimes strange, ofttimes jocund, and frequently incomprehensible partner she’d been assigned. There’d obviously been something about him that had won her over when he’d made her the same offer she’d gotten half a dozen times before from other agents, but she wasn’t sure what that had been, now. Perhaps she’d just been too impressed with the fact that he’d gotten one over her, which had occurred so rarely over the course of her career before she’d met him that she could count on one hand the number of times it had happened. But better Barton as her partner than some other agent, she supposed. She could handle Barton.
There was complimentary coffee, but the pot was empty. Rather than talk to the clerk again, Natasha grabbed a package of coffee grounds and started it herself. She eyed the peeling paint on the walls with disdain. Certainly she had stayed in worse places while on a job, but when she’d been freelancing, when it was possible, she’d always chosen the best. She’d been able afford it, after all – her services had commanded a lavish price, and her days of living as a street rat, as someone else’s marionette, were over.
The coffee started percolating, its rich scent dispensing some welcome relief from the motel clerk’s personal odor. When enough coffee had dripped to fill two Styrofoam cups, she paused the machine and fixed one for Barton and one for herself. She knew he took cream and sugar in his coffee, and guessed at the amounts. Well, it wasn’t cream, it was whitener, but at least the beverage was hot and pleasantly steamy.
Outside, Natasha donned her sunglasses and made her way over to the rented silver sedan. Barton had spread a map over the trunk and was studying it. She handed him one of the coffees, which he took without comment, then brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Coffee spewed. “What the hell is this?” he spluttered. “This is supposed to be coffee?”
Natasha shrugged. “Tastes okay to me.”
Barton held up his cup. “This,” he informed her, “is not coffee.”
“The package said coffee, I’m pretty sure,” she replied calmly.
“Are you sure it didn’t say ‘vile sludge’? Because that’s what it tastes like.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Sorry, did you want a nonfat one-pump vanilla hemp milk latte? I left my frothing wand in my other pants.”
Barton looked insulted. “It’s not frou frou to want a decent cup of coffee.”
“You said frou frou, not me. I just want that stated for the record.”
“Mildred’s on a break. She isn’t around to take that statement,” Barton said, referring to the imaginary transcriptionist who followed them around everywhere, recording their every word and deed. Natasha couldn’t remember whose idea it was to name her Mildred. Barton, probably.
“Oh, how convenient,” Natasha said, “that she happens to be taking a break at this moment.”
“She’s off getting a decent cup of coffee,” Barton explained. “She’s not the type to put up with this.” He gingerly took another sip, making a show of swallowing it, contorting his face.
“You don’t have to drink it, you know,” Natasha pointed out. “Or you could get your own damn coffee, that’s an option too.”
“Now that I know this is the kind of joe you make, I will.”
Ignoring him, Natasha sipped her drink and got in the car.
//\\
“Agent Romanoff, do you copy? Requesting a sit rep.”
Natasha shifts gingerly, waiting for shooting pain to tell her where she’s been injured. She doesn’t feel anything other than a few sore joints and muscles, so she’s either okay or in shock from blood loss. She moves her legs, which respond as they should, and sits up. The movement causes the debris around her to shift; some of the dust gets into her lungs when she takes her next breath. She coughs.
“Agent Romanoff?”
She must be all right. They’re monitoring their vitals and Coulson doesn’t sound alarmed; he expects her to respond, so everything must look okay from their end.
“An explosion,” she says, pressing the comms link in her ear. “In the lab. Agent Barton, is he–” She can’t complete the question. There’s too much dust in the air.
“Unconscious,” comes Coulson’s voice in her ear. “Otherwise looks fine. Probably knocked himself on the head.”
Natasha closes her eyes, taking short, shallow breaths. “Well, as long as it wasn’t a vital part of his body.”
“I heard that,” Clint’s slightly hoarse voice comes over comms. He coughs. “No making fun of the unconscious guy.”
Natasha allows herself the luxury of a smile. “Stop sleeping on the job, then. Where are you?” She picks herself up, testing each limb in turn. Everything appears normal. She locates one of her Glocks in the rubble. “Jordan? Foster?”
“Foster’s dead,” says Coulson. “I have no data on Jordan. His electrodes must have detached.”
Natasha steps carefully through the debris, waving a hand in front of her to try and dissipate some of the dust in the air. She makes her way forward to the lab where the explosion originated. She doesn’t have a good feeling about this, but a part of her has known this was coming since she opened her eyes. Clint’s standing in the doorway – or what used to be the doorway. He has a fine layer of soot all over him, making his face look nearly black. He seems to be moving under his own steam, which is good, but he’s limping a little. He bows his head and coughs into his arm.
She peers into the lab and her heart sinks. Three charred bodies, somewhat intact, plus a bunch of unsalvageable lab equipment and research. But the worst part is seeing the open fridge where she knows they’d been keeping the AS-81. Natasha inclines her head at Clint, who nods, and they quickly move down the hallway and through the double doors on the other side.
“Report, agents. What’s the situation?”
“They’re dead,” Natasha rasps flatly. “All the scientists. They blew up the lab, it’s all gone. And—”
“Agent Romanoff?” Coulson sounds slightly less composed than usual. “The AS-81?”
“Destroyed,” she says hoarsely. “They had a failsafe protocol when they knew we were coming. Nothing’s left. And...” She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “...Agent Barton was in the room when the AS-81 was destroyed. It could have gone airborne. We’re... I am recommending quarantine procedures,” she finishes, injecting a calm she doesn’t quite feel into her voice. Clint is frowning, looking at the double doors they just came through. Natasha isn’t sure what he’s thinking, but she knows him well enough to know that it’s not because of her conclusion.
“Granted,” Coulson says immediately. “No one has been in or out of the building since you entered. Seal off the primary exits and get the hell out of that area.” They’re all familiar with the layout of the makeshift lab built on the outskirts of the Sevier Desert in Utah. There are only two primary exits, and the lab is isolated from the rest of the place, so that part is simple.
Natasha already knows the answer, but she has to ask it anyway. She needs to hear it said out loud, by an objective party. She needs to know she’s remembered correctly. “The AS-81,” she says. “Symptoms of infection...”
“Appear within thirty minutes,” Coulson says, sounding gentle. “It will take a maximum of seventy-two hours for the exposed virus to die when exposed to air, so quarantine will not break until then. But you’ll know soon if either of you have been infected. The first sign is always a dark, upraised mark on the inside of one or both elbows, typically in the shape of a horseshoe. If you are infected, stay calm.”
“Right,” Natasha says, conveying a wealth of sentiment in the tone she uses on that one word.
“The virus typically runs its course through the human body in ninety-six hours. By the end of that time, if an infected person is still alive, full recovery is entirely possible.” What Coulson doesn’t say, but which Natasha knows perfectly well, is that very few people make it to the four-day mark.
“Do you hear that?” Clint asks.
Natasha shakes her head, preoccupied.
“They knew what they were dealing with,” Coulson continues. “There’s a medical area, and it will presumably contain advanced supplies.” He talks Natasha through things she’s already been briefed on, knowing it will help steady her. “They were working on an antidote. It wasn’t one hundred percent effective, but injections at regular intervals were shown to decelerate the spread of the virus. Regular blood transfusions will help; two units every twenty-four hours. They might keep blood there. After forty-eight hours without worsening symptoms, chances of survival are markedly increased.”
“Seriously, what is that?” Clint says. “You don’t hear it?”
Natasha tunes Coulson out so she can try and see if she can hear what Clint’s hearing. “It kind of sounds like—”
“Someone’s moaning. I think it’s Jordan.” Clint makes for the double doors.
Natasha stops him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go back in there.”
“I can’t just leave him,” Clint argues, but she doesn’t let go of his arm. “Tasha, I’ve already been exposed,” he says gently.
After another moment, Natasha releases him. “Fine,” she says, and makes for the doors, but this time he’s the one who stops her.
“No,” Clint says. “You stay here.” He counters her stubborn look with one of his own. “I was at ground zero, practically – you weren’t. It’s riskier for you.”
“We’re not entirely clear on how it’s transmitted. If one of us is infected, we might have already passed it to the other person,” she argues.
“It doesn’t make any sense for you to go back in there!”
“Agent Romanoff? Do you copy? Has something happened?”
Natasha glares at Clint for a few more seconds, then gives in by pressing her comms link. Clint takes that as a sign of her acquiescence and goes through the doors.
“Agent Barton believes he can hear Agent Jordan and has gone to retrieve him.” She can’t keep the frustration out of her voice.
A few minutes pass while Natasha paces. “He’s still not back. I’m going after him,” she tells Coulson.
“Negative,” he replies without inflection. “Authorization is not granted.”
In a fit of insubordination that is more up Clint’s alley than hers, Natasha is about to ignore the order and go in after her partner anyway, when she sees him through the thick glass doors. He’s heavily supporting Jordan, who has his arm draped loosely over Clint’s shoulders. Clint is practically dragging Jordan through the debris field, because the other man doesn’t seem to be able to walk or even stand up straight on his own.
“I’m taking him to the infirmary,” Clint says shortly after they come through the door. The front of Jordan’s uniform is soaked with blood, his face ashen with pain.
“I’ll meet you there.” Natasha confers with Coulson one more time, then punches in a code in a side panel. Presently a metal barrier rolls down, sealing off the lab area. She uses the same code at each of the building’s two primary entrances, barricading them from the outside world. Or more accurately, barricading the outside world from the potential contamination this building holds. She tries not to think about what that means for herself, Clint, and Jordan.
Natasha heads for the small infirmary, which she knows is up one floor. The building itself is not large, so it doesn’t take long for her to find them. Clint has already settled Jordan onto a bed and cut the other man’s uniform away. Her partner’s face is closed off and distant, which means the prognosis for their teammate isn’t good. But Natasha doesn’t need the look on Clint’s face to tell her that; she has seen wounds like the ones Jordan has before. It’s exceptional, in her opinion, that he hasn’t already succumbed. What Jordan needs is proper medical attention. Clint and Natasha are fairly good at patching one another up when the need arises, but those are minor wounds in comparison to this; the help Jordan needs is far beyond their medical expertise.
She goes into the hallway to report this to Coulson, but her comms link isn’t working. Sealing off the building has apparently disrupted their feed. She pulls the small receiver out of her ear, then goes back into the room.
“Comms is offline,” Natasha says.
“He hemorrhaged pretty badly,” Clint replies, rifling through the room’s medical supplies with his back to her. “Disinfected the injury sites as best I could. Applied some antibiotic ointment and just gave him some morphine.” She nods, even though he can’t see it. “He passed out.”
“His organs are failing,” Natasha says. “He probably won’t last the night.”
“He might. They’ve got to have blood supply here. We can do a transfusion.”
Natasha makes a noncommittal sound. Jordan’s blood type makes him an ideal donor, but finding blood for him will be more difficult. She also chooses not to point out that Jordan has suffered massive blood loss, and that even if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, the chances of his wounds becoming infected are quite high. And that’s assuming he hasn’t been infected with AS-81. If he has, his chances of survival are essentially nul. She knows that Clint knows these things; he just has a strange affinity to optimism for someone in his line of work. Natasha does not.
He turns, and Natasha sucks in her breath. “Clint.” She seems to be experiencing tachycardia, a distant part of her brain notes. A rapid heartbeat can be caused by an abnormal heart condition, disease, hyperthyroidism, strenuous exercise, desire, stress, or anxiety.
“What?” Clint looks at himself. Then he sees what she sees: a mottled mark on the inside of his right elbow, just below his bicep. It has the rough shape of a horseshoe. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and neither does she. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is steady. “You shouldn’t be around me. They have a containment room. Lock me in there.”
Natasha knows she should say something comforting, but the words are trapped in her throat. Her lips feel oddly numb. She’s rooted to the spot.
“Tasha,” Clint says, “quit looking at me like that.”
What she’s feeling must be written all over her face. Natasha struggles to regain her normal equilibrium.
He brushes past her on his way out the door. “Come on,” he urges.
Compelling her legs to move, she spares one last glance at the pale Jordan, then turns to catch up with Clint.
Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders.
be_compromised Secret Santa Exchange story here for archival/anal completist purposes. If you read the fic at the comm, this one is nearly entirely the same. But because I can never leave anything well enough alone, I'm going through it again and finding little nitpicks that I'm fixing. >.> There shouldn't be anything significantly different.Title: Chasing the Light (AO3)
Author:
sarea_okelaniRating: PG-13
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Phil Coulson, Original Characters
Author's Notes: Apologies for the long notes, but I have a lot of people to thank! This story was written for
ittykat as part of the be_compromised Secret Santa Exchange. My prompt can be found at the end of the story; I don’t want to give away too much at the beginning! :-)Thanks go out to a number of lovely ladies:
anuna_81 and cybermathwitch for running a great exchange, ittykat for the fun and challenging prompt(s), daxcat79 for the awesome banner below, and my two tireless betas, jade_okelani and adelagia. Without Jade, I don’t know if this story would have gotten written. Parts of this story gave me fits while writing, and whenever I encounter a roadblock, I tend to avoid writing altogether. But she gave me daily writing assignments and encouragement, and little by little, it got done. Adelagia helped me remove one of those early roadblocks. I could not, for the life of me, figure out a way to do what I wanted to do, and on one of our foodie trips up to Vancouver we talked it through and she helped me find a solution. Hurrah! And of course, that’s on top of the beta duties they both took on after the story was done (when they both independently said that I needed to add a scene or two at the end, I agreed with their wisdom immediately. OK no, I kicked and whined and resisted, but ended up listening to them anyway, and of course now the story is better). I am blessed to have two such good friends who allow me to abuse them in this manner.Summary: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.
“Chasing the Light”
by Sarea Okelani
//\\
Every bridge that keeps on burning
Every leaf that you keep on turning
Every road that you find uncertain
Pray for you now, baby that you'll figure it out
As you keep chasing the light
Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders. She’s used to watching his back, both literally and figuratively, but she’s never before had to wonder whether his fortitude is real or manufactured. Can he possibly be as calm as he seems? Clint is generally unflappable, prone to making cocky comments even while hell rains down around them (it was one of the first things she learned about working with him), but this is different.
She shadows him to the thick glass door, but stops at the entryway while he continues through it. He doesn’t turn to look at her or say a word until he’s on the other side; then he pivots and resolutely shuts the door in her face. He grins at Natasha, and it resembles the same grin he’s given her a thousand times. Natasha studies him for signs of uncertainty, of being shaken or frightened. She can see through bravado, has seen through it in other people on countless other occasions, when it meant her life or theirs, and she’s the one who’s still here.
But Clint is just being Clint as he always is, and she can’t understand it.
He’s acting like this is a circumstance like any other, but it’s not. Natasha isn’t prone to hysterics, to needless worrying, to optimism, but his equanimity right now is a puzzling thing.
Clint mouths something at her and gestures at his own forehead.
“What? I can’t hear you,” Natasha says.
Clint locates an intercom next to the door, fiddling with some buttons there.
“I said” – he’s activated a microphone of some kind, and his voice buzzes a bit from static, “you have a line right here.” He points at his forehead again, moving his finger up and down.
Natasha knows it’s his way of telling her that she’s frowning, which she didn’t know she was doing, and makes an effort to smooth out her features.
“Better,” he says, then turns away and starts stripping off his Kevlar.
His name is on the tip of her tongue, but she has no idea what she wants to follow that with, so she bites it instead.
//\\
Natasha signed the credit card receipt, ignoring the interested look of the motel clerk manning the front desk. He looked and smelled like an individual whose personal hygiene wasn’t high on his priority list. He had a least a hundred and fifty pounds on Natasha, and as he gave her yet another lascivious grin, she almost hoped he’d start something so she could use that weight against him and add a few more gaps in his already-challenged gum line.
He looked at the receipt. “Thank you for yer business... Natalie.” A brown-tinged grin. Apparently he was a regular smoker, and had had eggs for breakfast. Natasha hid her revulsion with practiced ease.
Fleabag motels, sketchy rental cars, and greasy diner food. This was what she’d signed up for, apparently, when she’d agreed to work for the American government. Not to mention the sometimes strange, ofttimes jocund, and frequently incomprehensible partner she’d been assigned. There’d obviously been something about him that had won her over when he’d made her the same offer she’d gotten half a dozen times before from other agents, but she wasn’t sure what that had been, now. Perhaps she’d just been too impressed with the fact that he’d gotten one over her, which had occurred so rarely over the course of her career before she’d met him that she could count on one hand the number of times it had happened. But better Barton as her partner than some other agent, she supposed. She could handle Barton.
There was complimentary coffee, but the pot was empty. Rather than talk to the clerk again, Natasha grabbed a package of coffee grounds and started it herself. She eyed the peeling paint on the walls with disdain. Certainly she had stayed in worse places while on a job, but when she’d been freelancing, when it was possible, she’d always chosen the best. She’d been able afford it, after all – her services had commanded a lavish price, and her days of living as a street rat, as someone else’s marionette, were over.
The coffee started percolating, its rich scent dispensing some welcome relief from the motel clerk’s personal odor. When enough coffee had dripped to fill two Styrofoam cups, she paused the machine and fixed one for Barton and one for herself. She knew he took cream and sugar in his coffee, and guessed at the amounts. Well, it wasn’t cream, it was whitener, but at least the beverage was hot and pleasantly steamy.
Outside, Natasha donned her sunglasses and made her way over to the rented silver sedan. Barton had spread a map over the trunk and was studying it. She handed him one of the coffees, which he took without comment, then brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Coffee spewed. “What the hell is this?” he spluttered. “This is supposed to be coffee?”
Natasha shrugged. “Tastes okay to me.”
Barton held up his cup. “This,” he informed her, “is not coffee.”
“The package said coffee, I’m pretty sure,” she replied calmly.
“Are you sure it didn’t say ‘vile sludge’? Because that’s what it tastes like.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Sorry, did you want a nonfat one-pump vanilla hemp milk latte? I left my frothing wand in my other pants.”
Barton looked insulted. “It’s not frou frou to want a decent cup of coffee.”
“You said frou frou, not me. I just want that stated for the record.”
“Mildred’s on a break. She isn’t around to take that statement,” Barton said, referring to the imaginary transcriptionist who followed them around everywhere, recording their every word and deed. Natasha couldn’t remember whose idea it was to name her Mildred. Barton, probably.
“Oh, how convenient,” Natasha said, “that she happens to be taking a break at this moment.”
“She’s off getting a decent cup of coffee,” Barton explained. “She’s not the type to put up with this.” He gingerly took another sip, making a show of swallowing it, contorting his face.
“You don’t have to drink it, you know,” Natasha pointed out. “Or you could get your own damn coffee, that’s an option too.”
“Now that I know this is the kind of joe you make, I will.”
Ignoring him, Natasha sipped her drink and got in the car.
//\\
“Agent Romanoff, do you copy? Requesting a sit rep.”
Natasha shifts gingerly, waiting for shooting pain to tell her where she’s been injured. She doesn’t feel anything other than a few sore joints and muscles, so she’s either okay or in shock from blood loss. She moves her legs, which respond as they should, and sits up. The movement causes the debris around her to shift; some of the dust gets into her lungs when she takes her next breath. She coughs.
“Agent Romanoff?”
She must be all right. They’re monitoring their vitals and Coulson doesn’t sound alarmed; he expects her to respond, so everything must look okay from their end.
“An explosion,” she says, pressing the comms link in her ear. “In the lab. Agent Barton, is he–” She can’t complete the question. There’s too much dust in the air.
“Unconscious,” comes Coulson’s voice in her ear. “Otherwise looks fine. Probably knocked himself on the head.”
Natasha closes her eyes, taking short, shallow breaths. “Well, as long as it wasn’t a vital part of his body.”
“I heard that,” Clint’s slightly hoarse voice comes over comms. He coughs. “No making fun of the unconscious guy.”
Natasha allows herself the luxury of a smile. “Stop sleeping on the job, then. Where are you?” She picks herself up, testing each limb in turn. Everything appears normal. She locates one of her Glocks in the rubble. “Jordan? Foster?”
“Foster’s dead,” says Coulson. “I have no data on Jordan. His electrodes must have detached.”
Natasha steps carefully through the debris, waving a hand in front of her to try and dissipate some of the dust in the air. She makes her way forward to the lab where the explosion originated. She doesn’t have a good feeling about this, but a part of her has known this was coming since she opened her eyes. Clint’s standing in the doorway – or what used to be the doorway. He has a fine layer of soot all over him, making his face look nearly black. He seems to be moving under his own steam, which is good, but he’s limping a little. He bows his head and coughs into his arm.
She peers into the lab and her heart sinks. Three charred bodies, somewhat intact, plus a bunch of unsalvageable lab equipment and research. But the worst part is seeing the open fridge where she knows they’d been keeping the AS-81. Natasha inclines her head at Clint, who nods, and they quickly move down the hallway and through the double doors on the other side.
“Report, agents. What’s the situation?”
“They’re dead,” Natasha rasps flatly. “All the scientists. They blew up the lab, it’s all gone. And—”
“Agent Romanoff?” Coulson sounds slightly less composed than usual. “The AS-81?”
“Destroyed,” she says hoarsely. “They had a failsafe protocol when they knew we were coming. Nothing’s left. And...” She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “...Agent Barton was in the room when the AS-81 was destroyed. It could have gone airborne. We’re... I am recommending quarantine procedures,” she finishes, injecting a calm she doesn’t quite feel into her voice. Clint is frowning, looking at the double doors they just came through. Natasha isn’t sure what he’s thinking, but she knows him well enough to know that it’s not because of her conclusion.
“Granted,” Coulson says immediately. “No one has been in or out of the building since you entered. Seal off the primary exits and get the hell out of that area.” They’re all familiar with the layout of the makeshift lab built on the outskirts of the Sevier Desert in Utah. There are only two primary exits, and the lab is isolated from the rest of the place, so that part is simple.
Natasha already knows the answer, but she has to ask it anyway. She needs to hear it said out loud, by an objective party. She needs to know she’s remembered correctly. “The AS-81,” she says. “Symptoms of infection...”
“Appear within thirty minutes,” Coulson says, sounding gentle. “It will take a maximum of seventy-two hours for the exposed virus to die when exposed to air, so quarantine will not break until then. But you’ll know soon if either of you have been infected. The first sign is always a dark, upraised mark on the inside of one or both elbows, typically in the shape of a horseshoe. If you are infected, stay calm.”
“Right,” Natasha says, conveying a wealth of sentiment in the tone she uses on that one word.
“The virus typically runs its course through the human body in ninety-six hours. By the end of that time, if an infected person is still alive, full recovery is entirely possible.” What Coulson doesn’t say, but which Natasha knows perfectly well, is that very few people make it to the four-day mark.
“Do you hear that?” Clint asks.
Natasha shakes her head, preoccupied.
“They knew what they were dealing with,” Coulson continues. “There’s a medical area, and it will presumably contain advanced supplies.” He talks Natasha through things she’s already been briefed on, knowing it will help steady her. “They were working on an antidote. It wasn’t one hundred percent effective, but injections at regular intervals were shown to decelerate the spread of the virus. Regular blood transfusions will help; two units every twenty-four hours. They might keep blood there. After forty-eight hours without worsening symptoms, chances of survival are markedly increased.”
“Seriously, what is that?” Clint says. “You don’t hear it?”
Natasha tunes Coulson out so she can try and see if she can hear what Clint’s hearing. “It kind of sounds like—”
“Someone’s moaning. I think it’s Jordan.” Clint makes for the double doors.
Natasha stops him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go back in there.”
“I can’t just leave him,” Clint argues, but she doesn’t let go of his arm. “Tasha, I’ve already been exposed,” he says gently.
After another moment, Natasha releases him. “Fine,” she says, and makes for the doors, but this time he’s the one who stops her.
“No,” Clint says. “You stay here.” He counters her stubborn look with one of his own. “I was at ground zero, practically – you weren’t. It’s riskier for you.”
“We’re not entirely clear on how it’s transmitted. If one of us is infected, we might have already passed it to the other person,” she argues.
“It doesn’t make any sense for you to go back in there!”
“Agent Romanoff? Do you copy? Has something happened?”
Natasha glares at Clint for a few more seconds, then gives in by pressing her comms link. Clint takes that as a sign of her acquiescence and goes through the doors.
“Agent Barton believes he can hear Agent Jordan and has gone to retrieve him.” She can’t keep the frustration out of her voice.
A few minutes pass while Natasha paces. “He’s still not back. I’m going after him,” she tells Coulson.
“Negative,” he replies without inflection. “Authorization is not granted.”
In a fit of insubordination that is more up Clint’s alley than hers, Natasha is about to ignore the order and go in after her partner anyway, when she sees him through the thick glass doors. He’s heavily supporting Jordan, who has his arm draped loosely over Clint’s shoulders. Clint is practically dragging Jordan through the debris field, because the other man doesn’t seem to be able to walk or even stand up straight on his own.
“I’m taking him to the infirmary,” Clint says shortly after they come through the door. The front of Jordan’s uniform is soaked with blood, his face ashen with pain.
“I’ll meet you there.” Natasha confers with Coulson one more time, then punches in a code in a side panel. Presently a metal barrier rolls down, sealing off the lab area. She uses the same code at each of the building’s two primary entrances, barricading them from the outside world. Or more accurately, barricading the outside world from the potential contamination this building holds. She tries not to think about what that means for herself, Clint, and Jordan.
Natasha heads for the small infirmary, which she knows is up one floor. The building itself is not large, so it doesn’t take long for her to find them. Clint has already settled Jordan onto a bed and cut the other man’s uniform away. Her partner’s face is closed off and distant, which means the prognosis for their teammate isn’t good. But Natasha doesn’t need the look on Clint’s face to tell her that; she has seen wounds like the ones Jordan has before. It’s exceptional, in her opinion, that he hasn’t already succumbed. What Jordan needs is proper medical attention. Clint and Natasha are fairly good at patching one another up when the need arises, but those are minor wounds in comparison to this; the help Jordan needs is far beyond their medical expertise.
She goes into the hallway to report this to Coulson, but her comms link isn’t working. Sealing off the building has apparently disrupted their feed. She pulls the small receiver out of her ear, then goes back into the room.
“Comms is offline,” Natasha says.
“He hemorrhaged pretty badly,” Clint replies, rifling through the room’s medical supplies with his back to her. “Disinfected the injury sites as best I could. Applied some antibiotic ointment and just gave him some morphine.” She nods, even though he can’t see it. “He passed out.”
“His organs are failing,” Natasha says. “He probably won’t last the night.”
“He might. They’ve got to have blood supply here. We can do a transfusion.”
Natasha makes a noncommittal sound. Jordan’s blood type makes him an ideal donor, but finding blood for him will be more difficult. She also chooses not to point out that Jordan has suffered massive blood loss, and that even if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, the chances of his wounds becoming infected are quite high. And that’s assuming he hasn’t been infected with AS-81. If he has, his chances of survival are essentially nul. She knows that Clint knows these things; he just has a strange affinity to optimism for someone in his line of work. Natasha does not.
He turns, and Natasha sucks in her breath. “Clint.” She seems to be experiencing tachycardia, a distant part of her brain notes. A rapid heartbeat can be caused by an abnormal heart condition, disease, hyperthyroidism, strenuous exercise, desire, stress, or anxiety.
“What?” Clint looks at himself. Then he sees what she sees: a mottled mark on the inside of his right elbow, just below his bicep. It has the rough shape of a horseshoe. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and neither does she. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is steady. “You shouldn’t be around me. They have a containment room. Lock me in there.”
Natasha knows she should say something comforting, but the words are trapped in her throat. Her lips feel oddly numb. She’s rooted to the spot.
“Tasha,” Clint says, “quit looking at me like that.”
What she’s feeling must be written all over her face. Natasha struggles to regain her normal equilibrium.
He brushes past her on his way out the door. “Come on,” he urges.
Compelling her legs to move, she spares one last glance at the pale Jordan, then turns to catch up with Clint.
Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders.
