Chapter 11: The Truth Will Out
"There! The Good Bean," Natasha pointed out, the clock reading 12:59. Clint turned right into the small shopping center, and they pulled up next to the SUV the director was idling in. Rolling down her window, Romanoff greeted Fury with a nod.
"Security cameras in this area have been mysteriously scrambled. Glad you figured out which target I meant. I was a little vague," Fury said, turning off his engine and exiting the vehicle. He held the door open for Natasha as she climbed out, balancing on her good foot.
"Well it was fairly obvious that you didn't want us to fly back to Canada," Clint joked, collecting Natasha's crutches and passing them to her. He donned a pair of dark sunglasses and a hat to help hide his bruised face.
Like a true gentleman, Fury led them into the coffee shop, holding the door as Natasha swung by. Clint offered to wait in line to order coffee, knowing both his associates' typical orders. His boss likes a strong, black coffee, while Natasha was more of an iced coffee fan. And for Clint, a blended mocha.
While Hawkeye flew the coop for the caffeine his tired eyes desperately needed, Natasha broke out the laptop and reopened the contents of the flashdrive. She split the screen between the list of aliases and the security camera footage of Morse driving down the road the day of the email. Lastly, she placed the screen capture of the library's computer sign in on the keyboard, and slid it to Fury. He took a minute or two to review the evidence, and Barton approached with their drinks.
"Clearly, Agent Morse is your primary suspect here, but you mentioned Coulson, too. How do you think he plays into this," Fury questioned. Clint sat next to Natasha, sliding the beverages around to each person.
Clint began, "Well to answer that, we need to ask you something first. Did you ask Coulson to call Natasha for a welfare check yesterday?" Fury scoffed in response.
"No, I was called to Norfolk for a meeting with the Lieutenant of the Navy. I was 30,000 feet in the air that morning, then I spent the rest of the day on the base. Did he call you," he asked, now directing his attention to Natasha specifically. He sipped on his coffee that was the perfect temperature. Clint was practically chugging his, and the other two agents suspected he would get a brain freeze any minute. If he did, they never noticed.
"Coulson called and asked where I was, claiming you wanted to know how I was doing. And we knew there was no way you would be calling for a check up less than 24 hours later," Romanoff responded, sampling her hazelnut latte. She opened her phone up to the recent calls page, showing Coulson's phone number listed on the previous day. Fury had a concerned look on his face, since Coulson was someone he trusted deeply.
"No one is suggesting Coulson is rogue, but maybe he is being unknowingly guided by someone. Morse seems to spend an awful lot of time with him, do you know why that is," Barton inquired.
"Well, that's partially on my orders. After Morse's incident in Morocco, I asked Coulson to keep her at headquarters as much as possible. Consequently, she ended up following him around a lot," Fury concluded. STRIKE Team Delta exchanged a glance at each other, remembering the way Morocco had shaken everyone. Very rarely did a SHIELD agent fail, and when someone did under suspicious circumstances, it put the whole agency on edge. They had pieced together from hearsay that Morse's rifle had supposedly failed, but no one knew why. Her partner, Agent Jimenez, claimed he was out of ammo, too.
Beginning to dig in his pocket, Fury pulled out a still of camera footage from headquarters, showing Morse holding a rifle. A small tool was inserted into the cartridge slot. "I did some digging of my own about Morse after Morocco, and found footage of her sabotaging her own weapon. The weapon that she claimed malfunctioned and caused her target to escape. Your botched mission gave me the last piece of the puzzle that I needed to prove Morse is a rat. Her target's name was Frederic... Blanc," Fury revealed. A wave of realization washed over them.
"Brothers," Natasha interjected. "So do you think she is working for them," she continued, a wave of anger crashing over her, but she repressed it well.
"Well, I can't be sure, but after what you showed me, it can't be a coincidence. Anything else you need to tell me? You two seem… different," Fury insinuated, seeing the spark between them. He eyed them over the ridge of his cup.
"Nope. Just bonded over the mutual enemy. You want us to follow you back to HQ," Clint guessed, hoping he would say no.
"No, go home. You look like you haven't slept in days, Barton," Fury commented, standing and collecting his coffee. "I'll go meet with Coulson, and we'll lock Morse up in the meantime. I'll see you two at 8 AM, sharp."
Romanoff and Barton parted ways with Fury, and knew the next morning would be particularly stressful. As if finding out a coworker was trying to kill them wasn't enough, now they had to go through the investigation. And until this was solved, all parties knew STRIKE Team Delta would be grounded.
~ Two and a Half Hours Later ~
Clutching his case again, Clint led Natasha toward two large storage containers that were painted tan to match the wall they sat against. They were in the far reaches of the parking garage, large padlocks containing whatever waited inside.
"Clint, what are we doing? Don't tell me you're secretly a hoarder," she teased, watching as Clint entered a code and took out two golden keys from a secret compartment in his weapons case.
"Nope, I just need to let off some steam. You'll see," he smiled, popping both locks off and splaying the doors open to let his partner in. Lights flickered to life inside, triggered by their movement. The two containers made one very long corridor that had floor-to-ceiling bales of straw and paper targets at the end. A slim table and three chairs sat off to the right, close to the entrance. Seemingly out of place, a mini fridge sat at the far end of the table. The space was functional and low-tech, but it had a charm to it.
Barton's partner snickered, "You are nothing if not dedicated to your craft, Hawk." She sat as Clint closed the door to his hidden range and turned to face her.
"Archery is one of the three truly relaxing things in my life. I come down here when I need to clear my head," he submitted, retrieving his bow, and unfolding it with a swift arm movement. "You can go upstairs if you want, but if not, there's water and bourbon in there," he offered, pointing to the unassuming fridge.
"Bourbon," she repeated with a questioning tone.
"That's relaxer number two," Clint said, winking at his partner as she grabbed the amber bottle and poured herself a small glass. Natasha needed to be able to balance on her crutches, after all.
"Hear, hear," Natasha called, raising her glass as Clint nocked an arrow, a simple point fastened to the end. Taking his time, the archer lined up to take the first shot.
Clint slowly plucked away his problems, arrow by arrow, and Natasha watched as his shoulders became less and less rigid. The repeated familiar motion and deep breathing worked its magic. 'No wonder he's got such buff arms, he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders,' Natasha quietly reflected. Little did she know, Clint's third source of relaxation was her. With every deep inhale, he imagined her hot breath on his skin, her steadying hand on his chest, or her intoxicating smile. Funny how all his sources of relaxation could kill; in Natasha's case, exceedingly quickly.
One final shot of his last arrow drew Clint's archery session to a close. A line of perfectly centered bullseyes were on display to no one's surprise. His bow fell to his side, and Natasha could see the exhaustion taking over Barton's form.
Locking the doors back up, Clint guided his partner to the elevators. The neutral music as they ascended filled the silence. Clint's weariness was only intensified as they entered the apartment, and the bed enticed him. Natasha hopped on, quite literally, and beckoned for Clint to join her with open arms.
"Well, I hope that Morse gets thrown in the same cell I was held in when you recruited me. That mattress was awful," she remarked, rubbing Clint's back as he snuggled into her stomach. His mind was on only one thing: her. He became overly conscious of every move she made, her touch leaving trails of goosebumps along his skin. His eyes and heart were heavy.
"Tash," Clint cooed. He was sleepy and feeling particularly emotional. The atmosphere in the room shifted.
"Yeah," Natasha said, running her hand through his hair. She felt Clint's fingers brush her hip where her shirt had ridden up.
"I think I'm in love with you," he professed. Natasha's heart sunk in her chest, feeling like a weighted stone. Her hand stilled behind Clint's ear. The archer didn't dare look up at her, fearful he would be rejected.
"I… think I love you, too," she confessed, overcoming the frog in her throat, surprising even herself. Clint smoothly rose, then straddled and kissed her. Loving and sincere, they stared into each other's eyes, foreheads together, Natasha holding onto the sides of his neck. Clint kissed her on the cheek, fell to his side, and pulled Natasha in as close as possible. She settled into his warmth, and tangled her legs into his.
They went numb as one, and let the world fall away around them. They could worry about SHIELD drama tomorrow morning. This admission of romance scared the daylights out of them both, but as Director Fury so eloquently pointed out a couple days earlier, nothing can stop STRIKE Team Delta.