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het_reccersFandom Category: Avengers
Pairing: Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton
Fic Title: in the service of liars and killers
Author: gdgdbaby
Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/405325
Rating/Warning(s): teen. spoilers for the movie, obvs.
Genre: pre-movie to movie.
WIP?: no
Why This Must Be Read: A lovely build up to their partnership, which explores their origin and how they fell into the effortless rhythm they have. Fabulous voices, and some laugh out loud moments and lines.
So it's high summer in Brazil, and Coulson sends him there on a solo mission.
The job itself is easy enough. The guy's supposed to be a drug-dealing crime lord, but his security detail is absolute shit. Getting out of the city is the hard part, especially after Clint blows the entire compound sky high in an attempt at evidence cleanup. The citywide alarms go off, helicopters and foot patrols everywhere. Coulson leaves several unhappy voicemails on his phone, something about damage control and unnecessary collateral damage.
He's in the hotel lobby debating whether or not to reply when he sees her sitting at the bar. It is, quite possibly, the worst cliché in the entire world, but there she is. Her hair's longer, darker, and it falls over her shoulders in a smooth waterfall. She catches his eye over the bartender's shoulder. The only indication she recognizes him is the subtle lift of an eyebrow.
Then, of course, the goddamn polícia burst in, guns blazing. Clint pulls his sunglasses on, attempts to look casual.
"We're looking for foreigners traveling alone," the chief shouts, voice clipped and tense.
One of the policemen spots him on the couches and hurries over. "Sir, are you alone?"
Clint slips a hand behind his back to palm the gun tucked in his jeans and pretends to be extremely interested in his copy of the local newspaper.
The cop frowns and grabs his shoulder. "We need to see your identification papers."
"He's with me," someone says from behind him. There's a delicate hand brushing his shoulder and then she slides into view, a disarming smile on her face. "Let's go, sweetheart."
The police back off, and she leads him around to the elevators in the back.
Clint throws the first punch. It hits the air just shy of her shoulder.
"You're much better," she says in English, surprised, catching his fist and shoving it back in his face. There's no trace of an accent, this time. "I'm impressed."
"I was inspired," he says drily.
"Are you here to kill me?" she asks, dodging a chop to the kneecap.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"You attacked me first," she notes, and slams his head against the wall so hard he blacks out.
When he comes to, they're riding the elevator up to the penthouse suite. "So you're not here to kill me."
"Not everything is about you," she says, voice wry.
"What are you doing in São Paulo, then?"
"That's classified," she says, eyeing him warily.
"I'm sure I'll be reading all about it in the papers tomorrow."
She inclines her head, concedes the point. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
There's a buzz from his phone: a text from Coulson. Don't do it.
"I'm just here on vacation," he says lamely. For a second, she almost looks disappointed, but the expression smoothens back out into disinterested placidity a moment later. The elevator doors ping open. She crosses to the open balcony in a heartbeat, swan dives over the ledge.
"What the fuck," Clint announces to the empty room.
Pairing: Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton
Fic Title: in the service of liars and killers
Author: gdgdbaby
Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/405325
Rating/Warning(s): teen. spoilers for the movie, obvs.
Genre: pre-movie to movie.
WIP?: no
Why This Must Be Read: A lovely build up to their partnership, which explores their origin and how they fell into the effortless rhythm they have. Fabulous voices, and some laugh out loud moments and lines.
So it's high summer in Brazil, and Coulson sends him there on a solo mission.
The job itself is easy enough. The guy's supposed to be a drug-dealing crime lord, but his security detail is absolute shit. Getting out of the city is the hard part, especially after Clint blows the entire compound sky high in an attempt at evidence cleanup. The citywide alarms go off, helicopters and foot patrols everywhere. Coulson leaves several unhappy voicemails on his phone, something about damage control and unnecessary collateral damage.
He's in the hotel lobby debating whether or not to reply when he sees her sitting at the bar. It is, quite possibly, the worst cliché in the entire world, but there she is. Her hair's longer, darker, and it falls over her shoulders in a smooth waterfall. She catches his eye over the bartender's shoulder. The only indication she recognizes him is the subtle lift of an eyebrow.
Then, of course, the goddamn polícia burst in, guns blazing. Clint pulls his sunglasses on, attempts to look casual.
"We're looking for foreigners traveling alone," the chief shouts, voice clipped and tense.
One of the policemen spots him on the couches and hurries over. "Sir, are you alone?"
Clint slips a hand behind his back to palm the gun tucked in his jeans and pretends to be extremely interested in his copy of the local newspaper.
The cop frowns and grabs his shoulder. "We need to see your identification papers."
"He's with me," someone says from behind him. There's a delicate hand brushing his shoulder and then she slides into view, a disarming smile on her face. "Let's go, sweetheart."
The police back off, and she leads him around to the elevators in the back.
Clint throws the first punch. It hits the air just shy of her shoulder.
"You're much better," she says in English, surprised, catching his fist and shoving it back in his face. There's no trace of an accent, this time. "I'm impressed."
"I was inspired," he says drily.
"Are you here to kill me?" she asks, dodging a chop to the kneecap.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"You attacked me first," she notes, and slams his head against the wall so hard he blacks out.
When he comes to, they're riding the elevator up to the penthouse suite. "So you're not here to kill me."
"Not everything is about you," she says, voice wry.
"What are you doing in São Paulo, then?"
"That's classified," she says, eyeing him warily.
"I'm sure I'll be reading all about it in the papers tomorrow."
She inclines her head, concedes the point. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
There's a buzz from his phone: a text from Coulson. Don't do it.
"I'm just here on vacation," he says lamely. For a second, she almost looks disappointed, but the expression smoothens back out into disinterested placidity a moment later. The elevator doors ping open. She crosses to the open balcony in a heartbeat, swan dives over the ledge.
"What the fuck," Clint announces to the empty room.
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