Point of View

Was it really just a train ride? A staid day, with the rumbling train coursing through the countryside and journeying every closer to its final destination? If there ever was a day that came so close to being so simple, it was that day. I remember it clearly, as I remember many things; sunlight was strong on one side of the car since the train went perpendicular to the sun, casting one side of the train in sunlight and one in pleasant shade. For a while I had been alone, as it should have been- if there had been other passengers I may have fooled myself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, I was just a simple passenger who was just as eager as my counterparts to disband to wherever my destination may be, whether it was the end of the line or somewhere else off of the tracks.

While it was as if I was alone, I knew I truly was not. I am only human, as were most (I repeat, most) of my counterparts, but I was not blind. Sometime during the ride I had noticed someone else sitting at the front of the car. He, someone I knew well and identified at once, sat with his back to me. Sunglasses shaded his eyes from the sunlight, which he looked to loathe instead of enjoy. The sight... it pained me. I considered him a good friend, an ally, someone that took the horror and secrets that occasionally came with this profession and could turn them into a good time, fond memories, something to be remembered with a chuckle and not a shudder. Comrades were not rare, no, but like how men and women covered the face of the earth it was quality that proved elusive. This man, well, this man was of a caliber many could only dream of knowing, being, seeing. I thought myself lucky to be around him. The very sight of his tense shoulders, the lines on his forehead that said his eyes were narrowed, and how I knew the reason for his barely withheld misery...

Clint Barton was a good laugh, a jokester, not the darkness of the room or the "bad cop." This change in demeanor wasn't healthy.

I couldn't let him stay that way.

Casually, for moving like so was the key to going unnoticed in more public situations, I grabbed my computer bag and made to move. Purposely I walked toward him, adoring my own sunglasses now that I was entering the sun. Instead of taking a seat beside him, which I may have done normally, I sat down so there was an empty seat in between us; perhaps the image bothered him, the empty seat. We both knew someone should have been there. I could not let that matter then.

His thoughts must have been deep; normally so keen, Barton gave no sign of having seen me. So I made myself comfortable, leaned back, and took out a folder that had been in my laptop bag. Papers with official headlines and details I rather didn't like sprang off of the page and repeated themselves in their entirety in my mind; I had looked them over many, many times before. While these were given to me by Director Fury to handle, I felt there was need to.. delegate. Thankfully, such a task was under my jurisdiction. Surely, the Director would understand.

The train changed direction; now we, Barton and I, were in shadow while where I once sat was in light.

"It's part of the job," I started. Barton seemed to glow with awareness; he had seen me, had heard me, though gave no response. Still worrisome. As much as I had to keep composure and persona while in the field it was impossible to hide my want to help. My voice shifted, I tried to make it consoling without being pitying; the former would grab Barton's attention, perhaps coerce him to his normal self, while the latter he would find insulting and I would end up regretting, paying for. Thankfully, I seemed to get the correct mixture. He seemed to give me his full attention and had even turned his head so I could just barely see his eyes over the rims of the sunglasses he had yet to remove (mine had since been put into my coat pocket).

"It happens," my dialogue continued. My words were carefully chosen, calculated, used for maximum effect on whoever it happened to be that I was speaking to. It was an art made tricky by the variance in personalities around the globe but made easy at the same time with those I knew well; Barton was certainly one of the latter. "Agents kill enemy agents. Enemy agents kill us. It's a hazard that... we all come to accept." I had long, long ago. If I hadn't, well, who knows where I would be- in some mental institution, curled into a ball, suffering from post-traumatic stress and flashbacks, perhaps. I had seen some pretty extraneous gore and other such violence and vile since my employment. Selective memory was the key to success; an agent had to retain their skills and learn from history while they made sure to not let trauma overtake them. it was bound to happen, we weren't an organization of emotionless lackeys; it was how trauma was dealt with that said whether an agent would work the next day or slump into retirement.

"You're emotionally compromised." Oh did he react then; I was at the receiving end of a glare. I did not flinch for I knew Barton was stronger than this and the glare was a ruse, a cover. I just had to remind him. In order to do so I would need to show him the problem so that he, like the archer he was, could take aim at and then take it down- whatever "it" was, whether it was that trauma I had mulled over before or some other internal demon I had no hope of ever understanding. "You shouldn't be here on this train." Really, he should not have been. This was a private ride, one meant for myself and a few who had been told to shadow me; yet there he was, codename Hawkeye, sitting two seats to my right against a window that had to be too warm to be comfortable.

"But you're here anyway. On a personal train, one I am supposed to be on... but not you." Now that I had his attention, his full attention, I had to take advantage of it. Once more I opened up the folder I had examined and proceeded to peruse the contents. I could already cite half of the details like an actor learning a script. "I doubt anyone could sense how you got on board. You're good at your job, Agent Barton." Despite myself I grinned; why not? I can play a persona and make a new name but I cannot change what is at my core. "It's not a stretch to believe that you could have... gotten by me, onto this train..." Purposely I trailed off and allowed the inflection on my words to hint to Barton that he should look in between the lines of what I said, to catch what I hinted at. He would. There was no need to spell it out. I directed his gaze down to the folder, the papers, by dropping my own to them. "Some... missing papers are not the end of the world. I would assume you had them; who else would want them?"

The train was slowing. I was satisfied. The folder was closed, in my hand, which was extended slightly. I pretty much handed it to Barton on a silver platter. If there was any way to make it more obvious that I wanted him to take the folder, to read over the mission parameters, then I would have; directly handing him the folder would have to do. Thankfully, Barton took them from me and began to examine them, himself.

I knew what was inside- I had spent nearly the entirety of the night before and that current train trip memorizing so. There would be the standard assignment sheet, the one that gave the potential danger level, the location, the target, and any accessory information that would be needed; every detail was accounted for in my mind. Behind that would be brochures, cards, hotel registration and key numbers, all of those smaller things that made the first of days run smoothly so energy could be focused on the job at hand, not the accommodations.

"Even if I did find you on board, I could not stop you. We are both trained but you have the battle experience. I'm just an agent. That, and, there would be this part of me that would want to give you the papers, for I know you are the right man for the job despite the technicalities. Director Fury will understand. He'll yell at you, but that is all."

I could see a glint in Clint's eyes despite the sunglasses blocking most of my view. Mental tumblers turning, mental faculties at work, the idea of an assignment, of a distraction, would pull Barton out of his stupor. I was sure of it; why else would I be there?

However, there was a catch. The target was not a normal one or else I would not have had the folder and would not have handed it off to what was SHIELD's greatest assassin.

I had to at least warn him.

"She'll be waiting for you. This will not be a simple task."

For the first time, I got a response; "I know." As Barton went to stand, went to possibly slink out of wherever he had come in, he looked at me. I made sure to advert my gaze out of respect, a temporary power play where I handed the reigns to him. "Coulson. Thank you."

As he vanished from my view, I warily watched his back.

My friend. "Be careful."

Once he was gone, out of the train when it came to its stop, I forced a deep breath from my chest. While the parameters from the original assignment were out of my hands and thus no longer applied, there was a new task at hand; where I had once been the one to shadow I now was the shadow. It was a role I was familiar with. I knew Barton, I knew his methods, while I could not predict every action of his I knew his MO and could infer his plans from what I observed.

I guess, I had thought at the time, it was time to begin that observation. First, those men meant to shadow me had to be alerted to a change of plans, right? Wrong. That was what they were; shadows. I had my orders, my plan, and they had theirs. What Director Fury had authorized them to be able to do was none of my concern, strange as that possibly sounds.

When my stop came, one after Barton's, I grabbed my things and exited the car. It was only natural to smile when standing among so many upbeat fellow human beings; I had no trouble mixing into the crowd, from going slowly through the masses to murmuring occasional apologies or gesundheit to my.. well, my overall bland appearance. I hadn't the broad shoulders of Barton's nor the eye patch of Fury's. There was just me, average height, moderate build, slightly thinning hair, sunglasses and the laptop case. If I wasn't the splitting image of the cliche American man traveling for business I didn't know what was.

Knowledge of the assignment I had handed off to Barton would do me well. Because of that I knew where he would stay; I made sure to get a room at the same hotel. The same hotel for it would be foolish of me to go across the street or even to the adjacent building. It was a strange quirk of his, how Barton's eyes worked much better at a distance. I could stand two floors above or below him and evade immediate detection but if I was across the street he would see me at once. There came the benefit of our camaraderie; there was probably some inkling at the back of Hawkeye's mind that knew I would be around someway, somehow. Hopefully he found some sort of comfort in that.

I could only hope.

With daylight having just begun there would be action soon; Barton was not one to waste a day when it was handed to him. One in the afternoon, local time, read my watch. With the possibility of "jet lag" or exhaustion from his thoughts, I could assume Barton would take a few hours to rest and survey the area from his room on the top floor (chosen on purpose, of course). My room was three floors below and far to the right; perfect. Other balconies would not inhibit my view.

I waited. Waited for what? Well, the call that I knew would come. Sitting in the room I had gotten for myself I put the local news on in the background as I took to a novel - The Hound of the Baskervilles, a lovely classic. A few hours and a hundred or so pages later and that cell phone of mine rang. An unlisted number; nothing new to an American avoiding political calls but rather odd out in this part of the world, long out of reach of the Democrats, Republicans and Independents that we at SHIELD refuse to align ourselves with. In one motion I had grabbed the phone and answered without removing my eyes from the book; why would I want to when I was nearing the end, as Holmes and Watson were rushing across the Grimpen Mire, where I knew the ghostly hound would soon show? Not a chance. I could read and speak at the same time; it was something I learned to do in meetings and such before I climbed in the ranks, the ability to multitask made everything run just so smoothly...and made me look quite impressive to superiors, too.

"Sir," the phone conversation began. As I thought, it was one of my shadows- I'd rather not share his name, confidentiality and all that. "We have seen Agent Ba-"

"Agent Barton's in the area?" Four more pages until the end of my novel. The dog was found and killed, Sir Henry had been saved, the Stapletons had been discovered... all of it was wrapping up well. I could only hope this current assignment of Barton's would do the same.

"Yessir."

"Why are you calling now?"

"He is on the move, sir. I had to ask- do your orders have to do with him?" Fury was not big on coincidences.

I finally decided to respond with a half-truth; half because I omitted what I felt the need to, truth for it implied what was actually happening. "...You could say that they do." Barton's assignment and mine were related- like identical twins, they were one and the same. I had simply chosen to take a back seat, chosen to let the more skilled man take the job.

More skilled, yes- I almost wondered if this was one of Director Fury's indirect way of getting jobs done. At first glance the assignment was of my caliber. At the same time, upon reading further, thinking more, considering the target and my options, it became clear that I would be at a tremendous disadvantage. Wits and clandestine, those were my aces. I could shoot a gun, I could learn how to use near any weapon if I had a moment, but I was not a fighter. My instincts were not such that I could respond before the blink of an eye; Barton's, however, were just that. I had to hand it to Director Fury; Agent Barton would have felt the assignment was a monotonous job had he been pulled into headquarters and assigned it, personally- this way, with Barton feeling like he had inherited it from myself, it was personalized, special, unique. Maybe it was Director Fury's plan all along for me to hand over the folder and give Barton the reigns.

It sounded like something Fury would think of.

"Did you say he was on the move?" I asked my shadow after that moment of thought.

"Yessir."

At once I pulled the phone away from my ear. Luckily it was the sort of electronic gadget (I rather like that word, gadget) that allowed you to look at other features, such as the text messages or the calendar (which is what I was after), and not end the phone conversation. A quick glance and, yes, I saw the note I had made for myself under the day's date. "I have an idea as to where he may go." The shadow needed nothing more from me and hang up after a sound of comprehension. Once more, that last line was a half-truth; I did not have an idea, I knew where he would go. On that reminder that I had set for myself, a reminder that was set to ring an alarm within the next ten minutes, I saw the name of a location and an event set for.. oh, a few hours from now.

I was a quick reader and I knew the details of the story quite well, so the book was no hassle to complete; who could leave a good story hanging? With the final pages of The Hound of the Baskervilles read, I placed the book where any other patron would put it, on the side-table next to the bed the suite came with. Before I left the room in the black and white suit that had become my business wear (and would be quite useful where I was going) I removed what had been used as a bookmark. A plastic, brightly colored card glimmered in the afternoon light. The characters of the local language greeted me though I could not understand their message. The card's meaning, however, I knew- the file I had handed to Barton would have another copy and it, too, would do the same thing; it would give myself and him unlimited access to public transportation along with discounts at local areas such as museums and restaurants. Sadly, I felt there would be no chance to use such amenities (other than the transportation). I would need to plan my own trip back so that the history of this place would not escape me; I rather enjoyed learning about cities and countries I was placed in. Call it a quirk. I call it my job.

There was also a small caliber gun set in the back of one of my shoes, where it ran parallel to my foot, which were a size too big with padding to keep them tight on my feet. Guns hidden on the arm or side seemed to risky, personally; what if it misfired? The user would be hurt. Though I did have a knife on me, as well. Maybe it was two knives. I needed to be able to protect myself, of course; I could easily shake off the shoes and grab the gun in a heartbeat. Though I was no CIA agent in the darkest days of the Cold War, where an encounter with the KGB could potentially wait around every corner, there were other counter-intelligence agencies that would have loved to have my head- Barton's as well. They had already taken one of us recently. Like a sick tiger with the taste of human blood, surely, eventually, they would be back for more. It was up to us, to SHIELD, to make sure we struck first. Alone, there was a fifty-fifty chance that I could have come back from this alive. Alone, I had little chance of a complete success. With Barton, with 'the hawk' at my aid, those odds shot up as high as he could place an arrow. I felt much more confident; confidence fueled me. Some worked best under pressure, some when they were under the radar; I did the best when I had someone to count on, when someone knew they could count on me.

I smiled and chatted with a few folks in the lobby of my hotel, on the bus ride, and then in the lobby of my destination- an old opera house that looked like a building pulled out of an older time where architecture was a cherished art. Dark stones and elaborate flourishes greeted me along with the building's massive shadow that fell over the streets, and a warm entryway with every sort of lavish decor that I expected met me in its interior. By the time I arrived there was still half an hour or so until the event that reminder in my phone had listed; a particular show, some sort of dance. The details escaped my mind for the moment as I stared across the room and caught sight of Barton, looking ever relaxed and in his zone. His hands moved as he spoke to someone whose back was to me. The sight was a relief; Barton's persona appeared flawless.

What should I have expected? He was our best. (I felt guilty for subconsciously doubting him.)

Somewhere off to the right of Barton was in front of one of many tall posters that served as adds for upcoming and current programs. The poster near him, with its golden trim and stunningly smooth graphics, was for the show that was due to start at the top of the hour. Perhaps, as that time drew closer, I saw Barton send a glance up at that poster with narrowed eyes. Some would see it at examination, as his eyes fighting the light from the chandelier above his head in order to get a better view of the image. I, however, saw it as him sizing up the enemy.

Time passed quickly for me on assignments. Before long I was aware of the flow of patrons that went from the lobby toward the halls that would take them to the appropriate stage. I made sure to follow and fingered my ticket just in case I would need to pull it out. With a smile I had showed the guard that ticket and taken the directions to my seat in stride- thankfully he spoke English. The local language was one of few I did not understand; that sort of confusion was rare but instead of being flustered I took it as a reality check. One often ended to be reminded of their powers or limits so that they remained grounded, down to earth, realistic.

Some of the people around me in the theater were newcomers to the arts, such as myself. While I enjoyed a good novel and a well done mystery television program, events such as plays, musicals and dances were not my forte. Cover, in this instance, was simple; my true knowledge was shown and I both asked questions and had them answered by a kind woman off to my right. She, along with what I believed to be her brother, knew more than me but not as much as the group to my left; that group, now, knew names, techniques, musical scores, all sorts of inside, detailed information that I normally was graced with. I keyed in on the latter group's conversation as the lights dimmed and music began to surge in its own soft, unique way. With my eyes having human limitations I was forced to watch and hope I had memorized the details I believed I had seen. I had given the playbill a once-over so the faces of the performers were fresh in my mind but there was one in particular I sought out, the same face that had been put on that poster in the lobby...

In another life I may have admired the talent of those I watched, from their coordination and rhythm to their obvious cooperation and skill. There was not one human body on stage that appeared inferior, that stood out from his or her partners and drew attention to themselves in a negative light. I found my eyes drifting from person to person as if I stared at a crafty painting or well done movie; the choreography, from my less experienced but close to the stage point of view, shifted my gaze in ways meant to enhance the show. I was not lost because I did not watch but one person; I was intrigued, and as they, the performers, crossed in front of one another my attention was directed to the next one, and the next, until each color fabric and each step had my focus on nearly every member-

-and then I was once more reminded of what really was, of who Ireally was, of how I could not give the dancers the admiration the deserved. While those compliments would forever be in the back of my mind when it came to the five innocent performers, there was one, the same who had adorned the poster in the lobby, who had somehow eluded my sight from the beginning but now became my full focus. With the gold and red adorning her body, those of my gender would have been attracted despite the tame nature of her suit, the way clothing covered her body yet accented it though clever stitching and decorative color placement.

I was interested for an entirely different reason.

To my occupied senses, the music dulled. My mind raced like a computer executing a scan. Memories surged forward. Perhaps I had spent too long in the office, in my profession, for those memories presented themselves in a professional fashion. The memories came forth with a photo surrounded by white newsprint and office paper along with captions and paragraphs underneath which were the words that explained, in a language understandable by other humans and not just my neurons, the events which I was thinking of. If I read the date aloud to someone, it would say not too long ago, around two months at the most. The caption would list details, a grisly description of an assignment that had been a tentative success but had resulted in the... in the loss of one of our own. Last but not least, picture would show a woman, an enemy agent, one capable as anything, a woman whose face lined not only my memories but the forms that had been in the assignment folder. Page two, middle section, there- there had been her face along with what information we had on her. There hadn't been much. That bothered me. While there was a great deal SHIELD did not know, and that was why folks such as my self were hired to figure it out, the lack of information on an active threat was something to be highlighted, prioritized.

There was an enemy out there, one worth a Level 6 alert, one who had proved themselves good enough to kill one of our own, one who we knew so little about that the hair on the back of my neck stood on end...

...and I was looking at her. As her form drifted toward the left side of the stage, I resisted that natural inclination for my eyes to follow the focal points of the performance and instead forced them to linger on her. At the same time I caught how her eyes moved. I was only human so I could not be sure but on-the-job experience made me think she was searching for something or someone out in the crowd. Memory told me that the seat given to Barton was far to the left and many rows higher than my current position; up there could very well have been where she was looking.

Whether or not that was true or if I had imagined the eyes, the glances, I could not deny a feeling building around me. It was not a weight on my shoulders yet at the same time it was, was not an oppressive tightness in my chest but at the same time a persistent pressure. Slowly but surely my awareness slipped from the performance itself onto that air in the room, a warmth and a sensation that I doubted the other patrons felt; I say the other patrons for I was not one, Barton was not one. If I was this aware, this was certainly a sensation he, Barton, would not miss. The show came to a close and I half realized it, half did not; I found myself filing out of the theater and back into that lobby before I knew it. (Had there been an intermission sprinkled in sometime there? I believe there may have been. It was eventless. I felt no need to remember it.) Once back in that lobby, I let my eyes search the crowd. A man's face turning to and fro was a common sight after such a performance, whether he sought out a friend or the entrance he came in through. It was the former which I was on the lookout for. At the very last second, I caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette slipping through the large, elaborate main entry and taking an immediate right. From the vantage point of someone across the street, Barton would be following the left side of the building. To the left, toward the sunset, I recalled seeing a more historic-stone part of the city hiding in the skyline.

Many places,the voice of reason said at the back of my mind, to hide.

It took me a few moments to (casually, as to not break my cover) get my way through the crowd. Near the end, when a group of women proved almost futile to navigate around, a shadow I recognized - in the form of a guard - grabbed me, pulled me away, and gave me the break into the outside world that I needed.

"What is the matter, sir?"

"Barton's on the move. He trailed right," As I spoke, I moved, turning right immediately out of the door to follow both the opera house's shadow and a section of cobblestone that suddenly appeared more in place, more purposeful, less decorative. I paused, however, after a few more tense strides. "Take a rooftop," I flashed a hand up to gesture at the sky, nowhere in particular. "Cover me." He did not ask why I hadn't specified Barton; I mentally commended him for the lack of a stupid question- pardon my crude language but it would have been exactly that, crude. Barton did not need cover, he was cover.

As I emerged from the opera house's shadow and started down streets that were quiet due to the time of day, which was past sunset on a long summer afternoon, I began to feel unsettled. That former tension had come back, perhaps twofold now that I had no idea as to the whereabouts of Barton or the woman the reports tentatively called The Black Widow. I was not a part of the naming process though I could appreciate the metaphor of a deadly female, and, apparently, she wore a red symbol on her 'work belt' that resembled the marking on a Black Widow's abdomen. Well then, there was no point in changing it. Not that it mattered then, anyway.

I stuck to the shadows. To remain in what sunlight still lingered would only bring attention to myself, something I did not need. I was an agent, I liked to think I was near the top, one of the best, but I had my limits. One glance over the papers about the "Black Widow" and I knew I would stand no chance in an open confrontation, in a fight I feared was taking place at this very moment, out of sight, with Barton against what I could only call his equal. Brick ledges, bridges, walkways, alleys, I traversed them in seemingly ever increasing numbers the farther I ventured from the opera house. I could almost picture myself back in those old days that high school history class had cemented into my memory, where these walkways and alleys were the standard, where hundreds and thousands of long-gone citizens walked in my footsteps to their fates, whether that was death around the corner or their families back at home.

Those I was close to in SHIELD, I considered them to be like a family. Could it be that Barton would be around the corner, perhaps the next, or the one after that, that my metaphor was some sort of mental premonition? It was not that easy. I wasn't that lucky.

Like his codename namesake, the hawk had vanished. Out of sight, he was possibly at great heights and hunting for his prey; she, the dancer, was his target now, after all. Still yet, I felt nervous. Though I knew little, what was certain was how her caliber was close to Barton's; that had been made all too painfully clear those two months ago... I could still hear the phone call, it looped in the back of my mind as another one of those reality reminders. The breathlessness, the roar of the car's engine, the sound of anger that I could only equate to a wild animal at the very precipice of sanity; yelling, something I do not like to do, had been what it took to calm down the hawk before he drove himself off the road in a flash flood. Such an emotional reaction was rare with him, though it was warranted; he had just seen the death of another. Of his partner. Of-

Half way up a building in an old school fire escape, I turned a physical corner only to catch movement in my peripherals. Instinctively, I ducked back and slowly crept forward again so I could get a look and not be seen. Thankfully, no one was looking for me. It was a damn good thing, too, for when I peered around that corner I was mesmerized. Like a cat sitting at the edge of a koi pond, my head turned to and fro, my eyes were wide to absorb it all, I leaned ever closer, my hands gripped the rusted railing and I felt the urge to just stare...

So I did.

Unlike the dance I had watched but five minutes before, I knew exactly what I saw, what I was seeing. It was so fluid, deadly yet lovely, movements so awe-inspiring and terrifying that they could not be choreographed, they were natural, Barton without his suit's jacket and the dancer now in long black clothing. I almost forgot that I was watching what could turn into a bloodbath. Why was there no blood already, one may have wondered; the answer was simple, dare I lighten the situation and say elementary, my dear reader. These two were skilled; while they knew how to hurt another they were also masters at not being hurt. The day Barton came home with a broken limb was one where I had my brows raised and wondered what the hell happened; the day he came home wiping off a few scratches was a normal one. I never questioned him then; I knew details would be in his report. Below, I watched as weapons were ripped out of hands; the dancer had come with a knife and it now lay at the foot of a wall several feet back as if Barton had thrown it behind him. Barton's own tactical knife was teetering on the edge of a bridge railing and- there it went, over the edge and into the drink. (Not really, there was just a lower level of sidewalks below; still yet, the knife was gone.) As she had proved before, not ten or twenty minutes ago, the dancer was agile; apparently, she was also skilled in hand-to-hand. She had speed and flexibility on her side while Barton had weight and strength. If the playing field wasn't level enough, I could see it in their eyes; their minds were working furiously to diagnose and exploit the other's weaknesses. However, as it went on, after every kick, blocked hand move, turn, duck, jab, or anything of the sort, I could see that Barton was slowly gaining an advantage. Whenever he was brought to the ground, he brought the Widow down with him. She would always leap to her feet, and had a multitude of knives and other clandestine hidden all through her person, but Barton brought her down harder every time. The hits were beginning to show in her breath, which was just slightly labored- more weakness than she had show before.

If my paradigm had been different I would have been furious, would have thrown myself into the fray and demanded the attack on a woman stop, but that was just it. I wasn't. That had been my life at the time. I was agent Phil Coulson and my original assignment, delegated to Clint Barton, had said to use whatever means necessary to take the Black Widow down. Last I checked, brute force fell under whatever means necessary.

As quickly as my eyes had caught it, the fighting suddenly stopped. Barton had one of many knives in one hand. His other hand had both of the Widow's behind her back; his larger palm easily enclosed both of her smaller wrists in an unrelenting hold. The mission had been to take her out; she was a threat to our agents and what they stood for. She had to be taken care of. I had long ago suppressed the difference in pity that came with the gender difference; man or woman, it did not matter, a threat was a threat. Instead of dreading what I knew may come, I was... stoic is possibly the best word. I watched, I made myself ready to recall details for the report for both Director Fury and the War Council.

Even with her forced head back, a knife at her throat and her hands behind her back the Widow still looked confident. Her blue eyes (still as vivid and stunning in the outside world as they had been in the theater) stared into Barton's green-grey with a mocking light.

"Shall I sing you a song," Her voice was low and her tone was a sensual purr. "for your precious Mockingbird?"

I had not known exactly what she had said until afterward; from my place on that fire escape, all I could see was how her mouth moved; there was no distinguishable sound by the time it came to me, only murmurs that were drowned out by city noise, other pedestrians and working cars. However, I did see Barton's very, very slight hesitation, his lack of reaction for a few mere seconds as his work face, his body forced back the emotional response that a normal man would have given up. It was a low blow; a line that had made my eyes narrow when I read it on the report. Barton had done well not to fall for the bait. However, his pause had been all the Widow had needed; she had lashed out, sent her heels into Barton's stomach and freed herself. Separated, a good five or so feet in between them, the two faced one another like Olympic runners about to go in opposite directions, with their hands on the ground, one knee bent, one foot poised and ready to lift them into a full-blown run. Something was off; I soon sensed it, as well.

Noise from the alleyway entry caught their attention before it caught mine; there may have been a minuscule delay of the sound since they were at ground level and myself a few stories up. As soon as I saw the man (and some potential backup) standing there, a rifle in his hand, I saw my silenced cellphone light with an incoming call. Answering it, I got a flurry of questions from my shadow. "I don't know," I replied, a hand over my mouth. At the same time, I ducked back to get myself out of sight. The man had a rifle, after all, and the shape hinted to me that it was an automatic, or at least semi-auto. "That's no one I've seen before; they aren't with us..." I trailed off, as did my shadow, at that line. My eyes flashed back to the corner I had turned to conceal myself; not one of us. God damn. It was rare but every so often some third party antagonist interfered with an assignment and the entire thing went to hell; it looked like that was exactly what was going on. Priority became getting myself and Barton out of there so we could regroup and... try our hands at taking out the Black Widow some other day. As much as I hated turning my back on an assignment that was so close to being done, sometimes I had to. I sent off a quick text message and told the chopper we had nearby to start heading over. Where I was in the city, I was not sure, but I described the fire escape and estimated how many blocks I had gone from that opera house.

If all else failed, I bet Barton and I could make it back to the opera house, if anything else.

I went back to where I had stood to watch the fight between the hawk and the black widow, on that fire escape that gave me a damn good view of that series of alleyways. Sure enough, I saw that there was a group of people in some uniform I wasn't familiar with at the mouth of the alley, led by that man with the rifle. They seemed interested; an educated guess told me they were interested in the Widow, not Barton... but deep inside I knew it would not be as simple as them asking Barton to please leave and let them take who they were after; no, they would most likely kill him to get to her. A time where two groups went after the same target was not able to confuse me for long. Why? Well, soon I saw that the Black Widow had come to her feet with that dancer's grace. Barton's head whipped over to her as did mine, though he did not rise. Now the deadly woman was dual wielding twin small caliber guns. I ducked back, just in case of ricochet or her mistaking me to be with this new third party. Her shots were quick, accurate, meaningful. Even with my view obscured, I saw as the lead man with that semiautomatic gun fell. His gun fell from his hands and the Widow shot the ground near it, essentially shooting the gun away from anyone else in that group who would want it. (I had been part of extensive testing once; the idea of shooting a firearm away was plausible. We at SHIELD were encouraged to use it when possible.)

Another trio of this new, unknown group started to come down the opposite end of the alley; their startled calls and footsteps echoed ever closer. Desperate times called for desperate measures. With the larger firearm out of play but still a minimum of five enemy agents surrounding the two, I saw Barton and the Black Widow share a look. What went through those eyes I could not see, but soon Barton was on his own feet. To my shock, he went for the gun.

The Widow let him.

Though he preferred his bow, it was not on him. Though he preferred his bow, he was well trained in any number of weapons that may be useful, such as that firearm. Make and model and caliber weren't obvious to me but it did the job; rapid fire forced me to cover my ears while the two men at the mouth of the alley were mowed down. However, two more took their place; Barton had already begun to turn when those two new men came forth. He and the Widow were in desperate synchronization; they turned as a single unit, with the Widow's guns now taking down those at the mouth of the alley while Barton fired at the back of the alley to discourage the other group. They stood closer than they had been a moment before; no longer did a yard separate them but a foot, perhaps less. Their elbows may have grazed as they turned again, both holding up their respective firearms in order to get a clear view of the pathways.

It would not be long until reinforcements came; neither I nor Barton could be sure how many men from the second pathway had been killed, if any. They would need to get out of there, and fast. As if they heard my mental cues, I saw the two - Barton and the Black Widow - glance at one another again. That tense truce was coming to an end but it was not over yet. The front of the alley, a gateway the street, was clear. Open. That would be the logical path to take, to thread through the streets even deeper into the historical section to an even more secluded area. Would they go that way? I had no idea. My next plan of action was to get to ground level so I could follow them, wherever it was that they went. (I could only hope that the third antagonistic group, the features of which I made note of so I could tell Fury later, saw me as just a normal citizen and left me alone. If not, well. I am, and was, an agent. I would be able to handle myself so long as I was not too badly outnumbered.) Slowly, I began to crawl back down the same way I had ascended; the fire escape. My feet were soft, my pace moderate; I had to ensure that I made not a sound. Barton was around but so was the Widow. While I climbed, I was helpless. The Widow could shoot me down like a quail. That image was not a pretty one. Life was rather enjoyable. Death did not sound fun.

A small cloud of dust went up around my feet when I dropped that two and a half feet from the fire escape ladder to the alleyway. I tensed, at first, and could only hope that it did not draw the Widow's attention. After one, two, three or more heartbeats, I forced myself to move again. Tension was only natural for I had just watched just how equal Barton and the Black Widow were; I had been right to hand over my assignment to the Hawk. The Widow was out of my league. For all my training and my wit, I had no chance against her up close and personal.

However, an idea was forming at the back of my mind. A risky one. If I was not willing to take risks, however, I would not be a part of SHIELD. Once the idea fully formed, I did not question it. I had made the comparison between my mind and an official computer before and it was appropriate again; there my mind went, presenting the idea to me in the form of a written down and drawn out plan of action. I could see myself, a name at the end of a directive arrow, an arrow that displayed the path I would take. At the end of the arrow was an asterisk; where that asterisk was explained said what I would do when I got there. The idea was a good one. I had to go through with it. So one of my hands went to one of my many pockets as my feet shuffled against the dusty stone walkway.

"So, what?"

As I came to the same building corner that I had used for cover up on the fire escape, I dared to peer around the corner, into the alley. The Widow was at the end of the alleyway, a few steps from shadows that extended over the road. Barton still stood where he had before, in that place where he had been when he was jumped, his back to the rest of the city; he, Barton, had been the one who spoke. The Widow looked back at him with unimpressed blue eyes. To this day I can pull up an image of just how stunning they were, vivid, cold, and strong. I could only wonder what they did when she put in some false warmth, when she put them to work in the art of seduction against men not as strong as Barton or myself.

Barton still held that semi-automatic in his hands. However, right then, it hung from his left hand down at his side. His skin was covered with dust and grime and the formal shirt and pants he wore were stained, ripped in some areas, but I saw no red. The Widow had on more durable clothing, some sort of black, thick, long sleeve and pant combination that I would bet had Kevlar worn into it. Those twin pistols were still in her hands; she had fingers curled around the triggers in a feather-light touch.

His own green-grey eyes blazing, I could see that now, Barton motioned to his general surroundings with his free hand. "You're just going to walk away?"

"The authorities will be swarming the area soon, no doubt." Her English was flawless, and by that I mean it had not a hint of an accent. "I'd rather my face stay out of the papers. Secrecy and all that. If you want to continue whatever little mission you're on, go on, chase me. Once I get to where I need to go, I'll be glad to drag your hide in. Maybe I'll get a raise."

The more she spoke, the more the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I had heard cruelty and monologues of the enemy's before, but this one... this was different. There was a lack of intent or emotion behind her words; no anger at a target, no pride in whatever her work was (sick or no), no real confidence, just an unamused, flat tone that made me freeze where I was. It was almost as if I was afraid I would begin to speak the same way, not insidious but as if I had lost all of my humanity...

That plan at the back of my mind reasserted itself in an effort to distract me from the unnerving talk. The device I had pulled from my pocket felt heavy in my hand.

"Why not show me now, eh?" Barton spoke with quiet, controlled fury. "You got two guns. I got one. You, me- quick draw. Right now. Don't tell me you're just going to let this go."

"That group wanted me dead. Their name is not important. No doubt they would have shot you to get through to me. I'd rather fight you when I don't have those bastards in the rear view mirror. Show your face again," She had stopped looking at Barton by that point; her head was turned, one eye toward the street and the other able to keep Barton in her peripherals. Thankfully, the back of her head was toward me. "and we'll see who wins that fight."

I dared not glance toward Barton but I heard the noise where, after a long pause of silence, he let the larger caliber gun drop to the street. The Widow tensed as if that was a cue she was waiting for. As soon as I saw that small motion of her shoulders, I lifted up the device I had been saving. Silently, I'm quite good at that, I rushed out of the alley and cleared that seven or so feet in a few extended strides. The Widow had to turn around fully to face me; I had one hand free to point away her guns just long enough.

I pressed the direct-contact taser into her neck and held the switch as if my life depended on it- because it did.

Her arms were stunned, locked in an extended position as the electricity surged through her. Her eyes met mine and I saw feral anger directed at me. She was being defeated, she knew it, and every inch of her well-trained body was in a futile fight to resist the current and strike out. Nature and it's sister, biology, were on my side; I bent my knees incrementally, essentially to lower her and myself to the ground. She could show no resistance; her guns fell from her grasp as I brought her down. Never once did I look away from those eyes; stunning, dangerous, as close as I was, I could not help but marvel at their intensity. The taser had done its work; I let it drop along with those twin pistols before I burnt her skin to the point of being inhumane. When my knees were fully bent, I moved my hands so they framed her face and laid her down, slowly, easily. I may have let one hand linger on her hair afterward for security, so I could feel if she suddenly had the power to move. Wow, my body had been tense. With deep, slow breaths, I forced myself to let go of as much tension as I could without letting too much of my guard down.

I finally dared to glance up at Barton. As he approached, I removed my hand and stepped away; I made sure to pick the taser up and kick away her twin pistols as I went. "What do we do now?"

Barton paused and stared down at where the Black Widow lay. We, Barton and myself, were the victors and had now had to deal with who we defeated. Like gladiators in the Colosseum, the winner was guaranteed life, and the loser... In the assignment in that folder I had handed him just seventeen hours ago, the primary directive was to take this threat out. A gunshot to the head, poison in the drink, a broken neck- here at SHIELD we are all about results. What methods we used to remove a level six threat would not matter to Director Fury. Barton, however, was one of the rare breed of man that took value (and pity) on human life, no matter their past deeds. He would chose a manner of death that would be painless, or with as little pain as possible; it was one of the reasons I looked at Barton so highly. He was not cruel, he was not excessive. For a man who had done his wrongs and seen even worse, he did not let the bitterness or cruelty blind him. His morals, he made them work with his job.

The longer he stared down at the Black Widow, the less likely it seemed that he was going to kill her. I had kicked her twin pistols in his direction; they laid still, discarded at his feet. Perhaps he wanted to go a cleaner, quieter, more direct route with turning her head to break her neck- it would be the same way she had taken out that agent of ours, after all. (That Mockingbird comment the Widow had made earlier? That had been the agent's codename, Mockingbird.) To reinforce that it was his decision to make, not my own, I took a step back. (However, there was no way in hell I was going to put away my taser.)

A few seconds stretched into a minute and that became some span of time that I could physically feel passing; an amount of time where I had expected some sort of action or reaction, only for it to never come. I arched my brows at Barton. In the distance, I could hear the sound of the SHIELD helicopter, disguised as a local news and traffic chopper, closing in.

"She spoke as if she was brainwashed." Barton spoke up at last; he had to speak up near the end of his sentence as the chopper came closer and threatened to drown him out. "Take her back. See if Fury or you can figure anything out."

I had to pretty much scream over the wind and noise. "So you're making a different call? Are you sure?"

"I'd rather get the heart of the organization."

The supposedly intelligent decision to take in an enemy agent to interrogate (or, in her case, free) and potentially learn about their superiors was just a front. I could hear Barton's true intentions in his tone and see them in his eyes, at least before he put those sunglasses on once again. He simply did not want to kill in cold blood. The idea, however, was a good one- just like mine had been- so I went along with it. Warily, I had helped my three shadows in getting the Black Widow into the helicopter, where she was properly subdued; restrained, drugged, searched, she was put away where she was no threat to us even if she did manage to wake.

As I came back into the main body of the chopper, I saw Barton staring out the aircraft's window just as he had back on that train around eighteen hours ago.

"Fuck you, Budapest," I heard from his headset; this was a chopper, after all, and the blades made ear protection and headsets necessary. "Fuck you."

It was hard to believe that was the start of the most proficient duo in SHIELD's history, however long or short that was. The murder of Mockingbird, the altercation in the historical streets of Budapest, the capture and cleansing of the Black Widow, no one could look past all of that and forgive her, could they? Maybe I'm just that nice a guy but I found joy and determination in walking her through that process- in the end, I had sworn I would find out who the real Natasha Romanoff was. That was her name, we discovered- Natasha. It sounded nice.

It had taken years, yes, but there were glimpses of habits that told us just who Natasha was. First there was her loyalty; we had freed her from some sort of horrific experimentation and spared her life, and for that she remained ever hardworking, ever loyal. She gave SHIELD her full effort each and every time; she was the greatest agent since Barton, himself. Second was her wit, her intelligence and quick reflexes in both body and mind. She did not know everything but she was quick to learn and retain said information for however long she would need it. Where Barton had an eye for detail, she had an ear for languages; she had come to us knowing English and Russian but soon picked up French and Latin, at the least. Soon, the entirety of the organization seemed to forget how she came to us and saw her as just another agent. Newcomers were trained by Natasha Romanoff, correspondents got in touch with Natasha Romanoff, Nick Fury began to see the power in Natasha Romanoff-

So that day when I was put on the phone after the Tesseract Event, I knew what I was doing. All those years ago, in the streets of Budapest, I had seen how she had nearly won; had it not been for my taser she would have turned and fired a round into Barton's head before he could even begin to stoop down and retrieve the high caliber gun he had dropped. She was his match, his equal, his partner in more ways than one.

"Natasha," I had said, sullen and serious. "Barton's been compromised."

I just had to hope and pray that she would win, that there would be no one to get in her way like I had that handful of years ago.