Chapter 1

S.H.I.E.L.D. Base, Denver, Colorado

January 17th, 1999, 11:33am

The thirst is what awoke him. It wasn't an agreeable thirst; not the kind that followed a satisfying workout or a healthy round in the boxing ring, but the grinding, torturous thirst that comes after being far too drunk for one's own good. It was the body's desperate attempt to quench the dehydration, to staunch the body's involuntary lust for liquid displaced by alcohol. He lay in bed, awakened by this primal desire, somewhere between the reality of awake and the safe, painless realm of sleep. His short brown hair was slick with sweat, matching the salty, rank film of perspiration that coated the rest of his sun-tanned skin. His grayish-blue eyes, rolling behind their closed lids, felt dry and sticky. He chewed drearily without opening his mouth, ungluing his teeth and tongue from each other, cringing at the gross feel and taste of a saliva void mouth. And still, the thirst persisted.

At first he thought he could ignore it; outwit it perhaps, shove it away under the cool feathered pillow and lapse back into the placid, peaceful sleep from which his parched body had come. He rolled onto his side, away from the cruel white morning light streaming through the small porthole of a window, pulling the rough, scratchy Salvation Army-style covers up to his chin, tilting his head to wipe a drop of spittle from his cracked pink lips. Outside a bird chirped, and he curled reflexively into a small ball, as if the sound was a danger to his very existence. Water! his body prompted. He lay there, completely and utterly devoid of any sort of will and told himself to go back to sleep.

For several minutes, the agent succeeded; he drifted uneasily back into the dream he'd been yanked from moments before, mouth dropping open slightly as he descended into unconsciousness. But then that infernal bird cawed once more, shattering Agent Clint Barton's last attempt at sleep, and driving his thirst to the forefront of his now awakened brain. His eyes snapped open reluctantly, and he found with extreme displeasure he was forced to blink through a sticky dry red curtain; his own desiccated blood. Barton groaned deep in his throat, a low guttural sound, clearing away the bitter mucus that stung and itched his esophagus with several swallows. Water, his body reminded, filling up his consciousness with the tantalizing image of a glass cup of ice water, bubbly condensation gathering on the clear, chilly surface, dripping down the rounded pane, and creating a ring of water on the fictitious table on which it sat. Barton swallowed once more, trying futilely to return to his slumber, but, after several unfruitful minutes, decided that his next course of action should be to get out of bed.

He threw his legs over the side of his bed, testing with his toes the temperature of the tile floor. It was cold, and the sensation of his warm skin touching it sent chills racing up his spin. He shivered involuntarily, twisting his neck this way and that, working out the kinks and tightened muscles as best he could. He was clad in only white underwear, which clung to his sticky, sweat-soaked skin, and he uncomfortably picked at them, not fond of the feeling of wet cotton adhering to his upper thighs. He placed his feet flat on the floor and leaned forward slightly, still balanced on the edge of the bed, sighing as the shift in his orientation caused his throbbing head to spin and his stomach to roll; this was the part of alcohol-induced bliss he was not fond of. As he stood the pain throughout his body only increased, but his thirst was far more persistent than even that. He grit his teeth and stood up, tottering a bit on unsteady, uncertain legs before pursuing his only goal; hydration.

Barton stumbled into the hallway joining his cell to the outside world, making his way to the bathroom. The cold of the floor caused discomfort to the soles of his feet, but he ignored all of this and pressed forward.

The bathroom Barton entered was otherwise unoccupied, a stroke of luck he chalked up to rising early. Or at least he assumed it was early; maybe he was late. He was too befuddled to know the difference at this point. He turned on the first faucet he came to, allowing the cold, refreshing chill to wash over his wrists for several minutes before filling his hands with the god-given liquid and drinking. The sensation of relief gushed down his throat and he nearly sighed. He could almost feel his fever dissipating as he downed another handful of water greedily. As noisily as a feral dog, Barton refilled and gulped, refilled and gulped, until the ache in his stomach demanded that he stop; reluctantly, the agent turned the tap off after splashing a handful across his face. His fingers ran red and a zigzagging line on his forehead burned slightly as he passed his hands over his gruff, chiseled features. Grunting, Barton shook his hands wildly, spraying tiny droplets of blood across the pale white bathroom. The pain of his hangover was slowly being replaced by the pain of fatigue and stress; he could feel it in his strained leg muscles, his smarting biceps, and in the jagged scar criss-crossing his forehead. When Agent Barton looked up into the calcium stained mirror, obscured around the edges with mineral build up, he sighed wearily. The entire left side of his face was masked by blood from his head wound, and his blue eyes, usually alert and cautious, were dreary and dull. His bare chest glinted softly with sweat in the cool light of the bathroom, strong, tree-trunk like arms bulging and taunt. Vaguely, Agent Barton wondered about the details of what caused his injuries; then, when he couldn't remember, recalled that the reason for his drinking was to intentionally forget the events of the previous night. Apparently, they had been successful. The beginnings of a beard were present on his cheeks, and he raised a hand to touch his jaw line contemplatively, tilting his head. Agent Barton scratched the stumble, debating whether to let it grow or shave it off completely.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the hawk, finally come outta his nest."

Barton whirled toward the voice, raising his hands defensively. He was in no position to fight, but the action was reflexive, a learned habit that occurred whenever he was taken by surprise.

"Director Fury?" he asked quizzically, allowing his fists to drop slightly as he squinted into the door of the bathroom. "Sir?"

"Hello, Agent Barton," the tall, imposing man with skin as dark as ebony and only one eye stated pleasantly, walking into the humid lavatory, his usual expression of perpetual disdain plastered on his face. Barton let his hands fall away completely as he watched his boss carefully, shoulders slightly sagged. "Have a good flight, Hawk?"

"Could have been better," the agent grumbled, throwing a hand toward the marred side of his face demonstratively. Director Fury nodded without interest, handing him a small red towel. Barton muttered his thanks and turned back to the sink, wetting the cloth gift and dabbing his face with it, watching Fury move in the mirror.

"You know, the wise thing to do when you return from a mission is to proceed straight to medical detail and then to my office for debriefing? Not drinking a supply of alcohol that could keep guys my size drunk for months."

"I'll take my chances, sir," Agent Barton muttered uncomfortably, squinting into the grimy mirror at the scar. It didn't look horrible, and it certainly wasn't going to leave a lasting mark. Damn. If he was going to endure a slash to his face deep enough to leave a mark, it should at least be permanent. Scars denoted character. Or at least women thought so.

"How soon can we get you back to work?"

Agent Barton turned quizzically, eying Director Fury skeptically.

"I thought SHIELD didn't like using me on missions. Sir. Apparently I'm unpredictable, flighty, and unruly. Besides, your monkeys in suits don't take very kindly to a… well, a master assassin accompanying them on their wild goose chases. They're not fond of my eyes. I, ah, see everything." Agent Barton's voice dripped with sarcasm and cruel humor.

"If that's true then you are exactly the man I need on this case," Director Fury responded coolly, single eye narrowing. Agent Barton stuttered, his interest piqued.

"Sir?"

"We're being faced with a potential national crisis, Agent Barton," Nick Fury said, exiting the bathroom with Clint in tow. He walked out of the prison-like dormitories, and Agent Barton had no choice but to follow, despite the fact he was dressed scantily in only white boxers. He ignored the looks ranging from puzzlement to intense surprise of passing SHIELD operatives, keeping his eyes trained on Director Fury's heels. To his intense displeasure, he was led straight through the central control center of operations at this particular base, and was subjected to the gaping, open-mouthed stares of at least fifty other agents. As far as he could tell, Director Fury was intensely enjoying his embarrassment.

"Sir, if you don't mind, where are we going?" Agent Barton demanded as they exited the well populated room for the sanctity of an empty hallway.

"To the medical facility. We're going to start up right where you left off; we're gonna get you cleaned up, doctored up, and sobered up, and then we're gonna talk." Director Fury's tone was calm, verging on amused. Agent Barton groaned, tipping his head back slightly. SHIELD's method of 'soberizing' people involved a particularly painful shot that caused irritation and intense headaches. It wasn't something to look forward to.

Director Fury left Clint in the capable hands of several nurses who in no time at all had him looking tight and prim and as awake as a child at play. They pulled and prodded, snipped at his hair and shaved his beard, buttoned up a black suit and slapped on a pair of crisply folded pants, butterfly-bandaged the jagged line on his forehead, injected him full of fluids, and massaged his sore muscles as if he was a Ken-doll, and then, when they had finished, pushed him into a room by himself with nothing but a steel table, illuminated by a cold white fluorescent bulb. And Director Fury. He stood at the opposite end of the table, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression bored and indifferent. Agent Barton fidgeted in his new attire with upmost unease, pulling at the scratchy fabric and adjusting his brand new tie morosely.

"Sir," he greeted, clearing his throat.

"Agent Barton," Director Fury nodded. "Take a seat," he offered, extending his hand to one of the steel chairs as he himself sat down. Agent Barton nodded and rigidly collapsed into his own stool, slumping against the backrest uncomfortably. Fury seemed to almost enjoy the young assassin's unrest, for a sly, nearly imperceptible smile was glued to his face. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here," Director Fury stated, fingering a manila folder resting in front of him. Barton nodded, waiting for him to continue. "As you know, you're one of SHIELD's top rated agents, even if you refuse to play by the rules."

"The rules don't play by me," Agent Barton said before he could stop himself, and, at Director Fury's displeased glance, he tacked on 'sir' for good measure. Director Fury grunted in acknowledgement.

"This particular case I have for you requires that exact mindset," Director Fury said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Agent Barton leaned forward, opening his eyes wider to indicate his interest. "If you're willing to take it."

"I suppose I could give it a go," Agent Barton mused, scratching his head thoughtfully. He was not used to SHIELD actually instructing him to break protocol, though it inevitably happened regardless.

"We've been tracking a master assassin much like you. At the current time, this person is responsible for thirty-seven known deaths, and possibly more that we haven't managed to trace. They are a master of crime; working outside of the law is their specialty. They have managed to evade any reconnaissance team we've dispatched thus far. None as of yet have returned more than snippets and glimpses of their location."

"He sounds like my kind of target," Agent Barton stated, cracking his knuckles.

"Not he. She," Director Fury emphasized. This news caused Agent Barton to sit back a little bit, and a grin spread across his face as he laughed.

"She?" Agent Barton smirked. "A rouge female assassin is giving you trouble, sir? What did she do, bat her eyelashes and step on your agent's balls with stiletto heels?"

"Do you think this is funny?" Director Fury demanded, eyebrows coming together behind his black eye patch in a frown. Agent Barton's laughter vanished, but a thin smile remained on his pink lips. "Eight of the thirty-seven people she has murdered were of SHIELD's finest and were worth ten times the man you are. She robs and lies and kills because it's a job that she enjoys doing. She's a spy, Agent Barton. She is the spy. You may laugh and scoff about her gender, but I don't think you'll stand by those remarks when she puts a bullet through your eye socket. Now, are we going to get on with this briefing or are you going to keep interrupting?" Agent Barton shook his head, still disbelieving. "Her name is Natasha Romanova, but she goes by the Black Widow. She has a very specific skill set." Director Fury tossed the manila folder across the table to Agent Barton, who opened it with mild curiosity. Inside were several paper-clipped files. In front was a picture of a young woman, no older than he, with bright, curly red hair that fell to the middle of her back. She had a narrow, angular face with snow white skin, large green eyes with outrageously long lashes, and full red lips. Her expression was set in a determined, emotionless glower, devoid of anything at all but willpower. Agent Barton chuckled deep in his throat. As if he would really have difficulty with that pretty face. He'd woo her into following him anywhere, and maybe even have a little fun along the way. This detail wasn't going to be so bad after all.

"So what do you want me to do? Seduce her and when she's hopelessly infatuated with my dashing good looks, handcuff her to my arm and bring her back to the States?" he joked, mind trickling to the beginnings of a pleasant fantasy.

"If that's what it takes, yes," Director Fury responded. "But she's too clever for that. Do you know anything about entomology?"

"They study bugs, right?" Agent Barton asked, tossing the file on the table and returning his attention to his boss.

"A black widow spider is one of the most deadly arachnids on planet earth," Director Fury stated ominously, tilting his head. "Their bite contains enough venom to kill a grown man in seconds."

"So what're you saying, sir? That she's going to bite me? Hah, haha!" Agent Barton couldn't help but laugh at the notion, despite Director Fury's livid glare.

"I'm saying she's dangerous, Barton. Do not underestimate her. It's very easy to get in over your head with this target."

"With all due respect, I never get in over my head," Agent Barton responded, flexing his arm muscles as if to prove his toughness. Director Fury regarded him coolly and then shook his head, getting to his feet.

"How good is your Russian?" he demanded, splaying his dark brown fingers before him on the cold steel table.

"Lacking, sir, why?"

"Then study up," Director Fury suggested, pushing away from the table and striding to the door. "Because you're going to St. Petersburg."

AN: This is my second Avengers fic, and I hope you enjoy it. Please, if you've read to this point, leave a review, I do so very much love getting reviews. ^.^ This should pick up in future chapters, had to lay the base of the story first. Thanks! -HockeyGirl871