Against My Will 14A

Parking in New York, I swear.

It had only gotten worse since little Dr. Banner threw another of his big boy tantrums four weeks back — the second one on Fury’s watch.

That one had gotten the man fuming mad.

Not that he’d shown it, of course.

Jolly Saint Nick liked to keep that calm smile on his face even if he was about to strangle the life out of whoever made the wrong decision to get on his bad side. Banner, unfortunately, was worth too much for Fury to simply snap his neck in the first place; not that the man could even risk it anymore without dealing with a much bigger — much more cannibalistic — problem on his hands.

Honestly, just let me shoot the lil dickhead between the eyes. An adamantium arrow tipped with some of that anti-Hulk serum would probably put him down for the good sleep anyway. Anything to make him suffer for making him have to walk through New York with all these over-loaded duffels for a good eleven blocks.

In August.

In leather.

“Remind me why we couldn’t have parked closer again.” He knew exactly why of course, the reason and the rationale being that having their main van any closer would lead to too much of an alert being raised. Still, that wasn’t the point of asking. “‘Cause I feel like we could have parked closer.”

“Clint, sweetheart…” He didn’t need to see the eyes of the woman in front of him to tell she was halfway through rolling her eyes. “Do you enjoy being especially annoying before our missions together?” A tongue clicked. “Is this what you call foreplay?”

A smirk spread across his face. “Why? You wanna find out?”

“I’ve already been through enough torture training.”

An eyebrow went high behind his black sunglasses. “Don’t tell me you think I’m worse than a car battery to the nipples?”

“Oh, I know you are.” The agent in front of him kept her pace smooth and unbothered, hips swaying as she held onto a set of duffel bags of her own. “The KGB could only wish to match your skill.”

Wall Street at three in the afternoon stunk like hot garbage with pretzel salt sprinkled on top of it all, the perfect aroma to make a sewer rat’s mouth water even without the exhaust of an idling city bus for ambiance. Everything stood out to him all the same, perfect black-white contrast clear as if everything was put under a spotlight.

Yet, his eyes kept trailing to the body in front of him, layered beneath just as much leather as he was — from bodysuit to duster and fingerless gloves as well. Of course, he wore it much better but that was just a given.

“I know you’re thinking something uncharitable about me.” Natasha didn’t bother turning her head to say it. “Mind sharing?”

Not if he didn’t want to get beaten black and blue in a sparring ring any time soon, no.

“No idea what you’re talking about, Natasha.” He caught up half a step, adjusting the duffels in his hands as he eyed the faces of the two buildings coming up on their path. “Lady’s choice, you want the office block on the left or the office block on the right?”

“Such a gentleman.” Her own sunglasses did nothing to hide the quirk of her lips. “The left, I think.”

“And any part—”

“Something about that particular shade of granite.” That smile got just a bit wider. “Complements my eyes, don’t you think?”

Mm. Clint had plenty to say to that but his attention was already drifting to the space around them both as they continued down Wall Street. Underneath the ordinary Manhattan afternoon haze, the whole operation was moving with all the efficiency expected of SHIELD; two guys in orange hazard vests forty yards up setting cones at the mouth of the street with a motivation you’d never see in a municipal employee. A flatbed up the street was making a turn, an attempt to parallel park that already had cars honking behind it and would continue that way for another quarter-hour.

And those weren’t the only ones.

In thirty seconds, there wouldn’t be a civilian route headed this way.

“Backup?” Natasha’s chin edged up.

A pair of over-enhanced eyes flicked to the right, a bored-looking office worker in a gray suit opening a Daily Bugle as the man droned back; “Ready when you are, Black Widow.”

Those same eyes slid to the left, Clint stepping around a woman pushing a stroller. “Security?”

“Closing all access routes as soon as you give the word, Hawkeye.”

“Word it is, gentlemen.” The block sealed up behind the senior SHIELD operatives on their way into the actual target of today’s op, a panel van backing up into another car with a loud honk as a cone went down in front of an alley.

Wells Financial. The atrium opened up as Clint went in first through the revolving doors, cold air a gift compared to the mugginess of the outside. Nice place.

Real shame what was about to happen to it.

As the archer stepped onto expensive marble, Natasha didn’t waste a moment in breaking away from him, seemingly unaware of the eyes on her from the few guards at the turnstiles and the various finance drones milling around. Nobody really looked at him twice, but that was just natural; as good as he looked, even in a leather trench and gold earrings, he was no stunning Russian redhead in tight black leather.

The reception was as odd as he had first noted, no pretty young lady behind it. Instead, a bald black man stood there; the man near to his forties with a goatee and blue tie done up in a nice Windsor.

Amateurs. With a smile on his face, Clint set his bags down and leaned an elbow on the counter. “Afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Wells Financial.” A smile worthy of a Colgate commercial beamed back at him. “Can I help you?”

“You can, actually.” One hand tapped out a steady syncopated beat against the expensive front desk as a hand went under his coat. “You see, I’ve got a three-thirty with a Mister Jones in accounts and traffic almost had me late. If you could let him know I’m on my way up…”

The guy’s fingers didn’t so much as twitch toward anything as that smile stayed in place. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t let you up.”

“Tell me something.” Clint’s tongue met the roof of his mouth with a hard click. “Why is that?”

“Well, there’s no appointment for that time today.”

“Yeah?” The archer tipped his head to the side, eyeing the man from behind those glasses as the eyes staring back didn’t drift anywhere but dead-center. “And I’m guessing you checked for that, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Right, I figured that, so —” Clint allowed himself a laugh. “How would you know exactly? Humor me real quick.”

“Well, that’s real simple.” That smile was still in place, a real quality top-tier customer-service smile worthy of a dozen training videos. It didn’t so much as twitch as the receptionist lifted a hand, two fingers tapping against the side of that hairless skull. “I keep everything up here.”

“Wow.” Clint kept on nodding as the man’s lids went up and down, a count you could’ve set a metronome to. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The bow snapped into his hand, the meta-material frame unfolding from inside his trench in less time than it took Clint to shrug. For a split second, the shiny metal caught atrium lighting and the string was already drawn back and released before anyone could even blink.

Steel took the receptionist clean through the forehead, the back of his bald skull opening up across granite as the chair behind him went down with him; most of that smile still there.

“Not anymore, cueball.”

The room exploded into motion, two turnstile guards going for their hips as they forgot Natasha was even there; elevator doors dinging shut behind her. The one guard that was actually by the elevators was already clearing leather, his speed putting him up first in Clint’s books.

The arrow through the sternum at forty-five feet sent him backward into the wall hard enough for it to echo out, another guard getting one though the neck as he turned, and the third — the slowest that was dumb enough to keep his jacket buttoned — actually managed to get his weapon out and up—

“Yeah, don’t.”

— as a half-pound arrow took him through the heart with no draw to speak of.

A dozen and more voices started screaming, people trying to go through exits that were already locked shut. Four more came out of a service corridor, guards in blue uniforms with their pistols ready and Hawkeye made all four in the same second; two with the same arrow even.

Nice one.

Gunfire erupted out behind him, rifles already out and blasting as SHIELD came through the front doors in full force.

Clint didn’t bother to turn around, not even till the screams finally stopped. “Lobby’s all ours, gentlemen.” He left his duffels behind, extra quivers already secured, and started toward the elevators; two fingers adjusting his sunglasses. “Alpha teams, you’re taking levels two through fifteen. Beta, how about you go up and help our Widow friend on sixteen through thirty-two?”

The chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ were unnecessary but Hawkeye appreciated them all the same as he made his way forward to where a guy in a gray suit was making for the elevators as fast as he could, briefcase forgotten behind him.

Heh. Three arrows, one draw.

The first two landed before the office-drone could even scream, both taking him through each arm right above the elbow and leaving him stuck to the wall like somebody’s coat. The third caught him through the mouth by the time he was even ready to scream, Clint Barton entering the spacious elevator to the sound of blood slowly gurgling its way free.

“I’ll see you topside, boys.”

The doors closed on all of it, gunfire still going through six inches of steel and fading the further up the elevator went. Whoever picked the music for this place — the absolute worst jazz he’d ever heard playing through the elevator speakers — is dying slow.

Unless they were already dead.

Then he hoped they died slow.

The elevator dinged up and up and up, numbers getting higher as Clint shrugged his duster free and let it fall into the corner. With a sigh, the archer rolled his shoulders and checked each quiver with nothing but touch. Just another mission.

And then he got to go home to what really mattered.

The car slowed. Alright.

The second the elevator dinged on fifteen, doors parting on open floor plan with a cubicle farm like any other down to the same fluorescents, Clint couldn’t help the smile on his face, bow already out as he stared at the dozen office workers. Like fish in a barrel. 

A split-second before the first head even turned his way, Clint was already airborne and out of the elevator, the first desk another jump-off point as he rolled off the corner and was shooting by the second hop.

Suit by the copier took an arrow to the throat, white paper stained red as he slumped forward over his stationery. The pantsuit stepping out of an office with something black in her hand got one clean through the chest, and two more walking shoulder to shoulder down the aisle did him the favor of saving ammo as they shared an arrow through the neck.

Screams filled the room — panic and anger both — as a monitor came off a desk and was thrown his way, Hawkeye flipping past it as the thrower got a quick death from an arrow through the eye.

His own people were coming up the stairwell now, elevators too, the room loud with the flat thunder that automatic weapons were known for indoors.

Clint fired off a few more, heads popping and blood flying, before one hand went to his comm for a standard check-in. “Black Widow, this is Hawkeye! Hawkeye to Black Widow! You in position yet? Over!”

“Roger that, Hawkeye.” She didn’t even bother yelling back, the Russian’s voice no more raised than if she’d been asked to be left on hold. “Commencing pest control from thirty three to forty-eight as planned.”

“Good girl.” A single jump over a low partition had him loose three steel rods of death, three people who’d been dumb enough to leave their backs open as they ran going down to the ground. “Truth be told, I’m not liking this.”

“And why is that, Hawky-boy?” She paused for a moment, silenced gunshots going off so rapid fire it sounded almost like a woodchipper on her end. “I know how much you like your long-range trick shots. Too tight in here?”

“Of course.” That was true and he wasn’t going to deny that, but it wasn’t the only thing. “But I still expected something more.”

“More.”

“Yeah, maybe I’m just being paranoid from the intel. Worker bees, little to no combat training and minimal hardware but…”

He trailed off as Natasha started off in Russian on her end, the usual habit she got into when she was doing the most of her work — rapid fire in her native tongue tinged with laughter as her guns went off in time with her words.

“Natasha.”

“Mm?”

“Natasha, I speak Thai, not Russian.”

“Maybe you should learn then, comrade?”

He rolled his eyes as the accent thickened at the end just to make fun of him, but it didn’t stop him from putting an arrow through the bridge of the nose of someone dumb enough to raise a gun his way, Hawkeye kicking a cubicle down flat on the drone hiding behind it and sending an arrow through it before he kicked off again. “That’s all fine and dandy for your and your million-ruble enhancements, honey, but you should know that some of us can’t do this stuff and talk at the same time, you know?”

“You are talking right now.”

“I—”

“Before you say anything, what would you call what you’re doing?”

Okay, point for you. A sigh left him as he aimed his attention back at the soldiers mowing down the office workers, each operative wearing a yellow SHIELD patch on their arm. “Hey, boys.”

Several heads turned his way as he turned to point at several boxes, another two arrows going through the heads of two workers attempting something at a terminal. “Do whatever you want to these white-collar bug-men but don’t spray the desks. Analyst teams says these drives are worth something.”

“Copy, sir.”

“Not just copy.” Clint clicked his tongue. “I mean that shit. You either shoot high or low, I don’t care which. Just don’t spray the—” A guy rushed out of a supply closet, an x-acto knife held up and two arrows had him meet the ground and stain the blue-gray carpet red by the fourth step he managed to take. “—machines. Otherwise you’re dealing with the Director.”

The men followed that order, Clint nodding back at them as he decided to make his way over to the stairwell. “Widow.”

“Yes, Clinton.”

“…not my name.”

“Yes, Clinton.”

A grunt left him, the man quietly adding another win to the Widow column. “This is going a little too well, Nat.”

“You have mentioned this.”

“I’m just saying. We haven’t lost a single shooter yet.” Clint shook his head, the math not making sense to him. “Not a one. In a building full of people who’re supposed to be a sleeper cell several hundred deep? It’s like mowing down a call center.”

“Leave it to the American to complain of things not being enough of a challenge.” She sighed on the other end. “This bothers you why, exactly?”

“There’s a reason ‘too quiet’ is something to worry about.”

“I’ll make sure to remove my silencers for you.”

“Nat, I’m serious.”

“Life is hard enough without complaining when it’s not, Clint darling.”

“Mm.” Now it was Clint’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m sure.”

“You would prefer it difficult.”

“Am I wrong for being confused why it isn’t?” Hawkeye paused at the door, a hand on the doorframe as he stared at the empty stairwell. “Is it that crazy?”

“Maybe you’re just getting old and superstitious?”

“Woman, you’ve got a couple years on me.”

“And yet I’ve avoided superstition for this long.” A tiny breath on the line came through as almost half a laugh. “Aren’t I special?”

Clint Barton scoffed, the man managing all off one step through the stairwell door before someone behind him chose to get loud with his name. “Hawkeye, sir!”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised above his glasses. “Hm?”

“Sir, one of things is holding something weird here!”

Clint had his bow raised again as he turned, a quick one loosed into a guy hiding by the copier as he kept his attention on the soldier. “What are you talking about?”

The young soldier was crouched over a body, female and no more than forty-five, lying under a desk with one arm out straight. In that arm, something stood out — small and rectangular with red little digits on the face of it moving fast—

“I’m not sure, but it looks like a—”