Judge, Jury and Executioner

S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, New York

June, 2010

Bzzzzzzzzt! Bzzzzzzzzztt!

The mobile phone buzzed harshly against the locker room bench, loud enough to make even the normally unflappable Agent Romanov jump. She finished toweling off her hair and shook it out, before taking a moment to stare at her reflection in the shower room mirror.

She’d had yet another satisfying afternoon breaking in the new batch of S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees. She’d started the session with a brief introduction of herself, and of her specialty. She ignored the small handful of younger guys who stood in the back, sniggering amongst themselves. She’d teach the uppity, arrogant ones a lesson in respect that they wouldn’t soon forget. And sure enough, barely forty minutes later, all three of the men had gotten their asses thoroughly handed back to them, and with the bruises to show for it. Natasha savored the shocked look on each of their faces, knowing they wouldn’t be disrespecting a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent again any time soon.

A third loud buzz from her phone brought her attention back to the moment. She turned away from the mirror, stepping back toward the long, wooden bench behind her. The sound that reached her ears was loud, disconcerting and, she thought, filled with a particular note of urgency.

 Of course that was silly, Natasha chastened herself, reaching for the mobile. The damn thing buzzes the same every time, depending, of course, on the surface it’s resting on. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense that this time it wouldn’t  just be Coulson reminding her to go easier on the poor recruits tomorrow, or Clint asking her if she was cool with olives on half the pizza they’d planned on ordering later that night. Call it woman’s intuition, or just a simple gut feeling.

She picked up the phone and hit answer, pressing the top of the screen to her ear. The Director’s deadpan voice answered the question that was on her lips, she never got the chance to ask.

“Interrogation Suite. Twenty minutes. TeNO.”

The call went dead. Natasha eyed the screen a moment before setting the device back down on the bench. She’d have to change quickly. Fury wanted her to meet him in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interrogation suite ASAP, and he didn’t want her to tell anyone she was going. That would be enough to set the red-head slightly on edge, as it was. Not that she had any problem with interrogations, but she usually had far more than twenty minutes of warning. She needed to know the interrogee, his known associates, his history, what kind of information S.H.I.E.L.D. was looking for, etc. While she liked to pretend that she knew everything about anyone at any given time, fact was, that was impossible. She brushed up on her knowledge of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most wanted criminals the same way an eager chemistry student would brush up on their knowledge of the Periodic Table. And as far as she knew, there had been no kidnapping/exfiltration ops scheduled for several weeks.

So what did Fury really want with her?...

Yet one more rumble brought her attention back to the phone sitting on the bench. A text, this time. This one from Coulson. So Fury had already brought him on on…whatever it was Fury needed her for. She glanced at the brief, one-lined message, and her forehead creased with worry, as a pit opened up in her stomach. Her mouth set into a hard form, and she quickened her pace.

Barton has been compromised.

**

“What is going on?” Natasha demanded, striding quickly across the black tile floor toward the Director. Fury stood at the far side of the chamber, hands crossed behind his back, staring purposefully through the one-way glass window inches away. His eyes didn’t so much as flicker toward Natasha, but he replied to her all the time.

“I was hoping perhaps you’d be able to answer that, for me.” He spoke in a deep monotone, voice devoid of any and all humor. Which was perhaps normal for Fury, although even under fairly serious circumstances, the Director rarely had such a look of anger, about him. This was different. An agent of his had done the unfathomable, and he needed to know why.

“He was found fleeing the scene minutes after it happened. And he took down half the strike team trying to bring him in.”

Natasha came to stand beside Fury, her gaze flickering into the small room beyond the glass. She already knew who’s familiar face she’d see. But actually seeing him in there, sitting in a chair and handcuffed to the table in front of him, made her stomach clench.

Clint’s cloudy blue-gray eyes stared straight ahead through the glass, and even though Natasha knew he couldn’t see anything but a pit of blackness, she got the uneasy sensation that his eyes were still meeting hers. They never wavered, despite a technician hovering around him, setting up a small camera and laptop on a cart nearby. Natasha’ breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to stay professional. Even if it was her trusted friend and partner that was chained up in the next room.

“Who was the target?” The forced stoicism in her voice was enough to surprise even herself. Fury gestured to a binder resting on the sill against the window. Natasha opened it, and began to paw through while the Director summarized.

“Dr. Kenneth Brady. One of our top scientists, working as part of the S.H.I.E.L.D. research and data-mining division in Quantico.” He cleared his throat, finally breaking eye contact with his long-time agent to look at Natasha.

“He was recruited three and a half years ago, and set up to work on a variety of S.H.I.E.L.D. assignments. Most of his projects were classified, of course, but what I can tell you is that he was a highly gifted biologist and anatomist. His knowledge of the human body and how it interacts with different chemical and physical enhancements led to a great deal of breakthroughs in protective gear and equipment.” He let out his breath. “Until this morning.”

“Sir…” Natasha didn’t mean for her voice to come out as tentative as it sounded, to her. “Clint had to have a reason for what he did. He’s the last man…the last agent…I would expect to lose control, like this.”

“Yeah...” Fury licked his lips, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “Well, his record says otherwise. You know as well as I do, Natasha, that Barton has a history of not following orders. Of taking unnecessary risks and breaking virtually every rule in the book.”

“So he’s a little unconventional – ”

“You call this ‘unconventional’?” He handed Natasha a manila envelope, which she opened with no small amount of trepidation. Her eyes widened at a series of photos she found inside. Pictures of a man, no less than sixty years old, sporting bruises and shallow lacerations over every visible inch of his face, neck and arms. Natasha didn’t wince at the violence – that, in and of itself, she was plenty used to inflicting, never mind seeing. But Fury was telling her that Clint had done this… That he’d beaten an old man, a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset no less, to death without one hint of mercy… She swallowed hard, but her mouth remained dry all the same. In the small, tightly enclosed observation chamber, she felt a strange chill.

“Natasha… I know Clint is your partner. Hell, he’s been a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for close to fifteen years. In our line of work, that’s practically unheard of. I would trust him with nothing short of my life.” He watched Widow set the photographs and envelope down wordlessly on the table.

“I figured if anyone could tell me what kind of vendetta Clint had against this guy, it would be you.”

“As far as I know, Clint never knew him. Neither did I.” She spoke quietly, the familiar rasp of her voice more pronounced than usual. Fury nodded slowly, disappointed, but expecting as much. He straightened, returning his gaze to the window.

“I was hoping you would talk to him.” Natasha’s head shot up, and even though Fury kept his sole visible eye trained on Clint, he could sense Natasha seething beside him.

“You mean you want me to interrogate him.”

“Don’t pretend that you don’t know how this works.” The Director set his jaw, staying firm. “Barton went rogue on a S.H.I.E.L.D. employee this morning. And he didn’t bother being too subtle with it, either.” He motioned to the photos sprawled all over the desk’s cool, metal surface.

“You’re looking at what’ll be airing on tomorrow’s 7 o’clock news. The press have no idea Barton’s an agent, but they have his name. And they know he’s in custody.” He carefully shifted the photos around, slowly placing them back into the envelope.

“I’m not asking you to hurt him, Natasha… I’m only asking you to get him to talk.”

“And if that doesn’t work? If he doesn’t cooperate with me?...”

Fury shifted his gaze once more to the window, and didn’t answer. A cold, uncomfortable silence filled the room, before Natasha left without another word.

**

Clint sat completely still. Of course, he supposed, being cuffed to the table made any deviation from sitting still somewhat less than possible. But doing so also helped him to keep his breathing slow, and to relax. Or at least relax as much as he could, given that he was in a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogation chamber, and knew what would likely be coming next.

First they’d make him uncomfortable by leaving him alone for long periods of time, slowly cranking up the heat to put him more and more on edge. Then they’ll start probing him with questions, while pulling out the more…creative…information extraction methods. If that particular song and dance didn’t work, they’d pump him full of sodium amytal, a designated “truth serum” drug which, when used correctly, doesn’t host a huge number of negative side-effects.

Of course, that was assuming that the individual being interrogated hadn’t received years of training on how to mentally combat a variety of truth drugs. Nah, for him, they’d probably skip straight to the bad stuff – the psychotropic drugs, the addictive chemicals, and those used solely to cause intense pain. All of which Clint could still combat, to some degree… But there was always the possibility he would eventually break, which was, in all actuality, the least of his concerns. If the torture went on long enough, he’d not only tell them exactly why he did what he did, but there was no guarantee he’d even be the same person that he had been hours before. Clint had seen the effects of intense chemical torture before, and it wasn’t exactly something he cared to experience, first-hand.

Clint realized his heart rate had spiked, and he took deep breaths to settle it back down. Already, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s methods were working, and no one besides the technician had even entered the room yet. Clint was being sloppy, letting their head games get to him so quickly. He vowed to concentrate. To focus.

His eyes flickered over when the door clicked, and drew open. His resolve to remain calm nearly shattered when he spotted his long-time friend and partner. He fought down the urge to say her name – to demand to know why they had forced her to do this, of all people – and instead, swallowed all the questions rising in his throat. He fixed her with a surprised stare, but offered nothing else. For her part, Agent Romanov carried nothing on her. No weapons or instruments of torture, or even papers or a cell. She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite of Barton, leaving only the small desk between them. She watched him for a moment, her own eyes betraying not anger, but concern. She was worried for him.

Focus…

Clint felt a guilty pang in his chest for causing her such grief.

“Clint…” Natasha licked her lips and finally spoke. After being away for so long, her familiar voice was as welcoming to Clint as it was painful. Clint found himself breaking his vow to remain silent almost as soon as he’d made it.

“I didn’t think they’d send you in here. Fury has some fucking nerve…”

“What did you expect?” She sat back in her seat, crossing her legs. “A week ago, you called and said you’d be back from Tripoli sooner than expected.  Three days later, you texted me, saying you’d be back today and we’d grab pizza.” Her eyes lingered on his, intense enough to make him uncomfortable.

“And this morning, you murdered a man in cold blood. A S.H.I.E.L.D. asset, no less. I’ve seen the photos, Clint…” For a moment she lowered her eyes, and Clint knew she was taking in his mangled and blood-spattered knuckles. The strike team had taken him immediately from the research building in Quantico where he’d been found back to New York, and hadn’t bothered to escort him to medical first. Clint figured they weren’t going to take the risk of taking him anywhere but Interrogation, and besides, he’d suffered far worse time and time again. He shifted his hands awkwardly, trying to hide the worst of the bruises. Natasha gave a muffled sound that sounded a bit like a sigh.

 “Look: If we’re going to continue chatting, I’m going to let you get a little more comfortable.” She leaned over the table, producing a small silver key that had been hidden up her wrist. Clint heard urgent tapping on the glass, but Natasha ignored it. Fury’s voice flooded the room via the intercom.

“Agent Romanov, that course of action is NOT advised.”

“Relax, Director.” She murmured, slipping the key into the lock and twisting it. The cuffs snapped off and fell uselessly against the table.

“Clint won’t make it difficult for me. Will ya, Hawkeye?” Clint rubbed first one wrist, than the other. A slow smile spread across his face.

“For you, ‘Tash? Of course not.”

“Good.” She sat back down, leaning forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table. She regarded her trusted friend and partner with calm concern.

“Did you lose control?”

“Does it look like I did?”

“It’s not as tidy as you usually leave it…”

“Well, then.” He gave a dismissive shrug, looking away. Natasha continued to stare him down, and Clint found himself shifting uncomfortably under her unflinching gaze.

“None of this is going to work.” He said, finally. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha momentarily drop her ‘stern’ act, and actually look surprised.

“Would you rather I let Fury bring Daviau in here?”

Clint closed his eyes. Jen Daviau was the official lead interrogator here at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York headquarters. A small French-woman, she had something of a chip on her shoulder and an icy glare to match. She was smart, talented, and frighteningly good at her job. She was the last person – other than Natasha, herself – that Clint wanted there in that room, with him. He had a hunch that Natasha felt similarly.

“Do what you have to.” He managed at last, raising his eyes and looking past his trusted friend to the window beyond. He knew Fury would be watching. Natasha scowled, more than a little fed up with her overly stubborn partner.

“I don’t have to do anything.” She said sharply, standing up. “I’m not the one that killed a man against S.H.I.E.L.D. orders. Or murdered half a strike team of agents. Or – ”

“Huh?” Clint focused back on her, now genuinely confused. She thought I killed them… He dropped the smart-ass demeanor, honestly taken back. “Christ, Nat, I didn’t kill any agents.” The very idea that she believed he could have done something so vile spoke volumes. Of course, Clint realized, it wasn’t as though he was giving her much of a choice in the matter. He’d already betrayed her trust by doing what he did. Not to mention the trust of Fury and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D… But that didn’t mean nearly as much to him as the loss of Natasha’s confidence. He’d live with his decision for the rest of his life. However much longer that turned out to be.

“I knocked them out, and one guy will probably need surgery on his nose, but…”

“I hadn’t heard that.” Natasha shot a brief glance back at the mirror, before leaning back in her seat, elbow over the back of the chair.

 “So, what did this Brady guy do? It must have been pretty personal.”

“He must have cut in front of me in line at the Gas-In-Go. You know I hate that.”  

“Clint, I am trying to help you. S.H.I.E.L.D. is trying to help you. You’re in deep, and I don’t think cute quips are going to get you out of it, this time.”

Clint arched a brow in her direction, but said nothing. Natasha sighed and stood up, resting her palms against the table.

“I’ll make sure Daviau takes it easy on you.” She said simply. A knock on the glass reminded her to return the cuffs to Clint’s wrists. She did so (Clint watched her closely, but didn’t say a word or give the slightest hint of protest) before leaving him alone in the interrogation chamber. Clint silently watched her leave before returning his eyes to the mirror.

She had given him something to think about.

**

Natasha returned to find the Director was no longer alone. Phil Coulson had joined him sometime during the agent’s ‘talk’ with Barton, as had Daviau. Both looked about as pleased about the situation as Fury did. Coulson took a deep breath and gestured to the window, but it was Fury who spoke up, first.

“Just what the hell was that??”

“I could have told you before, Fury.” Natasha leaned back against the wall near the door, crossing her arms over her chest. She sounded almost bored. “Just because he trusts me doesn’t mean he’s going to talk to me. Continuing this interrogation is a waste of time and resources.”

“Then enlighten me, Agent Romanov. Daviau, get in there. Set up whatever you might need, but don’t start yet.” There were few times when Fury sounded genuinely furious with one of his agents. Frustrated or irritated, perhaps (usually with Barton, interestingly enough). Pissed off, sure. But the way the Director looked now, Natasha wasn’t all too certain that Jen Daviau was the worst Clint had to worry about, or not.

She sucked in a breath, watching the gifted interrogator make her way into the room.  

“Clint won’t respond to me. Or to Daviau.” She added, eyes flickering in the direction of the mirror. The Frenchwoman had been silently checking over an open briefcase full of what she commonly liked to refer to as ‘methods of extracting information.’ There were times when Natasha appreciated Daviau for her skills, and there were times when she did not. Currently, she was in the latter train of thought. She didn’t want Daviau anywhere near her partner.

For his part, Clint only watched the interrogator silently with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. He appeared almost thoughtful.

“So then what would you recommend?” Fury pressed. “Let me remind you, I have no qualms with letting Agent Daviau do her thing. Barton’s tough, I’ll give him that, but he’s not unbreakable.”

“Because if you do that. If you let her torture him to get what you need, I guarantee you, you will lose one of your best agents.” Natasha fired back, green eyes blazing. “And you will never get him back.”

“She might have a point.” Coulson piped up. “I don’t like this anymore than you, Director. But this is Clint, we’re talking about.”

The Director was silent for several moments. “You think it isn’t already too late for that, Coulson? Natasha?” He asked, quietly. “I know you’re close-knit group, but – ”

They were interrupted by a sharp gasp from Coulson. Both Natasha and Fury instantly turned their attention to the mirror. All three stared in shock.

Clint Barton, sans cuffs, held a struggling Davaiu by her arms, pinning them behind her back. A second arm entwined around her throat, the hand of which grasped a syringe filled with an eerie blue substance. He turned his narrowed eyes to the mirror, tightening his grasp on the squirming agent. She gave a pained gasp, before ceasing her struggles. Clint smiled coolly.

“Uh, waiter? Yeah, I’d like a bacon double cheeseburger, hold the onions. Oh,” his eyes darkened. Natasha felt a chill shoot down her spine.

“…and the keys to the Quinjet. I have somewhere I need to be.”          

**