a girl is a gun | natasha romanoff (natasha x clint)
title: a girl is a gun
characters: natasha romanova/black widow, clint barton/hawkeye
summary: she was a spy and then she met him.
a/n: set in movie-verse. an origin story, if you will, following the few times these two met (and tried to kill each other) before joining the same team. also, budapest.
words: 5037
warnings: violence
graphic/cover
a girl is a gun
one
The first time she sees him is in a black and white photograph attached to a wad of ink spattered papers, the words sovershenno sekretno hastily written over his face. She doesn’t pay much attention to him; her fingers are quick to leaf through his life, counting a car accident, a brother, some business about a circus that makes the corners of her mouth lift. But, in the end, he’s not the important one and his file falls to the bottom of the pile, under the Tony Starks and Bruce Banners and the rest of them.
Clinton Francis Barton isn’t one to remember yet. But she does anyway.
The second time is louder and tastes a little more of blood and alcohol and she looks nothing like Natasha Romanova. The yellow wig fits snuggly over her head and her eyes are hazel for the time being and she walks into the hotel with a smile that’s not in the least bit Russian.
She’s always loved Tokyo; the buildings are tall and black and growing things, the noises are full of rapid talk and beeps and buzzes, the smells are exhaust pipes and wires and life. She tastes steel as she walks the familiar roads, a red-taloned hand wrapped tightly over the handle of a briefcase. It didn’t used to be easy to carry death in her arms; now the gun strapped to her waist and the little surprise under the green pile of one hundred dollar bills are almost comforting.
Her codename wasn’t an accident.
The camera in the lobby zooms onto a blonde woman wearing a white raincoat at 2:03 pm and security registers the elevator going up to the penthouse at 2:05. No one notices the slight jump in the footage of the guards outside the penthouse’s doors; no one sees two bullets lodging themselves into the heads of two former FBI agents, pink and white brain splattered on the carpet. No one, not even the notorious businessman that’s lounging in front of the sixty inch plasma screen, his hand absentmindedly petting the head of young red-haired girl who’s on her knees.
Natasha doesn’t shoot him; that isn’t the plan, those aren’t her orders but she still enjoys his panicked expression at the sight of the pistol dangling from her fingers. She mutters a quick ’get out’ to the girl, her voice low, her tongue tilting in fluent Japanese and ignores the terror in her eyes. The man is shouting now for his guards and Natasha calmly perches on the coffee table, resting the briefcase on her lap, punching in the code to open it.
Curiosity gets the better of him, his tiny glassy eyes growing wide at the rows of cash. It’s greed that kills him in the end, his eager hands reaching out for the money, making him momentarily forget about the assassin sharing the room with him. The poison pushes through his skin almost instantaneously, paralysing him slowly, his body turning cold. She doesn’t blink as he falls to her feet, twitching and purple and pitiful; she simply latches the briefcase shut and stands up tall, the heel of her shoe digging into a bloated wrist. She checks her watch and waits for a full minute to go by, her eyes never leaving her victim. At 2:21, his heart stops its erratic beating and she pulls the wig from her head, shaking her red curls free. She drops her raincoat over the corpse and zips up her black leather jacket walking to the door. As an afterthought, she leaves the briefcase on the floor, a smile playing at her lips at the thought of a second, unsuspecting victim.
She has time enough before they find him and, besides, killing makes her thirsty, so she makes her way to the bar. Too many Armani suits and too much aftershave but happy hour will have to do. Her heels click against the marble tiles and her nails beat a steady rhythm as she orders vodka, straight. It burns her throat as she swallows but she revels in the pinpricks of pain, downing it in one go. She smacks her lips as she puts the glass down and waves to the barman for another.
“That’s mighty impressive.”
There’s a drawl in the voice she recognises as American and it’s hard not to roll her eyes as she turns towards it. He’s sitting two stools away, dressed in black and leather (just like her) and it takes her a moment to place him, to trigger the memory of what seems like such a long time ago. She measures time in deaths, as she does most things, and his file on the floor of her dusty Moscow apartment belongs to something thirteen murdered men ago. Clinton Francis Barton. The world’s greatest marksman. Hawkeye. You almost have as many names as I do, mal’chik.
“Don’t American girls drink then?” She shouldn’t be talking to him - not now, not when the alarms will go off in a matter of minutes, not when he’s soon to be on her list. But there’s something irresistible about talking to a dead man, so she grins and raises her glass, emptying it with relish.
“To be honest, I don’t really know what American girls do. It’s still impressive.” He raises his own glass and chugs until there’s nothing left but white foam at the bottom.
“Not too bad yourself.” She raises an eyebrow.
“I remember a few things from my college days.” It’s the lie that makes her pay more attention - lies always mean something - and with that sliver of untruth, Clint Francis Barton has become so much more intriguing. She makes a mental note - adds to the file that lies on the floor back home - and wonders what exactly this broken boy is doing here, of all places, today of all days.
But the alarm bells she was meant to be waiting for ring earlier than expected and there’s a panicked number of hotel staff rounding the concierge at the desk. Panic is always her cue to go, so she stands up, sliding the bill in Barton’s direction. He matches her smile easily.
“It was nice talking to you, Chyornaya Vdova.” His Russian is laughable but she appreciates the effort all the same. She shows him her teeth as one final goodbye. “See you soon, I’m sure, Mr Barton.”
He doesn’t come after her, just as she knows he wouldn’t, so she takes her time leaving, fingers running through her hair as she walks. He’ll remember the swaying of her hips for a while, she knows, and he’ll wonder just how green her eyes are under the contact lenses she wears. The Widow does that to people; you’re not meant to forget and usually she’s the last thing you remember.
Natasha likes it that way.
two
She gets up at the sound of the whirring fax machine, a relic from a Soviet Russia that tried futilely to resist change. She never sleeps here, can never shut her eyes and rest when on a mission; she merely blinks at the sound and pulls the sticky sheets from her, not giving a backward glance to the naked man sprawled over the bed.
She moves silently into the library, every wall lined in mahogany and leather book covers, some old, some new, none of their spines cracked. Nothing says nouveau riche like an unread bookshelf and dusty paintings but she hardly looks at them now as she perches on the desk and waits for the yellowed paper to finish printing. She reads the red letters before she presses them between her fingers and breathes through a smile at the two words.
Kill him. English. How appropriate for a traitor. Absentmindedly she reaches for one of the long-stemmed glasses that litter the surface of the desk, her lips tracing the imprint of yesterday’s lipstick as she sips the flat champagne.
There’s a stash of guns in a safe behind the Monet and the carving knives in the kitchen could slice through bone but it’s less blood and more bloodlust that makes her move to the window. Her arm snakes around the finely threaded rope that ties the curtains and she pulls it between her fingers, imagining it tight against his neck. The image of a young girl pressing a thin wire around the neck of a wrinkled woman with candyfloss hair flashes before her eyes but it’s gone before she has the time to catch it. No matter; she has more important things to do than dwell on memories that come to haunt her.
She’s halfway up the staircase when she hears it. She stills, both fists tight around the rope, and listens for anything other than silence. One, two, three, there. Breathing always kills you in the end. And she was beginning to wonder when they would show up.
She turns, quickly, her elbow ready to smash into the first face behind her but he grabs her arm and twists it easily, locking it behind her back. She shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t gasp at the sight of him but she wasn’t expecting to see Clint Barton again. At least, not like this.
“Missed me, Ms Romanoff?” He’s whispering, his gravely voice barely echoing in the dark house.
“Not as much as you missed me, Mr Barton.” She takes a step closer to relieve the pressure on her arm, her eyes sweeping around in search of his back up.
“No one here but boring old me, I’m afraid.”
“Wanted me all to yourself?”
He laughs. “I hear you’re already spoken for.” His eyes flit upwards where the bedroom is and it’s her turn to laugh, throatily, her whole body shaking, and she inches closer, flexing the muscles in her leg.
“I like to play with my food before I eat it.”
“I’m afraid I’ve come to take your food.”
Instead of answering, she aims a kick in his ribs, bare foot digging into his side and making him double over in pain. Before he has time to do more than wince, she grabs his hair and bashes his head into the bannister, letting go only when she hears the satisfying crunch of broken teeth. There’s blood on her hands as she runs up the staircase but she’s still holding the rope and now more than ever she wants to tie it around the sleeping man’s throat, choking the life out of him.
She falls face first when he locks his fingers around her ankles and her teeth cut through her lips but she’s already giving as good as she’s getting, her knee connecting to his nose. They’re both on the floor, slipping in each other’s blood and the adrenaline pumping in her body is making little sense of the pain she should be feeling.
“You - realise - we’re - fighting - over - a disgusting - piece of shit - excuse of a human being?”
They circle each other like cats on the prowl. “You’re the one who wants him alive. I’m trying to do the world a favour.”
“Orders are orders, Ms Romanoff.”
She looks like a wolf when she bares her bloody teeth at him. “Good little soldier boy, eh?”
His eyes - playful only a moment ago - grow dark and he punches her more forcefully than before, squeezing her wrists between his hands. “I’m not a soldier.” She’s touched a nerve, it seems, and made him lose a little of the self control he has. She spits blood in his face and elbows him again until she’s straddling him, knee digging into his chest.
“We have that in common then, Mr Barton. I’m no more soldier than you are.”
He meets her eyes and she doesn’t flinch. “You’re a loose cannon, that’s what you are.”
She laughs, a horrible guttural sound like a wild animal. “Maybe. But you’re right in my line of fire.” He doesn’t seem overly frightened at the prospect.
It’s the sound of a creaking door that makes them blink and Natasha is scrambling to her feet, bloodied fist making contact with the jaw of the man she’s meant to kill. He sways at the doorway, eyes unfocused and the rope is looped around his neck before Barton has the time to stand. She’s beginning to regret her decision not to take the guns.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Romanoff.”
“Dropped the polite act now?” She squeezes the rope more tightly, feeling the man’s pulse slowing. There’s something in Barton’s expression that makes her uneasy; it’s almost...regret? Her breath catches a little as she feels the bullet pierce the space between her shoulder blades; the blood is warm as it turns her clothes crimson. Her hands fall weakly at her sides as she tries to lean on the wall. “I thought you said - no back up.” There’s half a chuckle hidden in her words.
“I lied, Ms Romanoff. You’re quite the handful.”
The last thing she sees before she collapses is his hand tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.
interim
Mother Russia doesn’t forgive mistakes.
Failure doesn’t pay for the life you owe.
They beat those lessons into her, hands tied behind her back to a wooden chair, in a dark windowless cell that smells of piss and fear. Her face doesn’t feel like her face anymore but she does nothing but nod because that’s how you learn.
You are the best, they tell her, you must never let yourself be bested and she nods because it’s true and because she can see herself plunging a knife into those lifeless eyes. It helps to know she’s added them to her list, written names she doesn’t know in her own blood, and she will return to collect with interest. You will die. And you will die. And you will die. And I will laugh and laugh and laugh. Mother Russia is the only mother she has ever known; Mother Russia does not need these bastard children to leech at her.
It lasts three days, her punishment, her torture. On the third day, they pull her out of the room and force feed her bread soaked in water. The sunlight stubbornly pushing through a barred window makes her go blind for a while but it gives her the strength to stand on her own and smile at her tormentors. They give her a file - bright shiny white - and inform her of her next mission; she has two days to be ready for action.
Two days. She can kill four men in two days.
And then business as usual.
(One dies with a knife to the heart
Two falls from a fifteen storey building
Three takes the poison, when given the choice
Four kills himself before she gets to him
A girl is a gun, Mother Russia thinks, and a gun needs practice)
three
A year later and there are still scars on her arms. The pain isn’t there anymore - she’s learnt to lock it up and throw away the key - but the list in her head still has one name uncrossed. She plans to fix that.
In a run down part of town you’ve never heard of, a mess of streets somewhere in São Paulo, her index finger is applying pressure to a trigger and her eye is trained on the woman right in the centre of her target. She is young and smiling and bright; she doesn’t know her life doesn’t belong to her anymore.
The bullet is a whisper and blood is blossoming on the woman’s chest before her entourage make a move but Natasha isn’t there to watch them. She walks quickly, ignoring shouts and panicked screams, the rifle falling to her feet, her hand already wrapped around a neat black pistol. They ignore her though, ignore the slim girl pressed against the damp wall, pulling a blue shawl around her with something that could pass for terror on her face. Fools.
Not all of them though. One hangs back, not climbing the stairs of the building, his body tensing as though moving is an afterthought. Their eyes meet over the corpse - a puddle of red, black hair fanned on dirty pavement, not bright anymore, not smiling - and she doesn’t hesitate, not even knowing they might see her. She raises her gun to her shoulder and aims at his head just as he pulls at the string of his bow. They must look quite the sight, she thinks.
“Long time, no see, Agent Romanoff.”
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound, only watches him, the name on her list pulsing in front of her eyes in time with her heart. Clint Barton. Clint Barton. Clint Barton.
“I have to say, I missed our little talks.” He tilts his head, a grin playing at the corner of his lips but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He gives her a once over, pausing at places he shouldn’t. “I heard they got you good.”
Still she doesn’t open her mouth to talk but in the back of her mind, in a dark cell underneath Moscow, sometime seven dead ago, she can feel the backhand drawing blood from her cheek. She swallows and presses her finger closer to the trigger. There it is again, that look she couldn’t understand when she got shot in the back, that look that could almost be guilt.
“If it’s any consolation, he’s dead.”
“It’s not.”
She didn’t mean to say the words but there’s no taking them back now. Suddenly the thought of shooting him is not nearly enough. She takes a step forward and he lets the arrow go, just as she knew he would, but she backs into the wall and feels it rushing by her face. Her fist meets his jaw before he draws back his bow a second time and her heel digs into his shin, bringing him to his knees. She makes a fist with the lapel of his shirt and kneels, bringing his face an inch from hers.
“You’re going to die, Clint Barton.”
He's a little breathless when he speaks. “Someone always dies, Natasha.”
She locks his neck between her arm and the wall, cutting off his air supply, pressing the barrel of the gun to the side of his head; there’s a sheen of sweat over his eyes.
Natasha. Sometimes she almost forgets that’s her name; it sounds rusty to her ears and it doesn’t quite fit, not now, not when she’s wearing the face of the Widow, not when she’s collecting the body count she’s owed. But the way he says it - as though it’s familiar to him, as though he’s allowed to call her that when she’s about to kill him - makes a shiver course down her spine. Her lips breathe against his ear and she can feel him shiver against her in turn.
"I am going to find you one day, Clint, I am going to find you and tear you apart and break you. And you will beg for me to kill you. You're going to die, Clint Barton. Maybe not today. But you will."
The barrel of her gun collides with the side of his head and she watches his eyes flutter in and out of consciousness as he slips to her feet. It’s a twisted sort of need to reclaim herself that makes her run a finger through his cropped hair, mirroring something she thought she’d forgotten.
She leaves bodies instead of footprints behind her, just as always.
interim
It's after the hospital fire that they call him up.
Natasha Alianovna Romanova.
AKA Black Widow.
He doesn’t flinch at the name, barely moves his head to nod.
It’s been a long time coming, he supposes, their hide-and-seek around the world could only go on for so long. Two master assassins is one master assassin too many and only one player is allowed to be the best. You’re going to die, she told him once and he believed her.
“Last known location?” he asks now, flexing his fingers around an invisible bow.
“Budapest.”
four
It reminds her of home, though Russia was never home, not really - Russia was part of her, unshakeable, a scratch that couldn’t heal. But this city is alive with something familiar and it doesn’t pick at her remains so she pretends it’s home and fits the better for it. She counts lights and cars and people as her cab courses through traffic, ignoring the reflection that stares back at her through the window.
She’s all Widow tonight; her hair tumbles over one shoulder, red lipstick stains her mouth like a gash, the black straps of her dress fold over her body like pieces of armour. She’s a gun, locked and loaded and trained on her target, and she holds the trigger between her fingers, ready to fire at will.
The Operaház is big and bright and loud and there are too many people to count let alone to spy on. Her job has never been easy though - would she live as much for it if it was? - so she makes her way up to one of the opera boxes and rests her chin on the palm of her hand, affecting a bored expression that doesn’t match her narrowed eyes. She spots him first, a dark suit amongst dark suits but the way he moves is careful, coordinated, calculated. Not quite comfortable though; she can see him clenching his fist, grasping the air for the bow and arrow he’s not carrying with him. Almost half a person without that extension of his arm; still dangerous but not whole. She leans over the parapet, hair falling like a curtain around her face, and waits for him to look up.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
She hides a smile between her set jaw as she watches him come closer. “Have you come to spoil my fun, Mr. Barton?”
Music starts somewhere below them so he leans in, breath soft on her ears. “Something like that. You know how it is.”
“I do.” And it’s true, she supposes; she has known for a while that the bodies that follow them both would end with one of them added to the pile. She turns away, looking down at the dancers, still keeping him in her peripheral vision though she’s sure now that he’s only here to play nice.
“I’d like to dance,” she says suddenly and it’s half-true, even when the words sound foreign coming from her.
“I don’t dance,” he says almost as quickly and she chuckles at the stern tilt in his voice.
“I didn’t ask. But you can’t begrudge a girl for wanting to dance. So, if you’ll excuse me...” He’s looking at her as though he’s not quite ready for her to leave. Then he blinks and he’s Hawkeye again.
“Sure. Catch you later.” The words catch slightly in his throat. She nods.
“It’s a date.”
five
There's a woman staring at her in the cracked mirror, a woman whose face is split in two, deathly pale and sticky with blood . Natasha's hand shakes as she presses one of the damp towels to her forehead to stem the flow, blinking rapidly at her reflection. Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe.
A gunshot, a body, a car chase, it's all a blur of red and black and her mind is swimming between memory and imagination. She had taken the first shot and found her victim and there were screams and rampaging footsteps after, that much she was sure of. But then he had come along - and she knew he would, she expected him too - and they had attacked each other again, clawing and biting and pulling. He meant to kill her just as she had promised to kill him and they were both fighting tooth and nail for their lives.
It was SHIELD that interrupted them, a team of black suits and blacker weapons. She remembered a warning shot - for him, not for me - and then she took a gulp of air, seeing the end of the line. But Barton seemed confused, angry even - her head hurts but his words still echo - she's mine, my orders, my mission! The Black Widow only needed one tiny distraction; her gun shot two of them dead and she was already running.
How she ended up here, in this crappy motel room she doesn't recognise, is anyone's guess. She woke up passed out on the wheel of a car she stole, blood dripping into her mouth, wrist sprained if not broken. She stares in the mirror again, pressing a firm hand into her torso; one, two, three broken ribs and the cut through her bottom lip makes it painful to breathe. She falls against the sink, her waist recoiling against the cold dirty marble; it's the only thing keeping her standing.
It’s two hours later and her eyes flutter open, body tightly folded onto the hard mattress of the bed. The room stinks of blood and she fights the urge to throw up, knowing it will only make her weaker. She squints at the window, trying to make sense of the distance, measuring how far away death is.
He’s sitting at the ledge of a window in the ramshackled building opposite her room, bow strung and drawn. Alone, this time, no unpleasant surprises and it’s odd how she finds it sort of comforting that it will be him delivering the last blow. The Black Widow could only be killed by the best, after all.
It takes her a full five minutes to find the strength to get up, legs shaking under her frame as she makes her way to the door. She leaves it ajar, an open invitation, and sits on the torn armchair, folding her legs underneath her. There’s one final fight left in her; she thinks he’ll give her that much.
When he finally comes, the bow and arrow are strapped on his back; he has no need for them. She counts the cuts on his cheeks, the telltale sign of a broken nose, the gash on his shoulder that could only mean he’d dodged a bullet. All in all he was in good shape, though he walked with a slight limp towards her.
“Hey, Tasha.”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes; it’s harder to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose I should start calling you Clint now.”
He breathes a laugh. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve reached that point in our relationship.”
“Where’s SHIELD, then, Clint? Aren’t your buddies out for my blood?”
A shadow crosses his face and he clenches his jaw. “They weren’t supposed to be there. It was my mission.”
She frowns a little at the past tense. “They didn’t think you had it in you?”
He meets her eyes and, for the first time, it strikes her that they’re blue. “Some people think I was - compromised, when it came to you.”
Past tense again. You’re a riddle, Clint Barton. “Is this you proving them wrong?”
“I can kill you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It won’t be as easy as it looks. I’ve still got a punch or two in me. Might bring you down with me.”
“I know.” And she believes him.
It's an impasse, or something like it, and it unsettles her not knowing exactly how it will end. Her gun is still hidden in the creases of her dress and it would take him less than a few seconds to draw his bow and shoot but they're both still now, equally damaged. "Why are you here, Clint?"
"You know why."
"I don't." She makes herself stand as she speaks, hand pressed on the wall for balance. "I thought you were here to finish me off. Your M.O. doesn't usually involve casual conversation."
"You know my M.O.?" He's smiling, albeit reluctantly and it's odd how she recognises the lift in his mouth. Dangerous.
"It's my job to know."
"I guess you're the exception to that."
Her eyebrows knit together but her ragged breathing is making it hard to reply. She holds a hand to her chest and feels the wetness there, blood staining her dress and her fingers. Perhaps she hasn't got as long as she thought.
"You're bleeding." He takes a step closer as she takes a step back and they lock eyes, each as confused as the other.
"Quite - the observation - for a spy." She gulps down air like water, still clutching at herself. Something in her words seems to bother him and he's frowning, fists making the tendons in his hand stick out.
"Dammit," he whispers and he closes in on her, her body firmly between his and the wall behind her. She digs an elbow into his chest and it's funny how her breathing eases, knowing that it's going to end soon.
"You better make it quick," she mutters faintly,a dribble of blood at the corner of her lips. "I've never been a patient one."
"I'm not going to kill you, Natasha."
She can taste smoke on his breath, they're that close, and it's survival instinct - that little stubborn piece of her that refuses to give up - that makes her lean up and meet his lips. His hands go slack at his sides and she feels him press closer before she bites down on his lower lip, swivelling from under him and pulling out her gun. No bullets. But you don't know that.
He wipes the blood on his bare arm and watches her. "You're good. You're too fucking good."
"True."
"But so am I."
She hesitates - because it's a dent in her pride to admit as much - but nods.
"Then I've got an offer to make you."
She doesn't let go of the gun - part of her, she thinks, as much as Russia, as much as the bow is part of him - but she lowers it a fraction.
"I'm listening."
characters: natasha romanova/black widow, clint barton/hawkeye
summary: she was a spy and then she met him.
a/n: set in movie-verse. an origin story, if you will, following the few times these two met (and tried to kill each other) before joining the same team. also, budapest.
words: 5037
warnings: violence
graphic/cover
a girl is a gun
one
The first time she sees him is in a black and white photograph attached to a wad of ink spattered papers, the words sovershenno sekretno hastily written over his face. She doesn’t pay much attention to him; her fingers are quick to leaf through his life, counting a car accident, a brother, some business about a circus that makes the corners of her mouth lift. But, in the end, he’s not the important one and his file falls to the bottom of the pile, under the Tony Starks and Bruce Banners and the rest of them.
Clinton Francis Barton isn’t one to remember yet. But she does anyway.
The second time is louder and tastes a little more of blood and alcohol and she looks nothing like Natasha Romanova. The yellow wig fits snuggly over her head and her eyes are hazel for the time being and she walks into the hotel with a smile that’s not in the least bit Russian.
She’s always loved Tokyo; the buildings are tall and black and growing things, the noises are full of rapid talk and beeps and buzzes, the smells are exhaust pipes and wires and life. She tastes steel as she walks the familiar roads, a red-taloned hand wrapped tightly over the handle of a briefcase. It didn’t used to be easy to carry death in her arms; now the gun strapped to her waist and the little surprise under the green pile of one hundred dollar bills are almost comforting.
Her codename wasn’t an accident.
The camera in the lobby zooms onto a blonde woman wearing a white raincoat at 2:03 pm and security registers the elevator going up to the penthouse at 2:05. No one notices the slight jump in the footage of the guards outside the penthouse’s doors; no one sees two bullets lodging themselves into the heads of two former FBI agents, pink and white brain splattered on the carpet. No one, not even the notorious businessman that’s lounging in front of the sixty inch plasma screen, his hand absentmindedly petting the head of young red-haired girl who’s on her knees.
Natasha doesn’t shoot him; that isn’t the plan, those aren’t her orders but she still enjoys his panicked expression at the sight of the pistol dangling from her fingers. She mutters a quick ’get out’ to the girl, her voice low, her tongue tilting in fluent Japanese and ignores the terror in her eyes. The man is shouting now for his guards and Natasha calmly perches on the coffee table, resting the briefcase on her lap, punching in the code to open it.
Curiosity gets the better of him, his tiny glassy eyes growing wide at the rows of cash. It’s greed that kills him in the end, his eager hands reaching out for the money, making him momentarily forget about the assassin sharing the room with him. The poison pushes through his skin almost instantaneously, paralysing him slowly, his body turning cold. She doesn’t blink as he falls to her feet, twitching and purple and pitiful; she simply latches the briefcase shut and stands up tall, the heel of her shoe digging into a bloated wrist. She checks her watch and waits for a full minute to go by, her eyes never leaving her victim. At 2:21, his heart stops its erratic beating and she pulls the wig from her head, shaking her red curls free. She drops her raincoat over the corpse and zips up her black leather jacket walking to the door. As an afterthought, she leaves the briefcase on the floor, a smile playing at her lips at the thought of a second, unsuspecting victim.
She has time enough before they find him and, besides, killing makes her thirsty, so she makes her way to the bar. Too many Armani suits and too much aftershave but happy hour will have to do. Her heels click against the marble tiles and her nails beat a steady rhythm as she orders vodka, straight. It burns her throat as she swallows but she revels in the pinpricks of pain, downing it in one go. She smacks her lips as she puts the glass down and waves to the barman for another.
“That’s mighty impressive.”
There’s a drawl in the voice she recognises as American and it’s hard not to roll her eyes as she turns towards it. He’s sitting two stools away, dressed in black and leather (just like her) and it takes her a moment to place him, to trigger the memory of what seems like such a long time ago. She measures time in deaths, as she does most things, and his file on the floor of her dusty Moscow apartment belongs to something thirteen murdered men ago. Clinton Francis Barton. The world’s greatest marksman. Hawkeye. You almost have as many names as I do, mal’chik.
“Don’t American girls drink then?” She shouldn’t be talking to him - not now, not when the alarms will go off in a matter of minutes, not when he’s soon to be on her list. But there’s something irresistible about talking to a dead man, so she grins and raises her glass, emptying it with relish.
“To be honest, I don’t really know what American girls do. It’s still impressive.” He raises his own glass and chugs until there’s nothing left but white foam at the bottom.
“Not too bad yourself.” She raises an eyebrow.
“I remember a few things from my college days.” It’s the lie that makes her pay more attention - lies always mean something - and with that sliver of untruth, Clint Francis Barton has become so much more intriguing. She makes a mental note - adds to the file that lies on the floor back home - and wonders what exactly this broken boy is doing here, of all places, today of all days.
But the alarm bells she was meant to be waiting for ring earlier than expected and there’s a panicked number of hotel staff rounding the concierge at the desk. Panic is always her cue to go, so she stands up, sliding the bill in Barton’s direction. He matches her smile easily.
“It was nice talking to you, Chyornaya Vdova.” His Russian is laughable but she appreciates the effort all the same. She shows him her teeth as one final goodbye. “See you soon, I’m sure, Mr Barton.”
He doesn’t come after her, just as she knows he wouldn’t, so she takes her time leaving, fingers running through her hair as she walks. He’ll remember the swaying of her hips for a while, she knows, and he’ll wonder just how green her eyes are under the contact lenses she wears. The Widow does that to people; you’re not meant to forget and usually she’s the last thing you remember.
Natasha likes it that way.
two
She gets up at the sound of the whirring fax machine, a relic from a Soviet Russia that tried futilely to resist change. She never sleeps here, can never shut her eyes and rest when on a mission; she merely blinks at the sound and pulls the sticky sheets from her, not giving a backward glance to the naked man sprawled over the bed.
She moves silently into the library, every wall lined in mahogany and leather book covers, some old, some new, none of their spines cracked. Nothing says nouveau riche like an unread bookshelf and dusty paintings but she hardly looks at them now as she perches on the desk and waits for the yellowed paper to finish printing. She reads the red letters before she presses them between her fingers and breathes through a smile at the two words.
Kill him. English. How appropriate for a traitor. Absentmindedly she reaches for one of the long-stemmed glasses that litter the surface of the desk, her lips tracing the imprint of yesterday’s lipstick as she sips the flat champagne.
There’s a stash of guns in a safe behind the Monet and the carving knives in the kitchen could slice through bone but it’s less blood and more bloodlust that makes her move to the window. Her arm snakes around the finely threaded rope that ties the curtains and she pulls it between her fingers, imagining it tight against his neck. The image of a young girl pressing a thin wire around the neck of a wrinkled woman with candyfloss hair flashes before her eyes but it’s gone before she has the time to catch it. No matter; she has more important things to do than dwell on memories that come to haunt her.
She’s halfway up the staircase when she hears it. She stills, both fists tight around the rope, and listens for anything other than silence. One, two, three, there. Breathing always kills you in the end. And she was beginning to wonder when they would show up.
She turns, quickly, her elbow ready to smash into the first face behind her but he grabs her arm and twists it easily, locking it behind her back. She shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t gasp at the sight of him but she wasn’t expecting to see Clint Barton again. At least, not like this.
“Missed me, Ms Romanoff?” He’s whispering, his gravely voice barely echoing in the dark house.
“Not as much as you missed me, Mr Barton.” She takes a step closer to relieve the pressure on her arm, her eyes sweeping around in search of his back up.
“No one here but boring old me, I’m afraid.”
“Wanted me all to yourself?”
He laughs. “I hear you’re already spoken for.” His eyes flit upwards where the bedroom is and it’s her turn to laugh, throatily, her whole body shaking, and she inches closer, flexing the muscles in her leg.
“I like to play with my food before I eat it.”
“I’m afraid I’ve come to take your food.”
Instead of answering, she aims a kick in his ribs, bare foot digging into his side and making him double over in pain. Before he has time to do more than wince, she grabs his hair and bashes his head into the bannister, letting go only when she hears the satisfying crunch of broken teeth. There’s blood on her hands as she runs up the staircase but she’s still holding the rope and now more than ever she wants to tie it around the sleeping man’s throat, choking the life out of him.
She falls face first when he locks his fingers around her ankles and her teeth cut through her lips but she’s already giving as good as she’s getting, her knee connecting to his nose. They’re both on the floor, slipping in each other’s blood and the adrenaline pumping in her body is making little sense of the pain she should be feeling.
“You - realise - we’re - fighting - over - a disgusting - piece of shit - excuse of a human being?”
They circle each other like cats on the prowl. “You’re the one who wants him alive. I’m trying to do the world a favour.”
“Orders are orders, Ms Romanoff.”
She looks like a wolf when she bares her bloody teeth at him. “Good little soldier boy, eh?”
His eyes - playful only a moment ago - grow dark and he punches her more forcefully than before, squeezing her wrists between his hands. “I’m not a soldier.” She’s touched a nerve, it seems, and made him lose a little of the self control he has. She spits blood in his face and elbows him again until she’s straddling him, knee digging into his chest.
“We have that in common then, Mr Barton. I’m no more soldier than you are.”
He meets her eyes and she doesn’t flinch. “You’re a loose cannon, that’s what you are.”
She laughs, a horrible guttural sound like a wild animal. “Maybe. But you’re right in my line of fire.” He doesn’t seem overly frightened at the prospect.
It’s the sound of a creaking door that makes them blink and Natasha is scrambling to her feet, bloodied fist making contact with the jaw of the man she’s meant to kill. He sways at the doorway, eyes unfocused and the rope is looped around his neck before Barton has the time to stand. She’s beginning to regret her decision not to take the guns.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Romanoff.”
“Dropped the polite act now?” She squeezes the rope more tightly, feeling the man’s pulse slowing. There’s something in Barton’s expression that makes her uneasy; it’s almost...regret? Her breath catches a little as she feels the bullet pierce the space between her shoulder blades; the blood is warm as it turns her clothes crimson. Her hands fall weakly at her sides as she tries to lean on the wall. “I thought you said - no back up.” There’s half a chuckle hidden in her words.
“I lied, Ms Romanoff. You’re quite the handful.”
The last thing she sees before she collapses is his hand tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.
interim
Mother Russia doesn’t forgive mistakes.
Failure doesn’t pay for the life you owe.
They beat those lessons into her, hands tied behind her back to a wooden chair, in a dark windowless cell that smells of piss and fear. Her face doesn’t feel like her face anymore but she does nothing but nod because that’s how you learn.
You are the best, they tell her, you must never let yourself be bested and she nods because it’s true and because she can see herself plunging a knife into those lifeless eyes. It helps to know she’s added them to her list, written names she doesn’t know in her own blood, and she will return to collect with interest. You will die. And you will die. And you will die. And I will laugh and laugh and laugh. Mother Russia is the only mother she has ever known; Mother Russia does not need these bastard children to leech at her.
It lasts three days, her punishment, her torture. On the third day, they pull her out of the room and force feed her bread soaked in water. The sunlight stubbornly pushing through a barred window makes her go blind for a while but it gives her the strength to stand on her own and smile at her tormentors. They give her a file - bright shiny white - and inform her of her next mission; she has two days to be ready for action.
Two days. She can kill four men in two days.
And then business as usual.
(One dies with a knife to the heart
Two falls from a fifteen storey building
Three takes the poison, when given the choice
Four kills himself before she gets to him
A girl is a gun, Mother Russia thinks, and a gun needs practice)
three
A year later and there are still scars on her arms. The pain isn’t there anymore - she’s learnt to lock it up and throw away the key - but the list in her head still has one name uncrossed. She plans to fix that.
In a run down part of town you’ve never heard of, a mess of streets somewhere in São Paulo, her index finger is applying pressure to a trigger and her eye is trained on the woman right in the centre of her target. She is young and smiling and bright; she doesn’t know her life doesn’t belong to her anymore.
The bullet is a whisper and blood is blossoming on the woman’s chest before her entourage make a move but Natasha isn’t there to watch them. She walks quickly, ignoring shouts and panicked screams, the rifle falling to her feet, her hand already wrapped around a neat black pistol. They ignore her though, ignore the slim girl pressed against the damp wall, pulling a blue shawl around her with something that could pass for terror on her face. Fools.
Not all of them though. One hangs back, not climbing the stairs of the building, his body tensing as though moving is an afterthought. Their eyes meet over the corpse - a puddle of red, black hair fanned on dirty pavement, not bright anymore, not smiling - and she doesn’t hesitate, not even knowing they might see her. She raises her gun to her shoulder and aims at his head just as he pulls at the string of his bow. They must look quite the sight, she thinks.
“Long time, no see, Agent Romanoff.”
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound, only watches him, the name on her list pulsing in front of her eyes in time with her heart. Clint Barton. Clint Barton. Clint Barton.
“I have to say, I missed our little talks.” He tilts his head, a grin playing at the corner of his lips but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He gives her a once over, pausing at places he shouldn’t. “I heard they got you good.”
Still she doesn’t open her mouth to talk but in the back of her mind, in a dark cell underneath Moscow, sometime seven dead ago, she can feel the backhand drawing blood from her cheek. She swallows and presses her finger closer to the trigger. There it is again, that look she couldn’t understand when she got shot in the back, that look that could almost be guilt.
“If it’s any consolation, he’s dead.”
“It’s not.”
She didn’t mean to say the words but there’s no taking them back now. Suddenly the thought of shooting him is not nearly enough. She takes a step forward and he lets the arrow go, just as she knew he would, but she backs into the wall and feels it rushing by her face. Her fist meets his jaw before he draws back his bow a second time and her heel digs into his shin, bringing him to his knees. She makes a fist with the lapel of his shirt and kneels, bringing his face an inch from hers.
“You’re going to die, Clint Barton.”
He's a little breathless when he speaks. “Someone always dies, Natasha.”
She locks his neck between her arm and the wall, cutting off his air supply, pressing the barrel of the gun to the side of his head; there’s a sheen of sweat over his eyes.
Natasha. Sometimes she almost forgets that’s her name; it sounds rusty to her ears and it doesn’t quite fit, not now, not when she’s wearing the face of the Widow, not when she’s collecting the body count she’s owed. But the way he says it - as though it’s familiar to him, as though he’s allowed to call her that when she’s about to kill him - makes a shiver course down her spine. Her lips breathe against his ear and she can feel him shiver against her in turn.
"I am going to find you one day, Clint, I am going to find you and tear you apart and break you. And you will beg for me to kill you. You're going to die, Clint Barton. Maybe not today. But you will."
The barrel of her gun collides with the side of his head and she watches his eyes flutter in and out of consciousness as he slips to her feet. It’s a twisted sort of need to reclaim herself that makes her run a finger through his cropped hair, mirroring something she thought she’d forgotten.
She leaves bodies instead of footprints behind her, just as always.
interim
It's after the hospital fire that they call him up.
Natasha Alianovna Romanova.
AKA Black Widow.
He doesn’t flinch at the name, barely moves his head to nod.
It’s been a long time coming, he supposes, their hide-and-seek around the world could only go on for so long. Two master assassins is one master assassin too many and only one player is allowed to be the best. You’re going to die, she told him once and he believed her.
“Last known location?” he asks now, flexing his fingers around an invisible bow.
“Budapest.”
four
It reminds her of home, though Russia was never home, not really - Russia was part of her, unshakeable, a scratch that couldn’t heal. But this city is alive with something familiar and it doesn’t pick at her remains so she pretends it’s home and fits the better for it. She counts lights and cars and people as her cab courses through traffic, ignoring the reflection that stares back at her through the window.
She’s all Widow tonight; her hair tumbles over one shoulder, red lipstick stains her mouth like a gash, the black straps of her dress fold over her body like pieces of armour. She’s a gun, locked and loaded and trained on her target, and she holds the trigger between her fingers, ready to fire at will.
The Operaház is big and bright and loud and there are too many people to count let alone to spy on. Her job has never been easy though - would she live as much for it if it was? - so she makes her way up to one of the opera boxes and rests her chin on the palm of her hand, affecting a bored expression that doesn’t match her narrowed eyes. She spots him first, a dark suit amongst dark suits but the way he moves is careful, coordinated, calculated. Not quite comfortable though; she can see him clenching his fist, grasping the air for the bow and arrow he’s not carrying with him. Almost half a person without that extension of his arm; still dangerous but not whole. She leans over the parapet, hair falling like a curtain around her face, and waits for him to look up.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
She hides a smile between her set jaw as she watches him come closer. “Have you come to spoil my fun, Mr. Barton?”
Music starts somewhere below them so he leans in, breath soft on her ears. “Something like that. You know how it is.”
“I do.” And it’s true, she supposes; she has known for a while that the bodies that follow them both would end with one of them added to the pile. She turns away, looking down at the dancers, still keeping him in her peripheral vision though she’s sure now that he’s only here to play nice.
“I’d like to dance,” she says suddenly and it’s half-true, even when the words sound foreign coming from her.
“I don’t dance,” he says almost as quickly and she chuckles at the stern tilt in his voice.
“I didn’t ask. But you can’t begrudge a girl for wanting to dance. So, if you’ll excuse me...” He’s looking at her as though he’s not quite ready for her to leave. Then he blinks and he’s Hawkeye again.
“Sure. Catch you later.” The words catch slightly in his throat. She nods.
“It’s a date.”
five
There's a woman staring at her in the cracked mirror, a woman whose face is split in two, deathly pale and sticky with blood . Natasha's hand shakes as she presses one of the damp towels to her forehead to stem the flow, blinking rapidly at her reflection. Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe.
A gunshot, a body, a car chase, it's all a blur of red and black and her mind is swimming between memory and imagination. She had taken the first shot and found her victim and there were screams and rampaging footsteps after, that much she was sure of. But then he had come along - and she knew he would, she expected him too - and they had attacked each other again, clawing and biting and pulling. He meant to kill her just as she had promised to kill him and they were both fighting tooth and nail for their lives.
It was SHIELD that interrupted them, a team of black suits and blacker weapons. She remembered a warning shot - for him, not for me - and then she took a gulp of air, seeing the end of the line. But Barton seemed confused, angry even - her head hurts but his words still echo - she's mine, my orders, my mission! The Black Widow only needed one tiny distraction; her gun shot two of them dead and she was already running.
How she ended up here, in this crappy motel room she doesn't recognise, is anyone's guess. She woke up passed out on the wheel of a car she stole, blood dripping into her mouth, wrist sprained if not broken. She stares in the mirror again, pressing a firm hand into her torso; one, two, three broken ribs and the cut through her bottom lip makes it painful to breathe. She falls against the sink, her waist recoiling against the cold dirty marble; it's the only thing keeping her standing.
It’s two hours later and her eyes flutter open, body tightly folded onto the hard mattress of the bed. The room stinks of blood and she fights the urge to throw up, knowing it will only make her weaker. She squints at the window, trying to make sense of the distance, measuring how far away death is.
He’s sitting at the ledge of a window in the ramshackled building opposite her room, bow strung and drawn. Alone, this time, no unpleasant surprises and it’s odd how she finds it sort of comforting that it will be him delivering the last blow. The Black Widow could only be killed by the best, after all.
It takes her a full five minutes to find the strength to get up, legs shaking under her frame as she makes her way to the door. She leaves it ajar, an open invitation, and sits on the torn armchair, folding her legs underneath her. There’s one final fight left in her; she thinks he’ll give her that much.
When he finally comes, the bow and arrow are strapped on his back; he has no need for them. She counts the cuts on his cheeks, the telltale sign of a broken nose, the gash on his shoulder that could only mean he’d dodged a bullet. All in all he was in good shape, though he walked with a slight limp towards her.
“Hey, Tasha.”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes; it’s harder to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose I should start calling you Clint now.”
He breathes a laugh. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve reached that point in our relationship.”
“Where’s SHIELD, then, Clint? Aren’t your buddies out for my blood?”
A shadow crosses his face and he clenches his jaw. “They weren’t supposed to be there. It was my mission.”
She frowns a little at the past tense. “They didn’t think you had it in you?”
He meets her eyes and, for the first time, it strikes her that they’re blue. “Some people think I was - compromised, when it came to you.”
Past tense again. You’re a riddle, Clint Barton. “Is this you proving them wrong?”
“I can kill you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It won’t be as easy as it looks. I’ve still got a punch or two in me. Might bring you down with me.”
“I know.” And she believes him.
It's an impasse, or something like it, and it unsettles her not knowing exactly how it will end. Her gun is still hidden in the creases of her dress and it would take him less than a few seconds to draw his bow and shoot but they're both still now, equally damaged. "Why are you here, Clint?"
"You know why."
"I don't." She makes herself stand as she speaks, hand pressed on the wall for balance. "I thought you were here to finish me off. Your M.O. doesn't usually involve casual conversation."
"You know my M.O.?" He's smiling, albeit reluctantly and it's odd how she recognises the lift in his mouth. Dangerous.
"It's my job to know."
"I guess you're the exception to that."
Her eyebrows knit together but her ragged breathing is making it hard to reply. She holds a hand to her chest and feels the wetness there, blood staining her dress and her fingers. Perhaps she hasn't got as long as she thought.
"You're bleeding." He takes a step closer as she takes a step back and they lock eyes, each as confused as the other.
"Quite - the observation - for a spy." She gulps down air like water, still clutching at herself. Something in her words seems to bother him and he's frowning, fists making the tendons in his hand stick out.
"Dammit," he whispers and he closes in on her, her body firmly between his and the wall behind her. She digs an elbow into his chest and it's funny how her breathing eases, knowing that it's going to end soon.
"You better make it quick," she mutters faintly,a dribble of blood at the corner of her lips. "I've never been a patient one."
"I'm not going to kill you, Natasha."
She can taste smoke on his breath, they're that close, and it's survival instinct - that little stubborn piece of her that refuses to give up - that makes her lean up and meet his lips. His hands go slack at his sides and she feels him press closer before she bites down on his lower lip, swivelling from under him and pulling out her gun. No bullets. But you don't know that.
He wipes the blood on his bare arm and watches her. "You're good. You're too fucking good."
"True."
"But so am I."
She hesitates - because it's a dent in her pride to admit as much - but nods.
"Then I've got an offer to make you."
She doesn't let go of the gun - part of her, she thinks, as much as Russia, as much as the bow is part of him - but she lowers it a fraction.
"I'm listening."