Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers. It's the property of Marvel.
Disclaimer II: Yes, I ship BlackHawk/Clintasha/whatever-you-call-it. However, this will be very, very, very slow-building. Just thought I'd warn you if this isn't your cup of tea for any reason.
Author's Note: So, first chapter! This story is set in the same universe as Doubts, my short Natasha origin story, but it's definitely not necessary to read it, at all. Also, I know this has been done a thousand times, but hopefully I can put a new or at least sort-of-new twist on it. I've had the idea for this in my head since June, and I had written a draft of it, but I've changed it a lot over the past few months (plus I was really busy in RL, so I didn't have much time).
Edit: Updates of this story will be on Mondays until further notice.
That said, I hope you enjoy!
Dancing
Something was wrong, very wrong. It was like a sixth sense to her, this ability to know when everything was not as it should be. It was what she had been made for.
She smiled sweetly up at the target, scrutinizing him for any hint that he suspected her. She found none. The problem, then, was something else, or rather, someone else. She'd had tails before, enemies of her country that viewed her as an obstacle. They had tried to best her many times, but they had never been successful. Natalya Romanova, the Black Widow, feared no living thing. She had destroyed them all.
"You are so lovely, Nadia," the target said, voice slurred. It would not be much longer before he was well and truly drunk. Then she would lead him to a private room and find out all that he knew so she could carry that information back to the Red Room in order to keep her country safe.
But first she had to be Nadia Reznikova, the wealthy young heiress who had not existed until last week. She pushed another glass of wine towards the target and giggled. "Thank you, Mr. Morrison."
"I've told you before, please, call me Owen."
She nodded demurely. He was American, that much he knew that she knew. She had already complimented him on his Russian, and it was almost true (though his accent was imperfect). Like so many of her targets, he absorbed flattery like a sponge absorbs water.
He didn't know, though, that she knew he had a high-ranking position at an illegal, international weapons dealing company. That was why she was with him - her superiors had set her to the task of unraveling his company, which had refused to sell to the Red Room at reasonable prices. After long months of single-minded focus, she was almost finished with the mission. She had already obtained security access codes for one of the dealer company's largest warehouses, and now she only had to find out where his boss was going to be, and then the Red Room would have both its guns and its revenge.
The target also didn't know that she was going to interrogate and dispose of him in half an hour. That knowledge might be enough to make him stop kissing her.
Perhaps an hour passed by, during which she monitored the other patrons in the hotel bar, assessing each of them. If any of them were carrying weapons, they hid them as well as she herself did. No one looked too suspicious or too innocent, but she kept her guard up.
After he had a few more sips of the strong drink, she decided that he was drunk enough. "Come, Owen," she murmured, slipping her arm through his. "Let's go upstairs."
There was still something wrong when they entered the hotel room. She slipped a sleeve off her shoulder, tantalizingly. "Darling, would you close the curtains?"
He hurried to comply.
-Scene-
"Barton, report to briefing room 13 immediately."
Clint rolled over on the bed, blinking sleep out of his eyes. The clock read 4:03 A.M. He groaned. Any other time, he might have joked, Five more minutes, Coulson, but his handler's voice was dead serious. It was going to be one of those days, wasn't it? "I hear you," he managed to choke out.
Exactly six minutes later, he walked through the perpetually busy corridors of the Helicarrier, nodding a few greetings to fellow agents. Coulson was waiting for him when he entered the briefing room.
"We found her," the handler said in clipped tones, foregoing his usual, cheerful 'Good morning.'
Clint narrowed his eyes. Boy, he needed coffee. "Her?"
"The operative that assassinated the Lithuanian politician last February. And not only that, but we've potentially linked her to at least thirty-two other deaths throughout Europe. We don't have much evidence. She's better at covering her tracks than just about anyone we've ever come across."
Oh, her. There had been an uproar at SHIELD when recon agents at the scene of the crime had found a rare, unnamed, and nearly undetectable poison in the dead politician's blood. Clint hadn't heard much more about the case, apart from the normal gossip. "That's a pretty high body count."
"Exactly what we were thinking." Coulson picked up a file folder about two inches thick and handed it to Clint. "There are some unsolved cases in here that may or may not be her."
Impressive, Clint thought. It took a lot of skill, and nearly as much luck, for any agent to amass such a huge file. Hell, that file was almost as big as his, and it probably wasn't even complete. "She's been busy."
Coulson nodded. "We did as much investigating as we could. She's known as the Black Widow, and she works for the Red Room. You'll find everything else you need to know in there. Quinjet leaves in forty minutes. We'll be in contact until the job is completed."
"I'm on it," he said, scanning the file, but what he really wanted to say was that he'd only gotten back from Denver seven hours ago, and that couldn't they use some other sniper, just once? But of course they wouldn't, not for someone so important. He supposed he should be proud of that.
"One shot is all you'll get. Miss her once and she'll disappear."
"That, or kill you," Fury said, walking in abruptly, which meant that yeah, this was important. "You up for this, Barton?"
Not really. "Have I ever missed, sir?"
"Don't start now," Fury answered, and held his gaze. "This has to be quick, before she takes out anyone else, but be careful. Not even the WSC knows about this yet. I didn't want our Russian friends to tip her off - I don't know if they're involved with her or not."
"Yes, sir," Clint said, and walked out the door, looking back through the file papers. He was repulsed by the brutality of some of the Black Widow's murders, but, if he was honest with himself, a little impressed with her efficiency. This mission might actually turn out to be a challenge, something that might require all his skill and experience.
It took a while for it all to sink in, but when it hit him, it hit him with all the force of an Amtrak Express. She wasn't just a killer, she was sick. What she did to people was unbelievable, even to someone like him, whose entire life was based on death - and that wasn't even touching the murders of innocents that she committed. By the time he settled down in the Quinjet for the long flight, he had a plan of action.
He was going to kill the Black Widow.
-Scene-
He tracked her across Russia.
He watched as she left a trail of destruction in her wake.
Like the spider she was named for, she was masterful at luring her targets into webs from which there was no escape. She was the killer at the center of the web, but she was also the lure. Each time, she changed her act to appeal particularly to her target, and she never failed.
Even though Owen Morrison had been a criminal almost as hateful as she was, Clint still cursed and punched the nearest wall when he arrived at the scene of Morrison's sudden death. The cops said alcohol poisoning, but Clint said Black Widow. A storm cloud of guilt hung over him, weighing down on his shoulders. Morrison had been bad news, but he'd at least deserved the judicial process. Maybe he would have gotten life in prison or something instead of the death penalty. She knew someone was trailing her, so she'd thrown him off with some crazy moves in St. Petersburg, and Clint hadn't been able to get to her in time, like he hadn't been able to get to her for the past three weeks.
Two weeks before, Clint had almost gotten her - he'd literally had her in his sights. But then she'd been attacked by five enemy operatives, and for a while Clint had been reasonably sure that he would be robbed of the chance to put an arrow through her, especially after they had disarmed her. He had been shocked - or as shocked as a SHIELD agent ever could be - when she had not only escaped but slaughtered all five opponents in a whirl of acrobatic hand-to-hand. She was gone in the blink of an eye, dripping with their blood. She displayed a ruthlessness that he recognized in himself, but he'd never seen anything to match her acrobatic fighting style. He hadn't been able to kill her because she'd ducked out of his range the second she started fighting.
Two days ago, she'd brutally murdered the head of an illegal black-ops organization that she'd infiltrated some months before, as a statement, and once again, she'd been in the wind before Clint could get to her. She had succeeded in her quest to weaken the company Owen Morrison had worked for.
Now, Clint had another opportunity to take her out, once and for all. He followed her to Vladivostok, and was briefly confused when she strolled into a dance studio. She had to be planning something - another assassination, maybe. He collapsed his bow and stowed his quiver (the top of the quiver zipped shut so it looked like any other duffel bag), and walked in after her.
She was alone in a small, dimly lit concert hall, and it wasn't too hard for him to slip in through a back exit and watch her from backstage, hidden behind a velvet curtain. She was dressed like a ballerina, and he almost couldn't believe it when she started to dance to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. He didn't know much about dancing at all, but even he could tell that she was perfect, moving in time to the music with the same grace with which she fought.
Her hair had fallen out of its loose bun by the time she finished, her fiery curls framing her face like something out of a painting, and Clint thought he glimpsed the glint of tears on her cheeks when she turned her face in his direction. But that couldn't be - she couldn't feel, couldn't laugh, couldn't cry unless she was acting for a target. Right?
He looked closer, and saw deep circles under her eyes. When the music stopped, she seemed to lose the grace she normally had, and she unlaced her slippers slowly, as if she dreaded the action. Clint was good at reading people - it came with the job. Black Widow looked tired to him, and not just from lack of sleep. Just being near her was enough to feel the sorrow that radiated off her, and for the life of him Clint couldn't understand it. He almost felt sorry for her, with all her wasted talent, but why would she ever feel sad for herself? Unless she understood exactly what she was doing - but then why do it?
She shouldered her bag and walked out of the studio, and it took Clint five minutes to realize that he'd had a perfect opportunity and he hadn't even tried to shoot her.
I'd really like to know what you think so far, so leave a review, please! Constructive criticism is very much appreciated!