Spoilers: None in this one, really.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers. I'd be happy to take them off your hands, though, if anyone is offering.
A/N: I really can't explain where this one came from, except to say that in my mind, Clint and Nat have a connection in any universe, even a dark one, and I wanted to explore that.
As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
Shadows
She finds him in an abandoned industrial complex, not far from where his target is scheduled to make a speech in a few short hours. It's not the building with the best vantage point, but that doesn't surprise her. She has studied his file and knows that he doesn't need a perfect shot - he is a perfect shot.
But, what does surprise her, what hadn't come across in the grainy photographs the Red Room had managed to collect, is that looking into his eyes is like looking into a mirror. His eyes are blue-gray compared to her green, but it doesn't matter. His gaze holds no warmth, no emotion, just nothingness.
A perfect reflection of her own.
It's enough that she hesitates for a split second, and that's all the time he needs.
He spins away from her bullet almost supernaturally fast, rolls, and brings his bow up in one smooth motion.
But she is just as fast as he is, and the arrow that was meant to kill her only skims the top of her shoulder, cutting the fabric of her uniform, drawing a thin line of red beneath.
The dance begins.
She can only call it a dance, like the classical ballet her instructors at the Red Room had made her learn. She had never been meant to enjoy it, that dancing. It was intended to enhance her grace, flexibility, balance, and stamina. It was work, not play. But she had enjoyed it just the same.
This is a different kind of dance, but he's the best partner she's ever had, and he matches her step for step. She kicks out and he drops into a crouch, her leg striking harmlessly in the space where he'd stood just moments before. He somehow gets his hands around her other ankle, and tries to send her to the ground. She turns it into a flip, coming up with both of her Glocks trained on his chest, but he's already moving, rolling away, using his bow to deflect her bullets. One of them hits the wall, just inches away from her head. She doesn't react, too busy dodging the arrow she knows is coming next.
There's a column in the middle of the room, and she uses it as a brief shield, then re-holsters her Glocks and charges at him, aware that close proximity will make it more difficult for him to use his bow. But, he's ready, of course he's ready, and a backhand to her face sends her stumbling, tasting blood from a split lip. She snarls faintly and runs forward again, this time reaching for his bow and twisting. His grip is unyielding but she'd expected that, and it is enough of a distraction for her to bring her knee up into his stomach. He doubles over with the blow, the wind forced from his lungs, and she spins and strikes him hard across the temple. The metal edge of her Widow's Bite catches his skin, a rivulet of red welling from the cut almost immediately.
She reaches for one of her Glocks again, hoping to finish this, but he grabs her forearm, wrenches the gun from her hand, and sends it skittering across the floor. He uses the momentum to twist her arm behind her back, and she growls as she feels something in her shoulder start to give. She whips her head back, hears him give a growl of his own as her skull connects with his nose.
He lets her go automatically, and she spins around to kick him, stepping up her attacks until he's stumbling back, her fists connecting with his cheek, his nose, and his chin, making his teeth clack together painfully.
He shrugs off the blows with the ease of someone who has done it many times before and slides forward on his knees, the padding in his uniform protecting his legs from the splinters that cover the brittle floorboards.
If those floorboards were a little less brittle, he would have come up behind her with his bow raised, and it would have been a draw, with his arrow pointed at her throat and the barrel of her gun pointed at his forehead. She wonders, fleetingly, who would have shot first, or if they would have simply killed each other.
But, the building they're in is old and he has at least forty pounds on her, probably more. It's just enough for his movement to make one of those floorboards snap. The wood breaks, trapping his thigh; blood immediately starts to pool around pieces of wood now piercing his leg.
She takes advantage of his vulnerability, kicking the bow out of his hands and drawing her remaining Glock. She keeps it trained on him as she bends to pick up the bow and carry it farther away, completely out of his reach. His eyes track his weapon, but he doesn't make any move to get it back. She retrieves the Glock she'd lost during the fight, then stops, finally, when she stands in front of him, both guns pointed at him, her aim never wavering.
When she doesn't pull the trigger, he speaks, his voice flat, just as devoid of emotion as his eyes. "You were sent here to kill me."
"Yes."
"So, why haven't you?"
She cants her head slightly. She doesn't actually have an answer for that, so she doesn't give him one.
"Do you want to die?" she asks instead.
He gives a small shrug. "I don't particularly care either way."
It is a strange response, perhaps, considering the fight they've just had, but she understands. Survival is sometimes just instinct. Stubbornness. Occasionally, the body keeps fighting long after the will to live has ceased.
Natasha knows that better than anyone.
She should kill him. She has no doubts about what will happen if she doesn't.
But when she meets his steely gaze, she sees her own reflection once again and frowns. The Red Room made her what she is…what made him?
They stay like that for a long moment, while she stares at him and he stares back, and she is suddenly, distantly aware that if she was different, or maybe if he was, she might feel…something.
But she has her orders, and even though the programming ceased to work on her long ago, she learned her lessons in pain and blood. Her obedience is second nature, now, if only to avoid the suffering that comes with defiance.
So, she can't really explain why, in the end, she spins one of her guns in her hand and pistol whips him, knocking him out instead.
Her handlers are not happy when she comes back with her target in tow, trussed up and unconscious but very much alive. Even when they agree that if they can successfully control him, the infamous Hawkeye just might be a valuable new resource for the Red Room, she knows she will be punished for her insubordination.
She is.
Her punishment, it happens, lasts just as long as his indoctrination. The scars are treated, of course, once they're finished. Her physical beauty is too much of an asset in and of itself. But, when she is released, and they're both healed enough, she is assigned to oversee Barton's first mission.
Oddly enough, when Barton's blank eyes meet her own, Natasha thinks that even if the scars had remained, it might have been worth it.
Fin
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
Ani-maniac494 :)