Disclaimer: I don't own Clint and Natasha, I just love them.
The sky was an uncertain grey, as though it was weighing the pros and cons of giving the sidewalk another drink. Agent Barton shifted his weight and nocked an arrow. He watched the crowd swarming below his perch for a flash of orange curls.
Natalia Romanova was his toughest assignment yet. Every time Clint found a lead, she was popping up somewhere else. It had taken him three and a half weeks of trekking all over God's green earth to find her here in Budapest, and he was getting pretty sick of cramped rooms in shitty hotels, courtesy of SHIELD. He couldn't wait to get this over with and go back home to feather pillows and speaking English. Just as Clint decided this particular roof was a dead end, a distinctive click sounded just behind his head. He froze.
"Looking for something?" drawled a woman in a cold voice.
Without missing a beat, Clint replied, "Nah, just enjoying the view." He stood slowly and turned to face his assignment. Short, fiery curls fluttered in the breeze. Slender hands were wrapped around a pistol, a finger on the trigger. Her nails were deep red, like she had painted them with the blood of her last victim. Her blue eyes, harder than titanium and colder than a Siberian winter, sent a shiver down Clint's spine. Feigning nonchalance, he asked, "Don't you love a high perch to sit and watch?"
Romanova scoffed. "You like playing games, Agent?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a Yankee. Your accent is pretty damn good." This wasn't deemed worthy of a reply, just a glare. "Natalia Romanova- we've been watching you. You've been a bad girl."
"In English, it's Natasha Romanoff. My real name sounds terrible in your American mouth."
"Can I call you Nat?" Clint smirked. It fell from his lips as she swung the butt of her gun at his temple. He dodged it, barely keeping his balance near the edge of the roof. "What about Tasha?" He successfully blocked the next swipe, only to be pulled toward the ground.
They sparred like this, punch for punch, back and forth. Clint was a decent fighter, but Natasha was much better. It was clear that the Red Room had focused a lot on her hand-to-hand combat skills. She delivered a solid roundhouse kick to Clint's shoulder, knocking him down. He sprang to his feet, reaching for his knife. It was time to do what he'd been sent to do.
It was time to complete the mission.
Noticing his changing movements, Natasha gripped her handgun. Faster that he could blink, she fired a bullet straight through his right arm. A strangled scream escaped his throat as he fell to his knees and dropped the blade. It clattered on the concrete. He hauled his legs around, knocking the wind out of her as she landed on her upper back. Before he could reach her, she rolled to the right. Clint stood and grabbed her flaming hair, yanking hard. She fell beneath him. By a stroke of luck, he knelt and gripped her in a headlock. He heard a choked whisper in Russian just before he snapped her neck.
Agent Barton looked down at her splayed figure, neck bent at a crooked angle, limbs askew. She had a droplets of blood from his arm on her cheek, rolling down like tears. Shame, he thought, if there wasn't so much red in her ledger, I might've liked her.
As he left the body of the greatest Russian spy who ever lived in a heap, the sky decided it was time to rain.
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