So, Clintasha muse is devouring me whole, and I seriously couldn't resist-because I have no willpower where these two are concerned. At all. Currently, I'll consider this a one-shot, though I may consider a continuation of sorts if I don't despise myself for this when I wake up in the morning-because this was written at about 4am, and I really doubt it's spot-on where grammar is concerned.
"Agent Barton, do you copy?"
Clint smoothed the expensive fabric of his tuxedo, his discomfort palpable, and leaned one arm comfortably over the balcony. He had always gravitated toward high places-quiet, isolated nooks from which he could observe without distraction the events surrounding him.
Beneath him, the dance floor was alive with colors-with the whirl of women's skirts as they danced, the twinkle of fluted champagne glasses held in slender hands, the rows of ebony coats, men dressed all in black and white. It was an elegant sight, a beautiful one-and one that Clint, who vastly preferred the rewards of much more straightforward scenarios-appreciated very little.
"I copy." Falling back against the wall and turning his head ever so slightly, he adjusted his ear piece.
"Do you see her yet?" Coulson's voice was calm, collected; unlike Clint-who was, in all honesty, feeling quite ridiculous outfitted in suit and tails-he was back at the base, munching on chips by the sound of it. Of course, it wasn't as though he wasn't a fan of action-but he certainly wasn't a fan of galas-and undercover or not, this mission was quickly growing boring.
Sullenly, Clint peered over the balustrade, his sharp eyes picking out each and every individual figure with enviable ease.
"You said she had red hair, didn't you?" he asked, drawing back while maintaining xa lazy watch out of the corner of his eye. "If she does, I would have seen her by now."
Coulson had just begun to speak when a waiter approached, a tray of hors d'oeuvres balanced delicately atop one flattened palm. Pressing an ear to the wall, he waved him away, and was careful not to speak again until he was out of sight. "Run it by me again, Coulson-if this woman has been killing off people left and right, what in the world makes you think she's going to stop in for a dance and some champagne?"
With an air of long-suffering patience-tainted, perhaps, with a note of amusement-he replied, "The Black Widow is a paid assassin; she goes wherever needed, and our sources tell us that tonight, it will be here."
Sighing, Clint turned once more to the party below. The music fell lightly on his ears, a piano composition, strong and carrying. "Well, I don't see-" His voice trailed away abruptly. There, immersed in the crowd, he felt certain he had seen a flash of brightest crimson-not pale red, or orange or ginger, but truly red. "Never mind: I think I've got her, Coulson."
"Good-follow her." Resisting the urge to respond with sarcasm at the obviousness of this suggestion-and, furthermore, to shut down the connection entirely-Clint waited until a group of partygoers decided to descend the stairs, and fell inconspicuously in among them, careful all along not to lose her.
Dressed as she was all in black, it was only the brightness of her hair that made her so easy to pick out in such a large gathering, and Clint wondered briefly why she had not thought to have it dyed-pride, perhaps, if the little he knew of women stood for anything at all. Women were vain things, or at least those he had met in his travels.
It was a struggle to reach her through the crowd, and Coulson's constant reminders of what was at stake if he failed did little to soothe his frayed nerves, but eventually-finally-he found her. She sat alone at an otherwise empty table, the cut of her slender legs, folded against the soft-backed chair, outlined plainly beneath her gown.
The Black Widow was not at all what Clint had pictured her to be-an older woman, perhaps-at least, older than Clint himself. The fact that she was Russian had even conjured in his mind-stubbornly, irrevocably-the image of the woman in Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Her hair, long and cherry-red, had been drawn back into an elegant, spiraling bun atop her head; two curls, free of their bindings, framed her pale face. Her lips were full, parted ever so slightly, but it was her eyes that truly drew him in-thickly lashed, wide, brightly blue-green.
More startling than anything else, however, was her age. She was certainly not yet twenty-sixteen or seventeen at most, he imagined.
As Clint approached, he eyed her with a mingling sense of relief, and regret. On the one hand, it was plain, surely, that S.H.I.E.L.D. had exaggerated the threat she posed; surely such a young girl was not half so capable as Fury had detailed in the file Clint had received so many days ago. Short of throwing knives around and clumsily shooting off a pistol or two, it was likely she would go down relatively without any fight at all. It was a shame-truly, a shame-that she had to die.
But orders were orders.
"You seem lonely, miss. Aren't you enjoying yourself?" Though Clint had never been a social sort, he forced what he hoped would appear to be an effortlessly charming smile. After a moment, she glanced up at him through her lashes. When she spoke, he was surprised to find not a trace of any accent at all-Russian, or otherwise; her English was flawless.
"There's a difference between loneliness and solidarity." she said smoothly, leaning back in her seat and toying absently with a strand of fiery hair. "Would you like a drink?"
Her gown-black, hugging her body evenly from the waist down-shimmered in the light as she stood and crossed smoothly to the bar. "A vodka, please-straight. And for my friend?"
Eying her teasingly, he asked, "Aren't you a little young for straight vodka, Miss-"
"Rushman." she finished for him, accepting her drink without sparing a glance for the bartender behind her. "Natalie Rushman. And you are?"
Hell if that was her name-not that he remembered it (alright, perhaps he hadn't read her files as thoroughly as he had been instructed to-or, for that matter, at all) but as far as he knew, Rushman was certainly no Russian name.
Well, two could play that game. "Matthew Glennin." he replied firmly, extending his hand; she hesitated only a moment, and then her slender fingers slid beneath his palm. She was dwarfed by him, and Clint couldn't help but feel another pang of guilt at what he was about to do.
"It's stuffy in here, Ms. Rushman-don't you think? Perhaps a breath of fresh air-"
If she was on to him, it didn't show in her face-but then, young as she was, it was unlikely she had mastered the art of hiding emotions as well as Clint himself had; if she was hiding anything, it would likely be easy to read in her face-and right now, her expression was blank, elegant.
The sky outside was a dull, black canvas, sprinkled with an uneven scattering of stars, pinpricks of white against the darkness.
"Do you often flirt with strangers?" she asked, her lips parting in a wry smile that only just reached her eyes, "Or am I a special case?" Her voice was breathy, lower than that of most women he had spoken to before.
"Only with the ones I like, Ms. Rushman." he returned easily.
The redhead turned her back to him and leaned over the railing of the marble terrace. Beneath them, the garden stretched on for miles, an endless maze of neatly trimmed walls of rose bushes, hibiscus blooms, poppies as red as her hair. Clint was reminded of how simple it would be to fulfill his task, here and now, when she was plainly unaware of any foul play. "I'm flattered." Her fingers-slender, white as snow-trailed gently through her hair, tucking a stubborn curl behind her ear.
Now or never-and every sensible part of him was screaming for it to be now. He knew this, had been down this road before-if he hesitated even a moment, he would become attached-would begin to pity her. And life was complicated enough without morals screwing what little reward remained to be reaped from it.
Grimacing, he drew his bow silently from the compartment built into the inner back of his suit-at the very least, it was good for something-and had only just moved to fire when-
Without warning, he blinked-and she was gone. He whirled around, pointing his loaded bow into the night, and was hit head-on, unexpectedly, and hard. Before he knew what was happening, he was on the ground, coated with a fresh layer of grime and dirt. Silent as a shadow in the night, a figure was silhouetted briefly against the sky before it turned once, and landed on its feet before him. Vaulting swiftly to his feet, Clint checked that his bow was intact and peered into the darkness.
"I'm insulted." a voice quipped, drawing steadily nearer. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"
As luck had it-or, rather, training and a little bit of enhancement-his eyes had never had much trouble adjusting to the dark, and after a dicey moment, he could make out first her vague outline, then her exact likeness.
"If you come quietly-" he began, reeling off the familiar words that seemed, suddenly, very forced, "I can promise you that we will be lenient-"
"You aim to kill, Mr. Barton." She spoke his name so dispassionately that it was a moment before Clint realized she knew it at all. Noting his expression, she added "I do my research."
She was armed, a gun in her hand, though he was not entirely sure where it had come from-and it was plain by the look in her eyes that, despite his initial doubts, she had used it before. The best thing to do was to stall her-wait until the perfect moment arose to act, hopefully one during which her attention was compromised. "So do you." he replied. "Which, I believe, is the reason for our meeting in the first place."
She eyed him for a minute-not unguarded, in all honesty, but very vaguely intrigued; feeling instinctively that it was the best chance he could hope to get, Clint tossed his bow and grabbed her in a head lock. Her gun made a dull thud as it hit the ground, and he palmed it swiftly before pointing it at her face.
Suddenly, she was anything but blasé. Her face was a mask of pain-albeit, a stunning one; her eyes, like two chips of sea glass, swam with tears, and her lips trembled. "Your name-tell me your name." he demanded, playing on her fear without hesitation, and hating himself for it.
"Romanoff." she whimpered, falling limp in his arms. "Natasha Romanoff. Please-I-"
Natasha. The name was strikingly familiar, though he could not recall ever having heard it before. He didn't bother to ask whether or not she was telling the truth this time; not only would it serve her little purpose to lie-not with, that was, her end so near-but he felt keenly that there was sincerity in her voice.
"What were you sent here to do, Natasha?" And then, when she could manage nothing but a hysterical sob that choked off in her throat, he shook her until her red curls came loose from the bun that had once held them. "What were you sent here to do?"
"Bobrikov." she sobbed, her porcelain cheeks slick with tears, "I was s-supposed to kill him. But he's been surrounded by guards all day, I-I couldn't get to him."
Of course she couldn't get to him-a huge figure in the government, it was more than unlikely that Bobrikov would leave himself open to assassinations of any kind, it was unfathomable. The more Natasha spoke, the less Clint could bring himself to believe she was a danger to anyone-to him, to S.H.I.E.L.D., even to Dimitri Borikov.
How could he kill her? How could he kill this harmless, helpless girl, sent out to handle a task far too big for her to ever dream of completing?
"Natasha-calm down. Breathe. I promise-I'm not going to hurt you."
A petrified cry caught in her throat, and her eyes found his-shimmering beneath a filmy layer of tears. "You're not?" she managed breathlessly.
He moved to nod-when a fist caught him hard in the mouth. Clint had only just stumbled out of the way when another-small, fast, hard hitting-sent him reeling. Natasha was up and on the move, face still wet with the telltale traces of her crocodile tears, her full lips pursed in the beginnings of a smile. Before he could react to this surprise, she had ducked between his legs, using his own weight against him to bring him crashing down. She elbowed him so hard in the groin that his own eyes teared, and somehow-inexplicably, unbelievably-she stood over him, the black high heel of her foot poised on his stomach, ready to grind a neat little hole into his abdomen should he give the slightest indication of any desire to attempt to escape.
She had been playing him.
And he had taken one look into those big, tearful eyes and fallen for it-hook line and sinker.
Smiling, Natasha cocked her gun and pointed it in his face. She was beautiful in the moonlight, flaming curls now loose and tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes alight-but more importantly, she was deadly.
He had underestimated her-and severely, at that.
His precious bow crunched beneath Natasha's heel as she ground it into the dirt. Clint had nothing left in his arsenal-nothing left but words, and desperation-words, and desperation…and one last defense.
"Natasha-you don't have to do this." he began, but before the sentiment had even truly begun, she was on top of him. They were chest to chest, and her eyes were fixed on his.
"You don't understand anything about what I have to do." she hissed, pressing the barrel of the gun into the fragile hollow of his throat. He could see, however, that he had hit a nerve. Her eyes flickered, and for the slightest of moments-so slight, in fact, that afterwards he would question whether he had simply imagined it-she seemed…afraid. Repentant. Unsure.
"Believe me." Clint grimaced, and a bitter smile played briefly across his features. "I do."
She eyed him askance, hesitated only for a second-but it was enough. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a syringe, uncapped it, and stabbed it into her forearm.
Momentarily, she struggled, but by the time he had gotten to his feet, she was already long gone. He caught her in his arms and threw her over his shoulder, marveling at how someone so small and slight could have so easily sent him to his knees, dizzy with agony.
As she was now-unconscious, silent, her eyes closed-Natasha seemed so different-as sweet and vulnerable as he had imagined her to be when first they'd met. "Don't worry." he chuckled, glancing down at her prone form, "It's just some sleeping meds; I have a feeling you're gonna be very useful to us one day, Ms. Romanoff."