dammit, avengers. so many feels. i know i should be updating 'the news from your bed', and God knows i've neglected 'narrow paths' horribly, but AUGH, THEY'RE PERFECT I CAN'T HELP MYSELF. this is probably not a one-shot, but i'm calling it finished until i actually commit to continuing it. i'm adorable that way :P
XXX
He corners her in a warehouse, a dusty and cavernous hellhole that has plenty of nooks and crannies for a disappearing act like the Widow to slip into, but to his surprise, she's sitting in the middle of the cargo area, looking, for all the world, as if she's waiting for him. She's panting with one hand pressed into her side – he thought he'd nicked her, but from the way she ran he hadn't been sure – and kneeling.
He adjusts his grip on his crossbow. He's feeling the clock to the ribs she gave him - her hand-to-hand is something else. It's almost a shame he's going to have to kill her; it's been a long time since a mark's made him work this hard. This week has been like a game, almost. Cat and mouse, give and take, tit for tat. She's matched him every step of the way, and damn if he hasn't enjoyed it a bit.
He shifts his weight slightly, grinning to himself. He's crouched on the centermost beam, in the shadow of a pillar. It's a good vantage point; she'd have been hard pressed to find a position where he couldn't get a sight on her, but given she's done everything but paint a target in the middle of her forehead, he's thinking she's done hiding. What's your play, Widow?
"Some of us would like to go home, Barton," Coulson says dryly in his ear.
It's odd, actually. It's her move. He didn't think it would be this easy. It shouldn't be this easy.
"Barton?"
"I copy," Clint mutters back. "Stop worrying, Mother." But something's wrong, something's off. He rolls his shoulders, mouth set. Whatever it is, it's time to stop playing games. Stop stalling and go. He breathes in, takes aim, and gives himself a beat to close his eyes and clear his mind.
When he opens them, she's staring right at him.
He tenses. She'd known all along where he was - shit. He has to take the shot now or she's gone forever, he's seen how fast she can vanish, and he'll be damned if he's going to chase her all over Barcelona again. He pulls the bow taut. She straightens ever so slightly.
But neither of them moves.
She stares at him. He stares back. Then, very deliberately, she gives him a slow, brusque nod.
"Agent Barton?"
Clint exhales slowly through his nose.
"Hold on." Coulson hesitates - Clint can hear it in his silence - but whatever reservations he has he keeps to himself. Clint, arrow still trained on the subject, grits his teeth. He's not sure what this is, to be honest, which is incredibly unnerving. He's been trained to read people, to know what move they're going to make before they know it themselves, and he's never been wrong yet. Now, though...
His gut tells him she won't bolt. If he hadn't practically memorized her file - "extensive knowledge of various armed and unarmed combat" and "highly manipulative, skilled liar" come to mind - he'd almost think she's giving up. She's bracing herself; it's all over her face, in her clenched jaw and defiant glare. She knows what he's here for and is going to let him do his job.
And before he is even fully conscious of making a decision, he's already relaxed his arm.
Bow lowered, he jumps off the beam. She doesn't flinch at this sudden change of tactic, nor does she twitch a muscle when he lands next to her with a muffled thump. She continues to stare him down, though, eyes weary and wary and resigned.
"Hello," he says amiably. He can tell he's surprised her. Coulson coughs, almost inaudibly, in his earpiece. Clint ignores him. The subject blinks slowly, waiting. "I have orders to kill you," he informs her without preamble. A fleeting expression of something like annoyance ghosts across her face.
"Barton," Coulson asks, almost conversationally, in his ear. "What are you doing?"
"Do you want to die?" Clint asks, ignoring him. The subject remains mute. "Because - full disclosure - I don't really want to kill you."
A long, long pause.
"Why?"
Her voice is quiet, lower than the recordings. Clint raises an eyebrow.
"You tell me."
Something flickers in her eyes.
"You should take your shot," she tells him. "Before it's too late."
"Barton," Coulson says emphatically. Clint blocks him out. He's going to catch hell for this.
"Do either of us really want that?" Clint asks. Coulson breathes through his nose.
For a moment he wonders if he has made a grave error in judgment; she shifts, and he is reminded quite acutely that this woman is lethal, that this woman could take him out in one fluid movement. There is a cool, calculated capacity to kill behind her impassivity, one that he would be a fool to underestimate. But then she rocks back on her heels.
"I don't know," she says, and there's enough hesitancy, enough caution that he believes her. Carefully, slowly, he extends a hand.
"My name is Agent Clint Barton," he offers. She meets his eyes unflinchingly, but makes no move to take his hand.
"Natalia Romanova." She cracks a crooked almost-smile. "But you knew that."
"Ms. Romanova, on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D., I'd like to recruit you," Clint informs her. Coulson begins to mutter a vehement plea for patience under his breath to no one in particular. "You are a highly skilled individual with a variety of very particular talents - be a shame to waste 'em," Clint says pointedly, all but quoting the damn book.
Coulson continues to soliloquize, but with more resignation than any real conviction. Romanova, meanwhile, is looking at him as if he's crazy, which he probably is.
"You want out," he adds, and again, something behind her eyes rises to the surface before disappearing again. "Here's your chance. Take it or leave it, Ms. Romanova."
He's gambling, and they both know it.
But her hand slips into his, warmer than he'd expected.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Barton," Coulson mutters into his ear as Clint helps Romanova up. "And you can explain this to Fury." He grumbles something about "bringing home strays," but Clint is only half-paying attention, all focus instead on the Russian assassin in front of him. She's peering at him, almost frowning. Almost angry.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks. He has a quip about not wanting to waste a beautiful woman on the tip of his tongue, but the words that hang in the air between them are startlingly honest:
"I looked at you, and I saw myself."
She absorbs this, considers it. Then she meets his eyes with something not unlike respect.
"I owe you," she says after a moment, quietly.
Those words will haunt him long after they leave that warehouse, two enemies who somehow stumbled onto something like peace.