Some people called him a killer. A murderer. A cold, heartless sonofabitch and that's why he got the job.
But Clint didn't kill men. When you kill a man, you can see their soul tremble, scream, as it's ripped from its body. You can feel the regret just pouring into your very being, staining your own soul, your own humanity. Clint Barton has killed men. But only when faced with his life versus theirs. His cause versus their soul.
Clint was a hunter. He was that cloaked hunter, darker than your very nightmares. He stalked the night, the day, the cities, the fields, chasing those very nightmares. Those monsters. Those "men."
So when Clint Barton followed his target through the streets of Budapest, he made a different call.
Her name. What was her name? As the Black Widow chatted politely with the man who decided to sit across from her at the outdoor cafe, she tried to remember her name. Her real name.
Or was it that she would never know her name? The Red Room told her a lot of things. They told her who to love, who to grieve. And love and grieve she did. But now, years past the grief, decades past the love, the Black Widow was without a purpose.
The missions once served as some sort of purpose, but with each kill, each success, the void within her just seemed to grow wider, hungrier.
The Widow flashed an empty smile at the man. He reacted positively, leaning forward, voice lower, huskier. She wished she could do the same. She wished she didn't have this void gnawing at her, darkening this picturesque scene, two strangers, young and full of vitality, sharing a moment.
Natasha Romanoff felt that light and life was draining out of her. Just cold and oil seemed to run through her veins, like a machine.
There was a silence. The man looked at her expectantly, his eyes just brimming with that life she could not have…
Natasha murmured a quick apology and a farewell before quickly departing, chair screeching over pavement and a clatter of change on the table, the man shocked as his eyes followed her down the street.
He didn't follow her, chase her. No one ever did.
She was a Black Widow, leaving poison in her trail. She was flesh, rippling into metal. At least machines had a purpose.
Her SHIELD profile, though scanty, was correct. She was a tough target, her only disadvantage being that vibrant, red hair.
It was a busy day in Budapest, some sort of local celebration going on. Her target was due to arrive at noon, to give some sort of speech. Clint had no idea why that man was her target. For a fleeting moment, Clint wondered if she had any idea too.
She had just left a cafe. Clint cocked his head in curiosity. It was so… sudden. The clatter of change, the screech of the chair. The attention the master spy drew to herself. With a shake of his head, Clint followed her, jumping nimbly, quickly, between the various rooftops.
The Widow seemed perturbed. Clint, as was his nature, wondered why. There was no need for an act in that little cafe. It was just some coffee and a scone. Blueberry, to be precise.
Clint quickly calculated the various scenarios, the variety of needs for such an act. There were none. None that didn't end in compromise. More curious than focused on the mission, Clint observed his target, prepping for her own mission in an old parking garage.
Natasha enjoyed prepping for a kill. Like a music-connoisseur, she enjoyed the rhythm, the subtle clicks, clacks, and snaps. Like one with an eye for art, she took joy in reviewing her products, the fruits of her labor, the gleam in each blade, each barrel of a gun. Natasha Romanoff would never fool herself, however. She was no artist. She was an android.
She knew he was watching. It had taken her two minutes into her preparation to notice. Impressive, was her only thought as she furtively eyed the tufts of blond hair that hadn't moved an inch from their position behind the wall, up high on the roof of the building across from her.
SHIELD had finally brought their a-game. She checked her gun, cocking it, pointing in the direction of the agent, still as stone. She smiled slightly.
This promised to be fun.
Why was she smiling? Clint hated it when his targets smiled, when they put on that facade of humanity. Smiling meant they were up to something. Something not on their itinerary, which Clint always checked twice.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. To make a scene, or not make a scene? It was a totally feasible question. It all depended on whether or not he wanted to annoy Phil or Fury. He grimaced when he remembered his last "scolding." Okay, no scene. Just a quick, anticlimactic kill of the infamous Black Widow. When she wasn't looking (or at least, when Clint thought she wasn't looking), he took aim, breathed in, and breathed out. The arrow flew straight and true, as usual. Clint began packing up and gathering materials for the clean up when he heard the silence.
He peered over the wall. A bullet, quiet and quick, whizzed just millimeters above his hair.
Well, shit. He saw the Widow twirling his arrow like a baton. She caught it.
Natasha watched the agent run, across the rooftop. When she closed her eyes, she could hear the sure and subtle steps as he scaled the wall, descending down, towards her.
When her eyes snapped open, green fire flaring, he was right in front of her, taking aim with his medieval toy. She smiled again, baring razor teeth.
His aim was an invitation, and oh how she wanted to dance.
While he would never admit it, Clint loved this dance. It was like being back at the circus, trying out the high-wire, that high, that dizzying glee that came with the skirting between life and death, between being and nothing.
By the glint in her eyes, Clint knew she lived for this too. Perhaps this was all she lived for. Only the constant pumping of adrenaline kept her going, kept the machine moving, the wind-up toy chittering.
And he'd be damned if he didn't take the lead. He loosed one arrow. She threw it back.
And so it began.
To the normal civilian, this scene would be quite beautiful, quite disconcerting. Quite disconcertingly beautiful. One didn't know whether to watch in awe or call the police. But no civilian saw this dance, this leaping over shards of broken stories, broken lives, broken lies.
The Widow's superiors and her target's men, however, did.
The pair was compromised.
It was like a ballet. Two single dancers, spinning, whirling, plucking stories and emotions from the air. But there are never only two dancers. And so the others came.
It was quick and the two rivals were suddenly back to back. The other dancers weren't there to enhance their show; they were there to destroy it.
Clint was having a horrible day. He had ordered those damn oatmeal raisin cookies instead of chocolate chip, pointing to the bunch in the glass counter, not bothering to clarify. They were still back at the rendezvous-point, where he was supposed to celebrate his victory with Phil later. And then he couldn't find his favorite bow for two hours. Of course it was underneath one of his spare pairs of pants. Thank goodness he spilled boiling hot coffee on the pair he wearing; he never would have found his bow otherwise.
And to top it all off, he was now fighting alongside his target for their lives.
The mob of black-Clint couldn't tell who or what they were, they were just all dressed in black, because that's totally subtle in broad daylight- just kept coming, kept flowing, like an icy river he'd fallen into as a boy. Except no one there was too keen on saving him.
He eyed his partner- no, his target. The Black Widow was his target. She lost that sort of dainty, playful mood. She fired bullet after bullet, threw knife after knife, all without a second thought, backwards glance. If this was what she was really like, then why did she toy with him?
These people were just ruining her day. Wasn't she entitled to a bit of fun, now and then? She chucked a knife furiously, not bothering to see her target, satisfied to just hear the squelch of flesh and crunch of bone.
This agent was different. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but that was precisely what she found enticing about him. Those cool grey eyes spoke volumes about something. Him? His beliefs? Or were they a reflective pool, revealing herself, her beliefs?
She'd never find out if these buffoons killed him. She whipped her head as she heard a grunt, a small groan, a collapse.
He had fallen.
Clint wasn't falling. Was he? He couldn't tell. It was like being on that high wire, that high wire that Barney was so much better at than he was. He remembered falling from that, and it wasn't quite like now.
Maybe it was like that scene from Alice in Wonderland. That high little girl, with that crazy cat. The cat in the hat. No, that was a different story.
'Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
Clint remembered a sharp rap on the knuckles. Such nonsense wasn't acceptable for society.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Where was it, his sword?
Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
I'm trying! I'm trying!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
I'm trying. I'm so tired.
Clint heard a furious whisper, a cursing. It was so much scarier than the Jabberwock. He clung to it, those prickly words. They hurt, but they let him know he was alive.
As he felt himself fade, Clint swore he could hear the vorpal blade go snicker-snack.
O frabjous day. Callooh. Callay.
It was cold when Clint awoke. He heard someone muttering, no, singing. A quiet tune, a melody harsh from disuse. He sat up, his hands feeling sticky. He raised them, dripping red. He felt a jolt of panic until a soothing hand, rough and worn, touched his shoulder.
It wasn't his blood. He looked around, a slew of bodies, black shadows, remnants of nightmares. The fiery woman beside him with her hand on his shoulder. He turned and backed away, frightened, hands tripping over inky blood, pain shooting up and down his leg.
The Widow didn't move. Clint stopped when he saw her face. Resigned. Lost. But only for a moment. She reached for Clint's bow and an arrow.
Clint closed his eyes. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much that way. He felt a stinging pain spread through his thighs as the weight of his bow and the arrow land on his lap. The woman (Clint knew a thousand different names for her, but which one was real? Or did she hide that too, like her very being? Maybe she didn't have one. Maybe it was taken away.) looked at him and gave him a curt nod. Do it.
Clint nodded in return. He picked up the bow and arrow, limbs more familiar than his legs, now burning with that slow, slow pain.
He drew back the arrow, string taut. One lift of the finger, and he would become a hero. The man who killed the Widow. The only man to survive the Widow.
A murderer. A coward.
He could see her soul trembling, struggling, beneath her pale flesh stained with blood. He could see it flashing in bursts, like fireworks, in her green eyes just before she closed them, like he did only moments ago. No, Clint couldn't kill her.
Clint killed monsters. Not people.
His bow and arrow rattled as they hit the ground. The woman's eyes snapped open.
He raised a hand towards her. "I could use some help here."
Why didn't he kill me? She muttered the question repeatedly under her breath, peppering the lengthy breath of whispers with a few curses here and there. All the blood in that garage wasn't even close to the amount of red in her ledger. No, he saw something; he saw something with those grey eyes.
She glanced down at him. He gave quick directions, staring at the set path ahead, making sure they avoided any people, any questions.
He had her stop in front of a green door, the faded paint chipping here and there. He rapped some sort of password on it. Natasha heard the variety of locks slide and click as the door was unlocked. The agent, hand still sticky with blood, opened the door, the jingle of a bell indicating their entrance.
There was no indication of who let them in, but Natasha knew they were watching, wondering what she would do. She felt an elbow nudge her. "You might want to stop the muttering. Gets my handler on edge." The agent flashed her a small grin, genuine. She resisted smiling back and nodded in reply.
The agent stuck his chin out in the direction of a back room. "Just there." Natasha pushed back the beaded curtain, revealing a small, but comfy, cot, a simple stand-up lamp, some dusty bookshelves, a musty loveseat, and a small table, a box of cookies on top.
She laid him down on the cot. She found some medical supplies underneath it and proceeded to patch him up. He was quiet. Strong. Or maybe, like her, too scared to admit otherwise. He would need some proper medical care, but the gauze and cotton would have to suffice.
Natasha then promptly picked up the loveseat and the box of cookies, setting them down beside him. She sat down, letting the acrid smell of dust and mildew coat her lungs. She bit into a slightly stale cookie. Oatmeal raisin. Her favorite. She offered one to the agent.
He wrinkled his nose. "Just hand me a water bottle. I could do without those deceptive little things." Natasha shrugged. More for her. She handed him a water bottle from underneath the cot.
"Name's Barton. Clint Barton." He looked at her, making direct eye contact. Natasha wanted to hide, crawl back into the snow bank they had found her in.
The agent rolled those grey eyes of his. "This is where you tell me your name. Or do you prefer the Black Widow?" Natasha set down the cookie.
"Romanoff. My name is Natasha Romanoff."
So the Widow had a name. That means she had a past, didn't it? "Tell me about yourself, Natasha." He watched a shudder run through her, as if he had suggested murder. Wait, she would actually be much more comfortable with that, wouldn't she? Her lips were pressed into a thin line, a lock without a key.
Clint sat up, ignoring both the pain and Natasha's clearly protesting looks. He pointed at her. "You're the one in enemy territory. You're the one who made a different call. You're the one who's gonna have to explain to me why I couldn't kill you."
Clint glared at the Widow. But he wasn't mad.
Wait, yes he was. He was mad and frustrated and confused and he felt like his body was either going to explode or implode but it sure was taking its sweet time deciding on which and oh my god she just kept staring at him…
Her eyes darted to his hands, which he realized were balled up into white, trembling fists. Oh. She was… afraid? Nervous? Scared?
According to every report Clint Barton has ever read, the notorious Black Widow was not human. Maybe an android or a well-trained beast or just some poor sap who didn't stand a chance against the life-sucking organization that churned out monsters.
In the SHIELD betting pool, Clint had placed his money on the third option.
But hell, they were all wrong.
Monster-making was an inexact science, Clint supposed. Natasha probably put on the monster mask, maybe even believed it for a while. She was anything but.
Clint stretched out his fingers, flexing the stiff joints. The Widow- Natasha- visibly relaxed.
"Okay, you don't have to tell me." Clint shrugged. Ow. Bad idea. As he winced he flashed a pained smile. "But you could help me lie back down." He was leaning on his hands, not quite sure how to flop back down on the cot without breaking anymore of his ribs, bleeding, or causing organ damage.
Natasha rolled her eyes before helping the archer with a bemused half-smile.
"My handler will be here soon." Natasha stiffened, letting Clint hover between sitting up and lying done, a very painful position. He winced. Should've waited until I was back down.
Clint thought about giving her a comforting pat on the shoulder. Then he decided he like his hand.
He flailed a bit, trying to get the woman to focus. She set him down, her eyes still glassy. He was just glad she didn't drop him. She stood stiff, as if over a corpse. Oh, that's a comforting thought, Barton.
For once, Natasha had no idea what she was doing. She should've died a little over an hour ago. She had no plans for the future.
But she was still a human. She still had blood running through her veins, adrenaline was being pumped through those little red rivers, her brain, her senses were in overdrive, she still wanted to live. So the casual statement of a SHIELD superior officer coming into the same room as her was not at all comforting.
Clint may have thought Natasha was staring at his corpse, but she was actually contemplating hers. Would they give her a funeral? Or just burn the body and watch the ashes scatter? Probably neither. Keep her body and use it for research and experiments, that was more likely.
"Natasha?" Her name sounded so foreign, yet so familiar coming from him. She glanced towards those steely eyes. They begged a question, a question she wasn't sure she could ever answer, Can you trust me?
At this point, she had nothing lose. Why not?
She gave a curt nod. Clint looked more at ease. Natasha wasn't sure why, but she felt warmer, happier. Hm. The other side of the coin. It was nice. Quaint, even.
She grabbed the box of cookies, sat back down in the loveseat, put her feet over the armchair, and decided to stop thinking. Pretend she was reliving some nonexistent childhood memory of sitting on the couch and munching some fresh baked cookies, mom making hot chocolate, dad solving the crossword, siblings playing a board game.
How quaint.
Phil Coulson knew better than to randomly walk in on to two highly trained assassin spies. Of course he could take them on and probably take them out with minimal injury. But he needed them alive. He needed them to trust him.
So he waited. And waited. And waited.
How many cookies could a person eat? Never mind, Coulson knew Clint. The answer was infinity.
And how much sleep do two tired, injured assassins need? Especially one with such great injuries? Eight hours should be enough, right?
In the morning, Phil went out to get some muffins and coffee. All blueberry muffins and black coffee. These people were professionals. They could suck it up if they didn't like it. Before deciding to enter the room, Phil took another glance at the computer monitor. They were awake and wondering where the hell he was. No morning attacks. Good.
"You sure took your sweet time getting here, sir." Despite the jovial tone, Clint did not look like his usual tiptop self. There was a light sheen of sweat and a slight tremble in his hands. Phil would have to make this quick.
"What kind example are you setting Barton?" He gestured to Natasha. It was a lovely name. Quite fitting.
The pair looked at the agent in utter confusion. Phil sighed. "Muffin? Coffee?" He took one each for himself. He glanced at Clint. Yup, Clint was sick. He looked nauseated simply by the idea of ingesting anything. Natasha slowly took a coffee. She stared at it like it might be poison. Phil idly wondered how many people have tried to poison the Widow.
"It's not poisoned." He gestured towards Clint. "Let him take a sip." She looked incredulous, then took a sip herself. Interesting, Phil speculated.
After deciding she wasn't about to die, the woman looked toward him expectantly, after taking a furtive glance at Clint, who was panting, his hand hands clasped together as he tried to stop the faint tremor, to regain control. He needed to go to medical.
"Sir?" Clint asked through gritted teeth. "I know you love drawing out these daunting, threatening welcomes and how-do-you-do's before telling, well kind of forcing, them they're coming with you for possible employment, but I really feel like today's a great day to take a stroll through medical." He started gesticulating wildly. "You know what I mean? The sun is shining, it's a nice summer day…"
Even when pained, fevered, and slightly delirious, Barton sure could talk the ears off of even the most patient or attentive handler. Coulson sighed again. He looked at the Widow like she was a fellow conspirator, already a friend. She cocked her head slightly, curious. He gestured towards the still rambling archer with a grim, but bemused, smile. "Wanna help me drag his ass to the helicarrier?"
Natasha gave a small smile, like that little girl of that nonexistent childhood. Phil thought she should smile more. Clint would've agreed, if he hadn't been hallucinating and talking to some purple giraffe named Jeffrey about some past mission.
Natasha moved towards the man's head and carefully and quite gently to Coulson's surprise, raised his upper body as the handler navigated the lower half and began walking backwards towards the door.
She was quiet, but Phil Coulson had been expecting that. What he hadn't expected was that gentleness, that smile, that breathy chuckle as she "talked" with Clint's newest hallucination. As he watched the pair interact, a single words played on repeat in Phil's mind.
Interesting.
Yes, this pair, this partnership, would be quite interesting.
A/N: Not sure about the ending. I had a few in mind, this one being the most satisfactory. And this little plot bunny is just bursting with more (which I am trying to ignore... I have other fics in mind, thank you very much, bunnies). But anyways, hoped you enjoyed!
Also, credits to Lewis Carroll and the wonderful "Jabberwocky" poem. And to my beta, who is also quite wonderful. :)