The Five Times Clint and Natasha First Met

This has to be written. But bear in mind, this is movie-verse. I haven't read the comic books at all so everything in this story is based on my own interpretations of the characters. Their backgrounds and stories are what I imagine to have happened. So, you have been warned - it is probably not in line with comic-canon. Please READ and REVIEW! Reviews are better than chocolatey stuff - and that's saying a lot!

(1)

The first time, she was Katie Westwood, living in a white house in Maine, in a little bedroom with green curtains and stars on the ceiling. She had a set of parents- fake, of course; they made dinner for her every evening and they kept a mini van in the garage of their American suburban home. She was twelve years old, or so she believed. He was a little bit older, but then again, she could never really tell with him. Liars, the both of them; they had forgotten how to tell the truth.

He took the seat opposite of her in the school library. She noted the messy brown hair, the school bag slung over his right shoulder and the casual way in which he threw down a textbook on the whitewashed table: Trigonometry.

"Hi. Katie, is it?"

She narrowed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

"I'm Rick. They assigned me as your ..uh, tutor."

She still did not say anything. He regarded her; she was a little girl with fiery red hair with eyes like bullets. She was small for her age, slim and supple. The school uniform she wore was in amazing condition, unlike his, and he noticed she was reading Kafka before he arrived. She now lowered the said book, shifting slightly in her seat, and he immediately noticed that her eyes flicked towards the library door; her exit route was now marked.

"Who are you again?" she asked.

"Rick. I'm a senior. I'm supposed to be your -"

"Tutor, right," she interrupted, closing the book. "I didn't ask for a tutor."

"Well, you got assigned one."

"And they sent you?"

"Apparently."

Then, she smiled - a smile of someone much older. It was calculating and almost cruel; he started to realize that they might have underestimated this little weapon.

"You are not a student here," she said simply.

"I don't know what you mean." Maintain the cover, they said.

"The way you wear your uniform is all wrong. The shoes, the bag, it all screams set up." She raised her eyebrows. "No mention the fact that I have not seen you in this school before today. And trust me, if you were a student, I would know."

He remained still.

Finally, she leaned forward: "So, one last chance. Who are you?"

He leaned forward as well, close enough so it was only she who could hear what he had to say. She noticed that his eyes were very brown; they were hard and unmoving. She stared right back.

"The question here isn't who I am," said he, "but who are you...Natasha?"

Natasha's expression did not betray anything. She held the gaze for a moment longer, then relaxed back into her chair. Her fingers began drumming on the table.

"Are you here to kill me...Rick?"

"Surprisingly not."

"Then..."

"We know what you are, little girl." She flinched at the address. He chose not to comment, but continued calmly: "You and your false identity. The house, the parents, the school... It's all as real as my fucking get-up today."

"Arrest me, then," said Natasha, her voice rising defiantly. When he did not reply, she begun to understand; the same smile spread across her face.

"Oh, but you can't yet, can you?" said she playfully. "You need me. You don't need me dead just yet. You just want to watch me. Keep me in check, isn't that right?"

She accepted his silence as confirmation. She stopped drumming her fingers and cocked her head slightly to the left, appraising the young boy opposite of her. "So...what now?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Trying to trick me is endearing."

"Watch it, little girl." He measured her with his eyes. "I know what you are... the girl born from fire. Already with blood on your hands. Impressive, actually. But don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one."

"I'm not a little girl," she snapped. "If you knew..."

"The hospital in Washington, the congressman from New York - all you," he interrupted, his voice biting. "I know enough."

"Then, you should know to be afraid. Very afraid." Her green eyes flashed. "If I were you, I would kill me right now at this table. But the problem seems to be you need me alive a little longer..."

This time, it was he who smiled. "Just a little longer, little girl," said he. "Only a little longer."

"You keep calling me a little girl. Why?" She had to ask despite of herself. "How old are you then?"

"Seventeen," said he immediately.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I can tell."

He lapsed into silence again. Natasha studied his face; it was an old face, she decided. It looked young, but it masked an older soul- an older being, who had seen too much and done too much. She recognized such a face easily; she was too familiar with it.

"I expect I'll see you again one day," said Natasha. "I'll look forward to it."

"You look forward to killing me." He had to smile amusingly at that.

"Not if you don't kill me first." She pushed back her chair and stood up. He figured if he did the same, she would come up to only his shoulders. He didn't stand up, though; he decided it was easier this way. His orders had been to let her go. Not to compromise the mission.

Natasha was standing over him, looking down with a few strands of red hair in her eyes. "You're different," she stated bluntly.

"I have a habit."

"You know my name," said she slowly. "What is yours, then?"

"And why should I tell you, little girl?" He smirked, knowing it would irritate her. "So you can hunt me down tonight and kill me in my sleep?"

"I won't do that."

He laughed. "You won't kill me because you don't see any profit in it. Yet."

Natasha's blank expression told him that he was right. "Go on, Natasha. Leave."

"I want your name."

"Why is it important?" he asked disbelievingly.

"It just is." Her eyes bore into his. Her face remained emotionless, but those eyes... he realized they could trap you - make you do things you couldn't take back. It was like he had seen them somewhere before. But, really, he had not.

"Clint," he found himself saying out loud. "That's my name. Clint."

She nodded. "Alright then."

He nodded back. It was a farewell, of a sort. Clint watched as she walked around him and went towards the exit. The school bag she was carrying kept bouncing off her leg and her red hair framed her tiny, impassive face. She looked incredibly young just then. Before she reached the door, she turned back and spotted him again. She raised her voice so he could hear her.

"Hey, Clint!" said she, "You're still not seventeen."

Then she was gone, through the door in a flash of red and gold.

And that was the first time.