This turned out to by about twice as big as I thought it would be, so this is the first of two chapters. I found a little writing challenge in a book I have, the first paragraph of the story popped into my head, and words just kept coming from there (I love it when that happens). Okay, shutting up now. Enjoy!:)
Normal people just used scopes. Coulson made sure to tell Clint this. Frequently. Often times vehemently. Coulson claimed it was safer with one. Clint said he did better work without one. And he really did; everyone knew that he could see better from far away.
So it wasn't like he had to get closer to his target in order to kill her, he just kind of… wanted to. This was the famous Russian feme fatal, Black Widow, after all, and Clint was… curious. He had been staring intently at the window of her empty hotel room from a rooftop a number of houses away, and when the moment came that she stepped into that room, he couldn't help but employ his zip line to get him to a closer roof – and a better view.
At first glance, Black Widow – Natasha Romanoff, or Natalia Romanova, really, but it was better not to think of a mark by their Christian name, American or Russian variant – appeared to be in her early, maybe even mid, twenties. Clint watched through the window as she casually shrugged off a gray trench coat and threw it across the back of a chair, revealing a blood-spattered blue dress.
So she had been at work tonight too…
Next, Widow plopped – actually plopped with none of the grace that she was so well-known for – down into the chair and made quick work of removing from her feet a pair of murderously spiked black heels before throwing the shoes hatefully against the opposite wall. After a moment of feet massaging that Clint would bet was well-deserved, Widow stood in the middle of the room and unzipped the sequined party dress she was wearing, sliding it down until it landed in a pool around her feet.
Clint watched, as utterly unashamed as ever, as she went over to her tiny ready-to-go-at-any-moment suitcase and pulled out a hot pink sweatpants and sweatshirt set, pulling the clothing on. She went and stood in front of the mirror then, painstakingly pulling out every bobby pin from her elaborate up-do.
Hawkeye was already becoming a little intrigued by this version of the Widow that was emerging in his very line of sight. She wore hot pink swear suits and appeared, of all the silly things, to be rather tender-headed.
He caught himself thinking that it was rather a pity that he was going to have to kill her.
But when she started removing her makeup, his feeling of pity became one of downright nausea. As layer upon layer was removed from her face, he realized that this was no twenty-something woman. The ever-so-famous, dangerous assassin Black Widow could not have been any older than eighteen years old.
And he was supposed to put an arrow through her eye, just like a good hunter might do to a flighty deer. Hunt and eliminate; that was his job. But he was ready to slap money down on the fact that Natasha Romanoff – no, just "Black Widow" – would not be one to flee. She would fight back and kill him without a second thought if the opportunity was presented to her.
Yet Clint found himself moving in even closer to that hotel room window – and not necessarily so that he could get a better shot, either. Natasha – Black Widow – was distracted for this second with peering into the mirror as she removed her makeup, leaning towards the mirror, neck exposed as she titled her head to catch the light just right. Prone. Relaxed to the point of careless. He should do it. He should take the shot, and he should do it now – but he didn't.
He imagined doing it, though, for just a split second. Cocking the arrow in his bow and releasing it with precise aim towards Natasha's – the Black Widow's – neck. He could practically feel how the bowstring would reverberate as the arrow sped towards its target. He could hear the sound the glass of the window would make as it shattered, and see with brilliant clarity the sparkling bits of glass as they sprayed upon impact. The brightness of those shards, however, would be no match for the light of terror in Natasha's – Black Widow's! – eyes in the half of a second before that arrow pierced her pale neck. The blood of a legend, only a shade darker than that of her hair, would splatter upon the mirror in front of her, and her lithe form would crumple to the floor, eyes still wide open with shock. Her life would be over, and Clint's job would be done. Simple.
Or not.
Because Clint realized suddenly that it wasn't just that he wouldn't take the perfect shot he was being presented with… but, for the first time in his life, he couldn't.
There were too many unknown mysteries here… mysteries that he suddenly wanted to solve. Too much life left in this girl – and he just could not bring himself to be the one to snuff that life out. He wanted to get to know her – Natasha or Natalia, not the Black Widow. He wanted to find out what else was underneath the mask of the Widow, what truly comprised the person underneath. Because from what he saw on her face, he could tell that she was not truly just the heartless mercenary that everyone claimed she was. In this moment when she thought she was alone and let her guard down, she was a hurting, frustrated human being – part of her still a child – and Clint couldn't quite bring himself to make her life end on a note such as that. Not when she seemed to still have so much to offer.
The totally rogue thought slipped into his mind then: maybe he could harness those talents for SHIELD rather than wipe them off the planet entirely? Someone with Natasha's skill set would be invaluable to SHIELD – if her loyalties could be switched to the agency.
In the next moment, Clint was moving even closer until he was on the rooftop nearest her hotel room window. The least he could do was ask her, he rationalized. If she said no, then – and only then – he would have to reconsider killing her.
By the time he landed on that nearest rooftop, Natasha had moved from standing in front of the mirror, and his heart stuttered when he realized that she had opened the hotel room window and stuck her head out. She was staring straight up at him with an expression that was all at once open, guarded, curious, and kind.
"No need to stay out there, you know," she said sweetly, a thick Russian accent lacing her words. "Come in." Clint didn't move for a long minute, just stared at her until she repeated, "Come," and then added, "Don't act surprised. Surely you know that I could see you through the mirror."
So why hadn't she killed him? He knew he'd seen a gun in plain sight on the bedside table, and it was very accessible to her. The question got him moving, oddly enough, and Natasha moved further back into her room so that he could oblige her and spring in through the window. He landed on the carpet in a crouched position, staring warily into her blue eyes as he stood slowly.