A/N I've been writing my Hogwartvenger fic and this plot bunny popped up. I had to write it.

It's a very experimental fic, and I imagine it may not be well received. If it's not I won't continue it, but hell I figured why not give it a go?

I hope you read/Enjoy it.

Please review.

Chapter One

Hunting The Black Widow

It only took one arrow to kill targets usually. However Clint always packed three. One shot as a warning, to let them know he was there, one for the leg to halt their escape, and a third destined for the victim's heart. Could you call Clint's targets victims? That was perhaps debatable. In his head, no. They deserved this death. All were handpicked by SHIELD to be killed for a reason. They were evil. Monsters.

"Your mission is simple, Agent Barton. Find the Black Widow, and exterminate her," Clint's handler Coulson barked down the phone. The Widow had been on their hit list for over a year and every other agent who went after her either failed miserably, or ended up assassinated before they could try. Clint wasn't worried though. Not at all. He knew for a fact that he was more powerful than she was. It was a close call, but he was just slightly better.

"Got it. Already located her."

Clint was in Munich. As soon as the word got out that the Black Widow was in Germany, SHIELD had shipped its best agents out to various locations. The Widow is fast. Incredibly fast and as soon as they managed to pin her down in one location, she would always slip out of their grasp. This time SHIELD moved incredibly quickly to get to her. They closed in, stopped airports from allowing planes to leave, and made sure border security had the girl's picture. There was no way she would be allowed to leave Germany. If she did, SHIELD would be waiting. Still, the girl had a mission to carry out. Assassinate the daughter of a politician stationed in Munich. As long as the girl was alive, the Black Widow would not try leave.

She was persistent. Just like Clint.

Clint loaded up his quiver. Got his three arrows ready. It wasn't cocky, and during battles or major missions he would certainly take more, but for simple assassinations, three was all that was needed. Checking his weapons one more time, he smirked. Killing the Black Widow would certainly gain him respect in SHIELD. They knew he was talented, obviously he wouldn't be employed if they didn't think so, but his choice of weaponry was something of a joke among agents of all ages and statuses.

Clint would show them. Their guns and knives couldn't kill the Black Widow.

His arrows could.

The mark was easy enough to track, her hair colour was rather conspicuous. The flash of red hurried through the backstreets of the more derelict part of town, which surprised him. Her target was supposed to be very upper class. He supposed she knew that he was coming for her. That her end was nearing. Crafty, hiding in a part of town that she wasn't supposed to be in. Quickly he swept the area, looking for other agents of KGB. Nobody. The Black Widow ducked into a decrepit, probably abandoned building for refuge and Clint followed. Stalking along the rafters, he followed her, loading up his bow with the warning arrow.

"Who's there?" She called in a thick Russian accent. Clint peered at her, taking in her tense stance. Could it be true? Was the Black Widow actually scared? He doubted it.

Clint released the arrow, watching it as it soared through the air and landed at her feet. She reached down and picked up the arrow, seeing the note Clint had attached.

Love Hawkeye.

The paper fluttered to the floor as she darted around, trying to find sanctuary. Clint clutched one of the many chains that hung from the ceiling, used for heavy lifting years ago when the warehouse was in operation. The glint of silver was the only contrast to the otherwise dark, damp wooded appearance of the room. He abseiled down the wall, and moved quickly through the shadows, keeping a close eye on the Widow.

The second arrow was loaded and released, quickly digging into the woman's calf. Clint smiled in grim satisfaction as she cried out. The woman was a good actress, that much he could tell. But Clint wasn't buying it. She was vicious, and a fighter. However the wound he created would be a hindrance.

What confused him though was she sank to her knees, not even reaching for her guns.

"Come out, Hawkeye," She called, her voice softer than before.

He stayed in the shadows, studying her carefully. This could be a trap. It most likely was. Though he did have the upper hand, he wasn't going to risk it.

"I want to see the face of my killer," She added, running a shaky hand through her hair. Clint analyzed the action. Perhaps it was to give him a sense of security, that she was nervous. "Please. I accept defeat. I'm ready," Despite her shakiness, her voice was firm.

Clint eventually stepped out of the shadows, keeping his final arrow aimed at her.

"Ah. The famous Black Widow. I must say, you're talented. I might even say it's a pleasure to meet you," He replied smoothly, on edge. The place was silent. She really was alone.

"I'm not getting out of Germany. I know this. I'm not stupid. I kill you, they just send more. Ironically SHIELD is acting like the Hydra," The woman muttered, flashing Clint a look of pure loathing.

"Yes, well, I'm the lucky man who gets to dispose of you," Clint's expression was stern, not backing down from her glare. "Hawkeye. Or Agent Barton. Whichever you prefer," He introduced himself.

"Agent Barton. It makes you seem more…human," She shook her head a little. There was absolutely nothing human about this situation. "Black Widow. However my name is Natalia Romanova, or perhaps you'd rather call me Natasha, my preferred name."

"I know who you are," Clint shot back. He had read her files. He just preferred to think of her as the Black Widow. The venomous, extraordinarily spider that just needed squashed. Like she said, calling her Natasha would make her seem more human. He didn't like that.

In this light she seemed very young. Eighteen or so. Age didn't matter to Clint. He had killed younger. And the girl was a trained killer. It didn't matter how pretty she was. Or how much potential she had. Natasha- The Black Widow- was just another mark. Nothing more.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know I will be punished for my crimes and sins in the afterlife. No matter where I go, I'm doomed. I have accepted this fate. You may proceed," Natasha hung her head, her long red curls obscuring her face.

It really was too easy. The woman was on her knees before him, awaiting her sentence to be carried out. Her crimes were not Clint's place to judge, but hell, he was just the executioner.

"You're not sorry," Clint replied sharply, his tone causing her to wince.

"Perhaps I'm not. I've done many things in my life, none of them I regard as particularly awful. You, however, think I am a monster," Her voice was quiet.

"I'm not weak. I'm certainly not going to get drawn into this act. This arrow is meant for you," Clint snapped, drawing the string back.

"I know."

"For what it's worth, you're the most talented person I've killed," He added, feeling a twinge of guilt.

"I know."

"Tell me, Black Widow, are you ready to die?"

When she looked up, her eyes betrayed a certain fear Clint had not known was possible. He had believed the woman was emotionless. But she was scared. He could see it in her eyes.

"Yes," She replied, softly lying to appear stronger.

"Very well," Clint closed his eyes and released the arrow, hearing a sharp intake of breath, followed by a dull thud.

There was no cliché. No blinding light for her to float up into. She never faded away into darkness. She wished she had. Part of her wanted to be engulfed by nothingness. To feel serenity and peace wash over her, cooling her skin, and her frantic mind. The gates of hell didn't open up, sending out demons to drag her down. There were no angels either. No seemingly endless stairways that disappeared into the clouds.

Death was pain. And the world just seemed more vivid. Lurid. There was red everywhere.

Clint wouldn't leave until he was sure she was dead. The Black Widow floundered before him, gasping in obvious agony. Her slurred voice cried out for him, begging for help as she died. Clint almost felt bad for her, the death wasn't a fast process. Her blood was flowing slowly from the wound, which was probably causing her a lot of suffering.

Another stab of guilt had Clint reaching for his pocket knife. He drew the knife quickly across her throat, knowing that would speed up her death. It was a pity kill.

The Black Widow exhaled a shuddering last breath and that was that. Another target hit.

"Coulson, you copy? The Black Widow is dead," He said down his comm, his voice monotonous.

Receiving the time and place of the debriefing, Clint groaned, looking down at the body. A clean up team would take care of it. He reached down and removed the arrow, relieved to see a peaceful expression on her face. "Rest Natasha," He said softly, before leaving the warehouse, placing the three arrows back in his quiver, blood staining the tips of two.

The journey home was long and dull, as was the debriefing. Most of SHIELD offered Clint congratulations on his triumphant defeat of the famous Black Widow. For some reason he hated hearing the name. The death was actually quite troubling for him. Most deaths were sad, but this one in particular made him feel awful. Clint now sat cleaning the dried blood off his arrows. He traced the length of the one that killed Natasha, closing his eyes. Something about her death felt wrong. Normally he accepted that he killed people, and although he felt an attack on his conscience, he could usually drown his troubles in whiskey, and get over it. Perhaps it was because he dehumanized her. Clint had referred to her only as 'The Widow' or 'Black Widow'. He never acknowledged that she was Natasha. She was someone who couldn't help her fate.

He could hear her pleas for help. She had pleaded for a faster death. And Clint was all too happy to oblige. Part of him wished he hadn't killed her at all. But he did. Why? Because it was his job. Clint was a good soldier. He followed orders.

But so did Natasha. Her job was following orders. Sure, the orders were awful and evil, but she was just doing her job. Was that really so bad?

'Yes' Clint thought, trying to keep telling himself this.

Thankfully his apartment was in good supply of whiskey. He would probably need a little extra to get over this death. The problem with Clint's apartment was it clearly wasn't used enough. He was forever on missions, and only came home during his brief periods off. The fact it wasn't used much meant that the place wasn't cared for. It was an overall dreary atmosphere. Small TV, one sofa, one bedroom. There were creaky floorboards, electrical problems and a very small amount of hot water. Still, the place was home. There was a coldness to the room, which Clint was confused about. Usually the heating was the one thing that worked here.

Clint dropped down on his sofa, rubbing his forehead slowly, "Snap out of it, Barton. She deserved death," He muttered, trying to reassure himself.

He pulled out the arrow that killed Natasha, staring at the blood stained tip. Twirling it around in his hands, he lamented the deaths he had caused. Perhaps he was a monster too. Really, what made him so different from Natasha? Clint had always told himself that he only killed the bad guys, and Natasha had killed innocents. The fact that he so quickly killed her scared him. He didn't even give her a chance. He should of. He tossed the arrow, watching it sail through the air and hit the floor on the other side of the room.

"Help me," Clint heard a strangled voice whisper. He looked over his shoulder, jumping up, worried. These people were dead. He had nothing to worry about. The room was obviously empty. Clint screwed the cap bad on his whiskey. "Enough," He muttered.

"Help me," A stronger voice echoed around the room.

"What the fuck," Clint hissed, clutching his forehead. Right now he was cold, tipsy and slightly scared.

"Help me!"

Clint spun round, freezing when he saw the red head standing holding the discarded arrow.

"You're not real. I'm drunk," Clint whispered, backing away from his victim, shaking his head.

"You may have been drinking, but I am very much real," Natasha clutched the arrow to her chest, her hands shaking.

Clint studied her, really taking in her appearance. She was pale. Too pale. Her skin was tinted slightly blue. There were dark circles around the dull green eyes, which once held so much life in them. She was dressed in a black dress which contrasted her skin, and her red hair hung in greasy ringlets. There was a long, deep scar on her neck.

"I'm dreaming," He eventually mumbled.

"You're not. I promise you. You're not," Natasha approached him slowly, handing him the arrow. "I don't know why I'm here," Her eyes were wide, and she appeared frightened, "I'm supposed to be dead. I don't want to be here. You killed me, Clint Barton."

"Just leave then," Clint groaned, rubbing his forehead. At this point, he was going to believe anything. By morning, she'd be gone.

"I can't."

A/N This is just a little taster. I hope you enjoyed it. It's very experimental (on my part. I've never written anything like this) so I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!