This is going to be a story about how I think Black Widow's history should be, with a lot of backstory ideas taken from the comics.
I do not own any Marvel characters or other Marvel things that might be used in this story.
Their movements are a blur. It is hand to hand combat more intense than anything he has experienced before. Her movements are precise and lightning fast, more machine than woman. In a quick move, she twists his quiver off of his back and tosses it to the side to rest beside his arrows. She easily pulls him into a headlock, then smoothly pulls one of her guns and slips around in front to face him.
He stares into the Russian's eyes… so green, so deadly. In that moment, he knows it is not a question of who will win this fight. It is not even going to be a fight at all. It is simply a question of when she will kill him. The cold metal of her gun chills his forehead. Her face is blank, devoid of emotion, and her eyes are those of a seasoned killer. An assassin, born of blood and carved through pain. He closes his eyes. Ready.
And then the gun drops away. It clatters as she throws it onto the concrete floor of the alleyway, and for the first time in his many months tracking her, he sees true emotion on her face, in her eyes. Sadness? Disgust? He cannot identify it, but it is there, it is real. She picks up his bow and quiver, both resting the corner of the alleyway, and holds them out to him.
He grabs them. His right hand brushes hers as he takes control of the bow, and he finds himself surprised that her hand is warm. He almost expected it to be freezing cold and merciless, just as he had found her actions to be. The brush sets his hair on end.
He pulls an arrow to her forehead, ignoring his feelings of… well… sympathy for the assassin. Yet… he hesitates. He knows it is against his orders. He came in for this final kill radio silent, but he could hear an imaginary Coulson's voice in his head. Do it, Barton, darn you! Carry through! She's killed more than you've probably ever met! He pulls the arrow tighter. Releasing now would mean almost instant death for her. But he hesitates, not consciously knowing why, but trusting his gut.
She sees the hesitation, and her eyebrows narrow. Another hint of an emotion… frustration? Without any hesitation of her own, the infamous Black Widow steps forward, pressing her forehead to the point of his arrow. A drop of blood appears where she pushes the skin to meet the metal. She stares into his eyes. In perfect, clear English he never would have expected for a Russian spy, she speaks. "Kill me," she says.
But now his instincts are yelling at him to be wary. Kill her? This bloodthirsty, merciless assassin is just giving up? It makes no sense, and he becomes less and less willing to end her life. He glances around, looking for an ambush. A sniper. Something that would justify this girl's… woman's… apparent disregard for her own life. There is no something.
"There is nothing to be afraid of," she tells him. "Just…" she sighs, closing the bright green eyes that had captivated his attention only moments earlier, when he was in the same position she was. "Just do it, Agent Barton."
This surprises him. She knows who he is. The infamous sniper, assassin, S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Barton. Sent to kill her. Yet she still doesn't attack, though he must be on the KGB's kill list. So he does something crazy, something his brain is screaming at him to stop. He lowers his bow and steps back, contemplating. He asks her a question. "Why?"
She seems to understand he will not carry through unless she provides him the answers he needs. She sighs. "Come here," she tells him. "Come with me."
He can't understand why he does, when all common sense tells him to end it right now, but he does anyways. Somehow, the minutes in the alleyway have already formed a bond between once-sworn enemies. All because of her first two words. He doesn't even protest when she grabs her gun again, securing it to her hip.
He follows her across rooftops, through narrow alleys, and under bridges until she jumps into an apartment (through the window, of course). He follows her even then.
It is cold in the dank room, but he can tell the apartment is hers. It stinks of a spy, lacking any sort of personal touches. She does not hesitate in pulling out a knife as she walks across the room. Immediately he is on guard again, but the Black Widow simply slits open the underside of her mattress. She reaches far into the cut.
Her arm contracts as she takes hold of… something. She pulls out a book.
It is an interesting book, not really a book at all. More like… a ledger. But his heart leaps in sadness and fear as he sees what this particular ledger records.
Each page is crumpled and dirty. The pages are bound to each other with strips of cloth. He can tell that her KGB masters must not have given her the materials for this purpose. Because the pages of the ledger are profiles.
Target profiles.
She hands it to him.
The first page is the most recent, her latest target. He had watched her dispatch the underworld crime lord quickly, efficiently. Clint flips to the back of the ledger, the beginning of her story, too many targets back to count. He notes the date, then has to do a double take. It lists her age as nine, but the year written is 55 years ago. He shudders to think that a nine-year-old was forced to kill. He chooses to ignore the fact that the woman in front of him, who looks barely a day over 21, would be 64 years old.
The victim's name was Anya Dreykoff, and, to his surprise, Anya looked no older than ten. He read the Russian profile. It described the girl, as well as the reason Natalia- it stated the Black Widow's name as Natalia- was to kill her. Anya's father, Dreykoff Sr., had refused to give his twin daughters to the Red Room for training. That was the life's worth of Anya.
Clint turns the page to find a once blank backside. Covered in Russian. Written in blood. He looks at the Widow. It is no question that the blood is hers. Written with a knife, no doubt. He supposes the KGB- or the Red Room- wouldn't see the use in providing her with personal luxuries like writing utensils. He reads.
My first target. I almost couldn't do it. Then the programming kicked in, and I had no choice. She died in front of her sister. Poor Yelena. Anya will stay in my memory forever. Though the debt of her life is unrepayable, I will try to compensate for some of her innocent blood with my own. This is my ledger, and when I kill, I will ask forgiveness here.
I watched as they took Yelena away. They brought her to the Machine, but they couldn't make her relinquish her name. They had to settle for changing it. Now she believes she is an orphan, Yelena Belova, and always has been. Yelena Dreykoff is gone.
I'm so sorry, Anya.
Clint flips forwards, reads more of the entries. Horrible, horrible, heart wrenching entries.
He pleaded me not to. He spoke of his wife and children.
She did not deserve this. Her face was lined with the ghosts of smiles.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
It breaks his heart.
"My ledger is dripping with red," her voice cuts through his thoughts. "Kill me now, before it becomes an unstoppable flood."
To be continued! I already have 5 chapters of this story written, but I have to type them up… so expect an update soon, but not too soon!