Oh my gosh, I was not expecting so many views on Musketball! Thank you guys so much, you totally made my week. :D
Special thanks to shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod for the first review on Musketball. It means a lot to me that you took the time to review my story, and your comment really encouraged me. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Clint Barton, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., walked into the small, dingy bar and looked around. It took less than a second for him to spot his quarry. She was sitting in the barstool at the far end of the counter, eyes darting alertly around the room as the sipped her drink. He made his way over to her and calmly sat down in the barstool next to her. She eyed him appraisingly.
"Black Widow," he said calmly, waving the barman away. She didn't reply, just continued staring daggers at him.
"I've been keeping tabs on you for a while now…" he began slowly.
"I know," she snapped. She reached into her pocket and pulled a long, shiny knife out and began to polish it slowly with a piece of cloth. Clint recognized it as a threatening gesture. She was letting him know she was not one to be trifled with.
"I also know you're from Shield," she said casually.
He nodded. "I'm Agent Clint Barton. What's your name?"
She raised her eyes slowly from the knife to his face, scowling. He cleared his throat. "Right. Sorry. Bad subject."
Her eyes went back to her knife.
"Do you also know why I'm here?" Clint asked.
She raised her eyebrows. "I have an idea."
"If your idea is that I was sent by Shield to kill you, then you're right," he said. She didn't respond.
Clint leaned back in his barstool. "But I'm not going to," he said.
There was the slightest of hesitations in her knife polishing, then she went on. "Oh?" she said coolly.
"I'm not going to kill you. Do you want me to tell you why not?"
She said nothing.
Clint leaned forward in his barstool again. "Three days ago, you had a meeting with your boss."
Her jaw clenched tightly.
"During this meeting, he asked about your failure to kill someone you were assigned," he went on. "You said that it was because he was too young; fifteen, only a boy." He paused. "Black Widow, you've been called a merciless killer. But do you know what that was, your refusal to kill that boy?" He leaned toward her, and she looked coldly up at him.
"It was called mercy."
He held her gaze for a few moments before leaning back in his barstool again.
"I'm asking you to join Shield, Black Widow," he said lazily.
She froze. He had surprised her for once. After a moment she stirred.
"No, thanks," she said. "I doubt they would want me after everything I've done. Besides, I'm not good with teams. I work better on my own."
He had been expecting this answer. He reached into his pocket, and in the blink of an eye, cold steel was being pressed against his neck. He turned slowly to look at her. Her face was inscrutable as he held her knife against him, its sharp edge biting into his flesh.
He raised his arms slowly to show her his empty hands. "I'm not drawing," he said, keeping his voice calm. She didn't budge.
"I'm getting my wallet," he said.
Her eyes flickered.
After a moment, she said smoothly, "Which pocket?"
"Left coat," he replied.
She leaned forward slowly as she reached her right arm around him, eyes never leaving his face. Her long red curls fell over her shoulders. Her hand found his pocket and reached in, feeling around. Her face was less than two inches away from his, but she continued to stare calmly at him, and he stared back just as levelly, unintentionally memorizing her every detail and feature.
A dangerous smirk spread across her face when she found his pocket empty except for the wallet. She slipped it out and pulled back, eyes still trained on his face. She stayed like this for a moment, still smirking dangerously. Then she dropped the wallet on the counter in front of him without bothering to look at it, and turned and went back to polishing her knife as though nothing had happened.
Heart still pounding, Clint opened his wallet and took out the S.H.I.E.L.D. business card. Well, not a business card, really. Strictly speaking, S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't have business cards. It was more like a pamphlet that explained the goals of the division, etcetera. He set it down on the counter and slid it towards her.
"I want you to consider it," he said. "Read this. Get an opinion. Get into contact with me if you change your mind. I'm sure you know how to find me."
She didn't look up, just continued polishing the now-immaculate knife.
Clint slid off the barstool and walked towards the door. It hadn't been a completely failed confrontation, he thought. At least she hadn't killed him on the spot.
When he reached the door, he was suddenly halted by a hand on his arm. He looked down and saw a pair of small black boots just behind his. They rose up on tiptoe, and a voice whispered in his ear, "It's Natalia Romanova."
Then his arm was released, and he exited the building without turning around.