AN: Sorry I am a slow updater! Enjoy! And review, review, review! I say... You'll get a new chapter when reviews hit the 17 mark! PLEASE offer your feedback, don't be lazy! ;) Love you all,
~Hockey
Chapter 4
St. Petersburg, Russia
January 20th, 1999. 11:49am
The Black Widow had not meant to blow her cover so easily, and she cursed herself as she twisted and dove through the crowded Russian streets, dashing between businessmen in suits and babushkas clothed in tattered, reeking drapes. Her training had prepared her far better than the little act she had put on for the American, and she'd taken his aptitude at false value; he had been on to her from the moment she'd spoken, and the glimpse of her face had given her away entirely. She'd been warned that he had sharp eyes; apparently she hadn't realized just how perceptive he really was. And now she was running, a humiliating position for an elite assassin like herself, especially at the hands of the American spy. She assumed that her little pet had not been able to do its work, else he would have collapsed a long while ago. She barely cast a glance over her shoulder as she fled; it was best to not lose time checking on his progress. If he caught her, she would fight, but until then there was no use checking.
She led him on a wild, unpredictable route through the enormous cities, crossing several bridges, tearing across cobblestone streets where he temporarily lost her behind a passing train of double decker buses, and sprinting through a very green public park. Once, the Widow believed that she had lost her assailant. However, her relief was short lived, for a clatter betrayed his position, and she spotted him dashing across the rooftops in pursuit, eyes locked on her bobbing red curls. She started as she recognized the weapon in his hand; it was a bow of some sort, as black as night and lithe as a cat. She had never trained with a weapon of that nature, and considered in vastly outdated. But she didn't take it with a grain of salt as she had taken the fact he had come from the United States that he carried the bizarre armament, and simply moved faster. She skidded around a muddy corner, feet flying in a black blur, and dove into a narrow, shadowed alley. The Black Widow sprinted between the buildings as quickly as she could over the icy bricks, slipping against the frozen ground. She felt and heard the Hawk land on the street behind her. He grunted as his boots struggled with the slush, and the Widow quickly outpaced him. But once again, her relief was short lived, for as she neared the back of the alleyway, she was confronted with a towering wrought iron fence and, unable to halt on the slippery ground, she cascaded straight into it. Her thin hands fought for purchase on the chilly metal bars and she managed to remain upright. She was trapped; a dead end. The Widow could hear the American's footsteps pattering closer and eventually slowing, and she turned to face him with a defiant, fierce gleam crossing her eyes.
The man β if he was old enough to be given that title β was pacing toward her, breathing heavily and puffing misty gray clouds into the air as he walked. She had never known someone to dress so ostentatiously. The master assassin was clad in a vibrant purple uniform that clung tightly around his large, thick thighs and left his rippling, taunt arm muscles bare. The deep violet vest covering his chest was also stretched tight and was spotted with canvas pockets of a near fuchsia hue. One hand was covered partially by a worn leather glove that extended across the length of his forearm, a guard to protect from the zinging leather cord of his most favored weapon. The Black Widow looked up into his face last. It was partially obscured by what appeared to be a leather helmet, the same purple as the rest of his outfit. Wisps of sandy brown hair fell from beneath it, gracing the purple rims of a narrow pair of polarized sunglasses. She thought he looked perfectly ridiculous. What self-respecting man would adorn himself in purple clothing?
"Do we need to do this the hard way?" the Hawk questioned, striding closer. "Or would you be kind enough to come with me?"
"Why, getting tired already, American?" the Widow challenged, pulling herself up a little, clenching her fists tightly. Her adversary tilted his head with a sly smile.
"Hardly. Just wouldn't want to damage that pretty little face of yours."
The Widow struggled to control the rage boiling within her stomach.
"I'll be the last pretty thing you ever see if you don't back off, American!" she seethed, moving away from the iron gate so as to circle around the enemy. In respect to her aggressive stance, the Hawk also began to pace in a circular path, edging nervously across the chilly ground. He laughed snidely.
"I highly doubt that," the Hawk commented, pulling an arrow from his quiver (also a ghastly purple color) and fitting it idly into the catch. "Now, Miss Romanova," his tone changed dramatically as he raised his now loaded weapon, his coy smile falling away. "If you'll come with meβ¦"
The Widow dove, dodging first to the left and then rolling to the right, an arrow whizzing through her whirling red curls. Digging her hands into the ground, she catapulted forward, her foot colliding with the upper limb of the bow and by default the Hawk's chest. She dropped to the ground, landing lightly on her back as the other assassin tumbled backward into a stinking, rat-ridden pile of garbage bags. She leaped onto the frigid, ice-coated bars of the iron gate and scrambled up the lattice with as much dexterity as the spider for which she was named. She flipped over the prongs outlined against the gray Russian sky smoothly and landed gently on the cobblestones on the other side. She twisted her head over her shoulder to see the Hawk in rapid pursuit, though his conquering of the gate was decidedly less graceful; he was tumbling over a large steel dumpster, slipping and sliding on the glassy ice. The Black Widow took off in a sprint once more, ducking into a nearby unfinished brick building, little feet barely striking the ground. Comparatively, Hawkeye's movements were as loud as thunderclaps as he followed her. But the spider was tiring. She was a fighter, not runner.
He caught her after they had mounted several flights of stairs when, in a desperate attempt to quit the horrendous climbing, she dove into a partially-completed room filled with old furniture, plaster residue, and long sheets of plastic wrap. As she turned into the apartment the Hawk lunged for her legs, seized her ankles and ripping them from beneath her, sending the spideress tumbling to the ground. He was prepared for the resulting kick to the face that followed, and released her calves without struggle. She clambered away from him and into the room. Hawkeye followed, mood not at all dampened by the red dripping from his nose and the metallic taste in his mouth.
The chamber was not large, but it did prove to be a substantial sparring ring for the predators. As the Hawk crossed the threshold, the Widow's small hand flew toward his head, but instead of connecting with his temple, he seized her fingers in a vice like grip and twisted, a satisfied sense of dominance flushing over him as she cried in shock when several bones cracked apart. He jerked her closer, intending to place her in a simple headlock, ending the struggle right then and there, but Romanova had other plans. She was not that easy. She scrambled up and over Hawkeye's back, wrapping surprisingly muscular legs around his midsection and grabbing at his face with her free hand. The Hawk groaned and backpedaled, slamming the woman against the crumbling wall behind them, yet this did not faze her. She clung on tightly, fingernails digging into the soft skin of his cheek. Again he slammed her against the wall, but then, giving up on this endeavor, somersaulted forward, throwing all of his weight onto her as he hit the ground. She squealed in pain, and released him as he continued to tumble away. Head ringing and face soaked in blood, the Hawk rolled into a crouch and fit an arrow quickly, and was suddenly aware of the horrible gray brightness of the scene. A hand flew to his face, and he found his glasses and his helmet to be missing. Horror overcame him and he looked to Romanova. She was kneeling several feet away clutching the lost elements of his uniform, and for the first time since they had met, she was not moving. Red curls tangled, a drop of blood oozing from a gash in her forehead, the master assassin had frozen, emerald eyes fixated on Hawkeye's face. He paused, uncertainty ringing in his expression. She almost seemed innocent. If only she hadn't been his target. He loosed the arrow in her direction but she dodged, dropping his glasses and helmet in the process. He ducked as she pulled a derringer from her pocket and fired over his head. For several minutes they bantered back and forth, parrying blows, avoiding well-placed bullets (and in some cases, arrows), and diving around the abandoned room with as much gusto as black cats on Hallows Eve.
Hawkeye seized Romanova by the throat, catching her in mid-dive, and a strangled gag choked out of her mouth. The Hawk clenched his talons tighter and tighter, until the Widow's lips began to turn an unpleasant shade of purple. Her eyes grew wide and pleading as he drew her closer, so that their faces were merely inches away from each other. The woman twisted in his grasp, desperately struggling for air, feebly clawing at his jacket with her slim, suffocated hands.
"You're under arrest for violating international law, Romanova. I'm taking you back to the United States of America, where you'll be dealt with justly and β"
Agent Barton never finished his sentence. A violent pain erupted in his chest and a soundless scream ripped from his mouth. He lost his vision and an accurate sense of anything but the hurt, including the Black Widow, and, arms flailing wildly, he fell to the ground, limbs twitching and eyes rolling. It felt as if someone had exchanged his blood for sulfuric acid. Acid that ate away at you from inside out.
"State your name."
"Clinton Barton."
"Your age?"
"Seventeen."
The man across the room turned away from the window, looking at the boy called Clinton Barton with something akin to skepticism.
"Seventeen, huh? Criminals start that young, do they?"
"Only the good ones, sir," Clinton Barton responded edgily, shifting nervously on the unfeeling metal stool upon which he sat.
"A good criminal," supposed the man. "That's slightly oxymoronic, don't you think, Clinton Barton?" Clinton Barton didn't respond. The man's cold, dark gaze seemed to pierce straight through Clinton Barton's head.
"With all due respect, I'm very good at what I do," Clinton Barton said finally. The dark man by the window smirked.
"Very good would be an understatement."
"Thank you?" Clinton Barton asked uncertainly. The man smirked again.
"That was a compliment."
"So what exactly do we have here?"
Hawkeye suddenly snapped back into the present, gasping and drenched in sweat. He could see again, lying upon a cold floor somewhere in St. Petersburg, but all other muscular functions were lost to him. What had happened? What was that scene that had consumed his mind for thirty seconds, or however long it had been? But more importantly, what had hit him? He'd been in control, hadn't he? She was about to lose consciousness; what had knocking him out. He suddenly became aware of a dead weight on his chest and he struggled against it; however, his efforts did no good, for he was unable to move even his pinky finger.
"Breathe," said a cool female voice. "The paralysis is only temporary." Hawkeye's eyes widened in shock; the weight was his target, and she had seated herself squarely on his broad torso, one leg on either side of his body. She reached out with two finger and brushed his sandy brown hair across his forehead, a movement that would have been incredibly flirtatious had he not been pinned and unable to make any move whatsoever. He attempted to give her the fiercest glare he could muster using only his eyes. She began to probe his pockets. "Agent Clint 'Hawkeye" Barton. Sharp-shooter. Fascinating." She'd found his ID cards. So much for his pretense.
In the end she left him slumped in a moth-eaten velvet-covered armchair, and he stayed there, immobilized until nightfall. Agent Barton stumbled back to his hotel room at a quarter till 1:00am, muscles sore and headache pounding. He didn't even bother with a shower or removing his uniform; the Agent collapsed onto the cool, fresh sheets and immediately fell into a deep, conflicted slumber.
