Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie or tv show in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Originally written for Clintasha Week 2016 on tumblr. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.
AU Scenario: Agent Romanoff was sent to kill Hawkeye, she made a different call.
Natasha sat back with a sigh on the cot in her Paris safe house. She took a drink from her glass of water even as she reached for the file next to her. She'd tossed it down onto the thin, scratchy blanket when she'd arrived a few hours ago. Now freshly showered and fed, she was ready to start planning.
She first took in the file cover. The words 'Top Secret' and 'Classified' were both stamped across it in bright red letters at haphazard angles. A name, moniker really, was printed in Coulson's neat handwriting on the file label.
Hawkeye.
She flipped the file open. No picture to go off of, barely any sort of description. And what description there was ended up being contradictory at best. It was based off of eye witness statements. She scanned the various descriptions they'd collected, shaking her head in something akin to admiration.
He was young, practically a baby.
He was older, at least 30.
Dark hair, definitely a black or dark brown.
Blonde, blonde like a surfer.
Tall, he was at least 6 feet tall.
He was average height, for a guy I guess.
Short, the guy was short.
Brown eyes.
Blue eyes.
He had green eyes.
It was a woman, definitely a woman.
Either she had a master of disguise on her hands or none of these people were actually describing her target. She was betting on the latter.
She flipped to the next page, his confirmed kill list, and thought back to her briefing with Coulson two days ago.
"He's a ghost, Natasha. All these reports, none of them are consistent. There's not one correlating factor. Tall, short. Old, young. Blue eyes, brown. You have nothing going into this. No idea who you're looking for. Except this: he's dangerous. And he's good."
But she did know one other thing. Hawkeye favored arrows. Every single kill listed in his file – and there were almost 400 – was credited to him for one reason: The arrow left behind in the body.
It was dangerous, leaving a calling card. It meant when you got caught, every crime you'd done could be tied back to you. But, she had to admit, Hawkeye turned out to be an expert at not getting caught. Or even spotted apparently.
But that's why she'd been assigned this hit. She was the best. She could find people that didn't want to be found. Red Room trained, she'd earned her stripes at a young age. But Phil had found her, had convinced her to defect. He'd shown her that she could use her formidable skills to do good in the world and she'd latched onto that lifeline with both hands.
"So who are you, Hawkeye?" she whispered to the empty safe house, flipping to the last page of the file. There was a profile, built by SHIELD's psych team. It was supposed to help her identify him. It didn't help much. He was probably male. Probably 20 to 30 years old. Probably a sociopath. That was about it.
Not much to go on. All they really knew as that there was a man in danger here, Henri Moreau, and the contract had Hawkeye written all over it. It was his type of thing. High profile and high paying.
She smirked and flipped the file closed.
She'd done more with less.
Hawkeye dropped through the skylight into his safe house. His landing wasn't all that graceful. He ended up stumbling to the left and having to catch himself on his hand. He stood with a grimace, hand going to his left side.
His last job had been a bitch. Or rather…his mark's security had been a bitch. Three cracked ribs and a stab wound later, his contract had been fulfilled, but he'd paid for it.
That had only been 4 days ago. No sooner had he confirmed his payment than he'd gotten wind of another hit, issued on a man named Henri Moreau in Paris. It was the biggest paycheck he'd seen offered in a while, so here he was.
He'd spent the last two days tracking his mark, planning when to make his move.
Moreau was making it easy. Nothing but private security. Always alone save for an assistant. Big house with a lot of entry points. And best of all…no family.
No wife. No kids. Nobody to bear witness or be traumatized by finding the body. It was better that way. It was better when there was no collateral damage. Cleaner. Easier.
Maybe the nightmares about this one wouldn't be so bad.
He made his way to the small kitchenette across the room and flipped open the first aid kit sitting on the counter. After unbuckling his quiver, he let it slide to the floor and tossed his bow up onto the counter behind the kit. A quick move later, his black t-shirt was a ball on the floor.
He looked down at the soiled, sopping mess of a bandage on his side and frowned.
He'd blown out his stitches again.
He peeled up the corner of the tape and pulled off the bloody bandage, tossing it into the sink to be disposed of later. He dug into the kit and pulled out tweezers, antiseptic, a needle and medical grade stitching thread, antibiotic ointment and another clean bandage.
Then he eased himself down onto the floor, leaning back against the counter.
Then he got to work.
Hawkeye woke up on the kitchen floor. He sat up slowly, hand going to the pristine bandage covering the stab wound on his side. The bottle of antiseptic had spilled. He picked it up with a curse and recapped it, preserving what little of the purifying liquid remained. The antibiotic tube was still open too. He searched the area for the cap and found it rolled halfway down the line of cabinets.
At least he'd finished his self-administered first aid before he'd passed out.
That was better than the alternative, which tended to be the case half the time.
He pushed to his feet, tossed the first aid equipment back into the kit and flipped it closed. Trash was disposed of next, then he dug into the back pack on the floor at the end of the counter, pulling out a clean t-shirt.
That on, he strapped on his quiver, grabbed his bow and headed towards the balcony, and the ladder stored on it that would lead to the roof.
Tonight was the night. Today would be spent making his final plans.
Then tonight he'd make his move, cash in on this contract and leave Paris behind until next time.
Natasha mingled her way through the multitude of guests at Moreau's dinner party. That she hadn't gotten a formal invitation hadn't mattered. She'd charmed her way in as a plus one easily enough. Her 'date' was getting her a drink.
She kept moving, kept smiling, kept scanning faces and assessing threats.
Tonight was the night, she was sure of it.
No assassin could resist an opening like this. A formal dinner party, guests coming and going. It was the perfect cover for infiltration.
She'd used it for the same end, after all.
But so far, she'd seen no one that stood out. No one that seemed like a ruthless killer.
A shoulder bumped hers, and she glanced at the offender.
A young waiter, dirty blonde hair, blue gray eyes. He was fumbling with the tray of hors d'oeuvres in his hands, trying not to drop it as a result of their unexpected contact.
"Je suis désolé," he apologized in perfect French, judging by the inflection, she'd guess he was born and raised here.
She gave him a smile and a small shake of her head, telling him without words that she wouldn't hold it against her. He stared at her for an extra moment, eyes widening as he looked her over. She was used to it, so she endured it with a smile even as she studied him in return. A little shorter than average, lean and lithely built. He was probably a recreational athlete of some sort. She could faintly see a black undershirt showing through the white dress shirt he wore under his serving coat. An act of rebellion? Maybe. He was young, probably only a little older than her. Moonlighting as a server for the extra money.
All at once he seemed to snap out of his daze and gave her a slight nod and went on his way, offering his tray to guests as he moved. She put the waiter out of her mind and continued on her way.
Hawkeye made his way casually out of the ball room under the guise of offering the last of the food on his serving tray to the security outside the door.
Then, with some excuse about needing a break to get away from the rich assholes in the ballroom, he jogged up the stairs to the second floor with their chuckles of understanding and comradery in his wake.
Once safely out of sight, he took off in a jog. He slid into the housekeeper's closet at the end of the hall and stripped out of the server's jacket. Tie and dress shirt followed and he stepped up onto the shelving unit on the wall. He pushed the vent in the corner of the ceiling up and out of the way, then reached in, pulling out his quiver first, then his bow. He strapped his quiver in place and slid his bow string over his head. Then he balled up the server's clothes and stuffed them up into the vent.
He moved back to the door and blew out a slow, calming breath.
He couldn't believe it. It was her, the goddamned Black Widow. She was here. Probably for him. Rumor had it that she'd gone straight a couple years back. She supposedly worked for SHIELD now.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.
He hadn't dared stay down at the party a moment longer than he had to. He'd passed her initial inspection but he wasn't willing to take any chances. Logic and self preservation dictated he take off, leave this contract in his rearview.
But he'd already taken half payment, formally accepted the job. It wasn't good business to leave jobs unfinished and to issue refunds.
Plus, he'd always liked a challenge.
He eased the closet door open. Finding the hallway clear, he slipped back out. A few steps had him in the guest bedroom across the hall and then he was at the window. He already knew this side of the house had a blind spot, this particular stretch of wall being that blind spot. He climbed out, looking to his left for the drainpipe he knew to be there.
A short leap later and he was climbing.
He'd wait on the roof for the party to clear out. Then, when Moreau was alone and the infamous Black Widow had taken her leave, he'd make his move.
Natasha was careful to keep her irritation off her face as the party thinned out. As casually as if she lived in the house, she left the ballroom and slipped upstairs. She may not have been able to spot Hawkeye at the party, but she knew he was here somewhere. She could feel it in her gut.
So she'd wait for him to make his move. She'd stop him. With any luck Moreau wouldn't even know he was in danger tonight.
She hid out in a housekeeper's closet, listening to the house go to bed. It was well past 2 am before she silently ventured into the hallway. Footsteps on the stairs had her slipping across the hall into a guest room she was sure was empty. She hadn't heard anyone enter it from her hide out across the hall.
She was listening at the door for the way to be clear again when she felt it.
A slight breeze.
The back of her neck prickled.
She spun, eyes widening in surprise when a black arrow imbedded in the door where her head had just been.
She looked to the window, eyes narrowing predatorily as she saw her target standing just inside the window, bow in hand.
With the moonlight streaming in behind him and the room being dark otherwise, he was nothing but a silhouette. But Natasha didn't need to know what he looked like to kill him.
She kicked off her heels and opted for the direct approach.
He shifted into a combat stance as she charged him, bow held loosely in his right hand.
He swept out with it as she got into range, aiming for her head.
She ducked, spinning low and sweeping her leg at his feet.
He jumped, clearing her leg and coming at her with his knee angling towards her chin.
She blocked the blow with her arms and leapt up, slamming a palm into his right wrist, trying to get him to drop the bow. But apparently his grip was made of iron, because other than a slight snarl, he didn't seem all that affected.
She scaled him then, planting a foot on his thigh and then hooking her thigh around his neck. Once she had that leverage, she brought the other leg up and trapped him.
Finally, he dropped the bow, hands going up to dig into her thighs in an attempt to pry them apart. Instead, she tightened her hold, knowing she was cutting off both oxygen and bloodflow.
He spun, slamming her back into the wall and then he backpedaled, spinning hard at the last moment and slamming her torso into the bedpost.
It was a risky move on his part, because she could have accidently killed him when she was dislodged. She didn't though, maybe it was stupid and reckless. But she hadn't had a good fight in ages. And Hawkeye was good.
She picked herself up from the floor and met his gaze across the small space that separated them.
Blue gray eyes. Dirty blonde hair.
"You," she accused lowly. The damned waiter. He was the damned waiter.
The little smirk that turned up the corner of his mouth lit her blood on fire. No more playing around. She'd kill the bastard just for fooling her.
She launched herself at him.
He was good, and he was fast. He blocked most of her attacks and met her almost blow for blow. She jumped, torqueing her body into an aerial round house. He leaned back in the same moment, hand bracing on the floor and legs scisorring up to lock with the one she had cutting through the air above him.
She couldn't even take a moment to be shocked before he was spinning sharply, throwing her hard to the ground.
But she was Red Room trained and pain didn't exist.
She reached to her thigh, pulling one of the knives she had hidden under the folds of her dress.
The next exchange was too fast for her to do anything but act on instinct.
She ended up slicing him across the palm and then again across the chest, both shallow, but enough that she finally felt herself getting the upper hand.
It wasn't until she got her knee past his defenses to slam into his left side that she knew she had him.
He went pale, stumbling back and dropping to one knee with a growl of pain. His hand went to support his left side.
She dove at him, ready to finish him.
But the instinct to survive was a powerful thing. He blocked her attack with a desperate sort of intensity and shoved her back.
Then he ran.
He practically stumbled over his own feet to the window, snatched his bow off the floor as he went, and then all but dove out into the night.
Natasha ran to follow, she saw the drainpipe and looked up. He was already climbing over the edge of the roof.
She followed without a breath of hesitation.
She hit the rooftop and spotted him sprinting across it, nearly to the other side already. She pursued.
He hit the edge at a dead run, launching himself across the very wide alley between this house and the next. He barely made it, barely. She saw him land jarringly, tucking into a painful looking roll before coming back to his feet and taking off again.
She slowed her own run and came to a stop at the edge of the roof.
She knew her own limits. In a dress with no shoes, there was no way she could make that jump.
But that was okay.
She smiled as she wiped at the blood leaking out of her mouth from a lucky hit he'd landed.
She knew his face now.
Now the chase was on.
It took her two weeks to find his safe house…well his six safe houses. He was paranoid and unpredictable about which one he would go to each night.
She'd banked on him not being willing to leave the contract incomplete. That was bad for business after all. He was likely waiting for the dust to settle to make a move again.
She had spotted him coming out of safe house number 3 that morning. She'd lost him an hour later. Now she was trying to explain to Coulson why this was taking so long.
"You nailed it before, Phil," she sighed. "He's good and he's a ghost."
"The Council is getting impatient. It's been two weeks," Phil replied.
"I know, believe me. But the guy has no pattern. Every time I catch sight of him, I lose him before I have a chance to make a clean move on him."
"The Council would like me to urge you not to worry so much about making it clean."
Didn't that sound just like the Council.
"Phil, I'm not putting civilians in the crossfire."
"I told them you'd say that," Phil sounded like he was smiling. "I trust you, Natasha. Do what you do. I'll deal with the Council."
She nodded even though he couldn't see her and ended the call.
Then she just stood there, in the alley she'd been taking cover in.
Where would he go tonight? Her best bet was if she could move on him in his safehouse, where no one else was around.
She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.
Safe house 1.
Some instinct told her that was where he'd be tonight.
Having nothing else to go on, she trusted her gut.
Hawkeye knew she was watching. He'd felt her gaze as he came in through the skylight.
He had to give her credit, she was good. It had taken every skill he had to shake her every time she caught up with him.
He should run now, lose her again.
But he didn't.
He was tired. He was so goddamned tired. Tired of running. Tired of this life. Tired of always looking over his shoulder.
So he let her come.
He was standing in the kitchen when she dropped in through the skylight.
For a long moment he just stood there, back to her, leaning against the sink. She didn't move, just stared at his back.
"So you're here to kill me?" he asked quietly.
A pause, then a very simple, honest,
"Yes."
He nodded wearily, feeling the burn of fever from the stab wound that had festered. He'd stolen antibiotics, but they'd done nothing except give him the strength to keep moving forward.
He turned to face her then, meeting her sharp green gaze across the dark room.
He reached to his back, drawing his combat knife.
"I won't go down easy," he promised.
She nodded slightly.
"I know."
He nodded back.
"Then let's get to it so you can be on your way."
Natasha narrowed her gaze. That was an odd thing to say for a man who'd just promised not to make it easy.
He was talking like he knew he would lose, like he expected it…even accepted it.
He knew he would die tonight, but still, he would fight.
He was a survivor.
Natasha felt something in her gut tighten.
She knew what it was to be a survivor. She knew what it was to accept your death, but not be willing to meet it quietly.
She knew.
She moved forward, holding his gaze.
He didn't look away, kept his eyes steady on hers, waiting. Waiting for her to attack.
When she did, it wasn't a long fight. There was obviously something very wrong with him physically. Because in the end she ended up with his knife in her hand, her knee on his sternum, and the blade against his throat.
He had put up a valiant, if not unexpectedly weak, fight.
She pressed the blade down, ready to finally end this.
He stared steadily up at her and waited.
That something deep in her gut tightened again as she met his eyes.
There was something broken in his gaze, something she hadn't seen before.
"Just do it," he whispered, eyes steady on hers, waiting, not fighting anymore. "Just end it."
End it.
She saw it then, saw it in his eyes. He hated himself. He hated who he was, what he was.
He'd been waiting for this day, for someone to finally be good enough to beat him. For someone to be stronger than his own survival instinct.
He'd been waiting for her.
She hesitated.
She knew, better than she knew anything, what it felt like to hate yourself like that. She had been him when Coulson found her. She had been waiting for the day somebody was finally better. For someone to end it.
She also knew, had been taught by Coulson, that feeling that way…it meant there was something left. It meant that her soul hadn't been lost to darkness. It meant there had still been something worth saving.
She pulled the blade away from his neck, not even sure what choice she was making even as she made it.
His eyes darkened in confusion as she backed away, sitting heavily against the kitchen cabinet. He just stayed there, sprawled on the floor, breathing ragged and a little labored. His confusion was practically a tangible thing in the room.
"Why?" he finally asked, voice quiet and wary.
He thought she might want something from him. And maybe she did, but not what he'd expect.
"I don't know," she admitted. But then, she knew. "I think that maybe…you're more valuable to the world alive."
She heard his breath catch and when he replied, there was a weight to his tone,
"Then you obviously don't know me that well."
Natasha was sure then. That she'd made the right call. There was no pride in his tone, no bloodthirsty arrogance. It was something else, it was self-loathing.
"How did I not see you?" she asked with a confused shake of her head. "At Moreau's?" because looking at him now, she could see the killer in him. She could see the instincts and training written in his expression. She could feel the predatory aura bleeding into the air around him.
He huffed a slight laugh.
"I'm really good at blending in," he answered.
Natasha figured that was probably the understatement of the century.
"What's your name?" she asked quietly, watching him wearily roll to his hands and knees and all but collapse against the wall opposite her.
He raised his gaze to hers, meeting it tiredly and shaking his head slightly.
"I don't have a name anymore."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Everyone has a name, just because you don't use it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I'm…"
"I know who you are," he interrupted. "You're Natasha Romanoff, formerly Natalia Romanova…the Black Widow."
She arched an impressed eyebrow.
"You are good."
He shrugged a shoulder, dismissing the compliment.
"Pays to know all the players," he explained.
She studied him for a moment and then asked again, "What's your name?"
He shook his head.
"That guy, who I was, he doesn't exist anymore….so his name doesn't matter."
"If that were true, if that guy was really gone…you'd have killed me the moment I hesitated. Instead…" she waved demonstratively between them. "I think he's still there."
Hawkeye met her gaze again and for a long moment they just stared at each other, searching each other's eyes.
Then something in his eyes shifted, a brief spark of light…a beacon, a tiny flare of something like hope.
"Barton," he told her softly, the name obvious foreign on his lips after so much time, "Clint Barton."
Natasha felt her mouth turn up in a slight smile.
"Clint Barton," she tried it out on her tongue. It was a good name. "Barton…have you heard of SHIELD?"
He smirked a little.
"I'm pretty sure they want me dead," he gave her a significant look.
She shrugged ruefully.
"They did, do…but I think maybe I've got a better option. Kind of what you'd call a win-win."
He stared at her, curiosity bubbling up in his gaze. After a long moment, he titled his head, the light she'd seen in his eyes brightening.
"What'd you have in mind?" he asked.
Natasha smiled.
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