Lucky - Prologue pt. 2


He hated the way they met: assassin and target. It was dark, near pitch black except for the sliver of moonlight leaking between the treetops; he could just make out her features, a curl here, the corner of her mouth turned down. She kept her gaze level with the gun.

"Come to kill me, Agent Barton?" Her voice was rougher than he had imagined. Then again, he had not heard it in person before, only over patched in cellphone conversations, videos Director Fury had shown him, fuzzy and far away when tracking her. He offered no response, simply clearing his throat and switching off the gun's safety mechanism. He wanted her to speak again. "Why did they send you with a gun? I thought Hawkeye only dealt with bows and arrows." Her lips curled back into a small smile, teeth just catching the light. It was not threatening in it of itself.

It was her entire being that seemed like a threat. Just the way she stood there, unflinching, unnerved him. "Well, aren't you going to ask how I know who you are, Clint Barton?" Oh, she was just toying with him! "What?" He can hear the overt smirk in her voice. "Widow got your tongue?" She had been staring down the barrel of his gun, but suddenly changes her focus, tracking her eyes to meet his. He could not make out their color, but they are sharp as one of his arrows, calculating and cool. Above all, they are unafraid. "I'm waiting, Barton." Her smile dropped. "Make your move."

He had stopped thinking. His arm, which had started to shake, fell to his side. There was nothing separating them anymore. He wanted to step forward, close the distance, but she just continued to stare, holding him at bay. He dampened his lips, clearing his throat once more. "You owe me," he said. Or, rather, how she tells it now, croaked. Her laugh rocked him to his very core, though he was glad that the lack of light did not show this. "I owe you?!" Her laugh grew louder. "Wow, Barton, it's so unfortunate that we must meet under these circumstances. I'd love to know if all your jokes are like that."

His mouth opened again, but his mind blanked on words for a moment, leaving her to laugh at him, still. Then, "I'm not joking, Ms. Romanoff. You can go. But you owe me." Her laughter dried up and she cocked an eyebrow. He wasn't quite sure, but he swore he could see surprise flash in those stone cold eyes. "If you let me go, that puts you in quite a predicament with your, ah…. employer." He shrugged. Expert marksman, expert assassin, face to face with his target - and he shrugged. Her smile returned. "My life for a favor? You must not be a very good negotiator." He just met her gaze with more ferocity, wanting her to get it, wanting her to feel the hesitance that had build up in his trigger finger, now switching the safety back on. "Go," he said, firmer that time, "I'm not making the offer again."

"All right, Barton. You've got yourself a deal." He stuck out his hand. "What?"

"Shake on it," he commanded – or tried to.

"What are we - children?"

"Shake on it, or no deal." Her eyebrows rose again. Slowly, almost begrudgingly, her arm extended. Their fingertips just brushed before she dropped her hand.

"Sorry, Barton. That's against my policy." And before he knew it, he was swept sideways, gun knocked free of his hand, right wrist handcuffed to a slim branch of a nearby tree. The thin moonlight filtered around her face, catching battle worn grey-green eyes. "But thanks for not killing me. I promise you won't regret it."

Just like that, the target he had been tracking for months slipped away, her fire red curls dancing in the snippets of light around her. He remembered the color of her eyes long after another fellow agent came to uncuff him.