for sienamystic: Slide In
A Gift From: enigma731
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Slide In
A Gift For: sienamystic
Rating: Adult
Warnings: None
Summary/Prompt Used: Natasha’s expected a mockery of a man, a virtual caricature fitting of the costume and the codename. All it takes is that first, single shot, for her to realize that she has been utterly wrong. [Prompt: Alternate first meeting.]
banner by enigma731
Slide in, feel the future
Rushing slowly
Right now
( X)
The file is sitting on Natasha’s desk when she arrives, the only thing out of place, spotlighted in her neat work space like all it’s missing is a bow. She feels irritation forming tight behind her eyes, an instinctive sense kicking in before she’s even had a chance to open it. When she does, it takes less than a minute, scarcely more than an incredulous skim, before she scoops the whole thing up and is back out the door, marching straight down the hallway and onto the lift to Fury’s office.
“You’re not serious,” she says by way of greeting, not waiting for him to look up from the screen of the tablet that currently has his attention.
“And what, may I ask, gave you that impression?” asks Fury, taking a long moment to close out of the file and fix her with a hard look.
“The circus,” says Natasha, setting the file on his desk and folding it open to display the photo of her latest mark, decked out in a garish purple tunic, complete with matching headband and tights. It’s like something out of a children’s book, she imagines, not that she’s ever spent any actual time with one of those. “This is a punishment, isn’t it. For Istanbul? At what point are you going to forgive me for that?”
Fury sighs, like he’s aware this is at least partly a game, the latest step in the power play that’s been emerging between the two of them. Natasha is the best agent he has, and she knows S.H.I.E.L.D. is damn lucky she’s on their side. But that hasn’t stopped anyone there from trying to put her into the neat little teamwork-bound box they insist upon for all their agents, hasn’t stopped them from trying to cramp her style. And if she’s forced to think about it, that’s the real point: she’s grown bored of the missions, of the endless pile of paperwork, of the fact that, five years after Fury plucked her off the street and put her through the Academy, he’s still acting like some sort of frustrating father figure.
“Did you actually read anything beyond the word ‘circus’?” he asks finally, sounding more tired than anything else. He takes the folder out of her hand and turns it around, so that it faces her again. “Clint Barton. Codename Hawkeye. Responsible for half a dozen kills in the last three months. You know when Senator Edwards’ body turned up in a ditch a few weeks ago, made every headline in the country? That was his work.”
Natasha eyes the photo, trying to see anything resembling lethality in the weathered face, the hackneyed carnival costume. “Says his weapon of choice is a bow,” she insists skeptically. “What is this? A Renaissance festival?”
“You prefer a knife,” Fury says pointedly. “And this is not up for debate, Romanoff. I want you on this for a reason.”
She searches his face for another long moment, sees that this isn’t a battle worth fighting. The circus will be a change of scenery, at least. “You sending Morse and Sitwell with me again, or have you learned that they can’t keep up?”
“No,” he says resignedly. “As you are so fond of reminding me, it seems you’ll work best on this one alone.”
The circus is in Florida when Natasha catches up. She spends a day and a half watching the operation unpack, the faded tents springing up, once-colorful awnings that now look like they’ve been bleached by the sun, chewed on by unfriendly winds for years. The few rides that are being set up look equally old and treacherous, a death trap for a fewcheap tickets apiece.
It’s immediately clear why this place would make a good cover--If she had to hazard a guess, there’s probably half a dozen illegal operations going on behind the scenes. Everything about it is rife with secrets, reeks of poor labor conditions and the sort of flexible morals she remembers well from her years on the streets of New York. At least, she decides, it’s one of the more interesting assignments she’s had recently, for the atmosphere alone.
Getting inside is easy enough--She focuses her attention on the circus’s aerial dancer, a big-eyed waif who looks as though she’s barely begun puberty. Natasha waits until the girl ventures into the town’s roadside diner for a pre-show meal and slips a long-acting tranquilizer into her drink.
The manager is every bit as squirrely as Natasha has expected. He takes one look at her body in a gold-sequined leotard, watches her demonstrate a few seconds of choreography, and then hands her a few tattered bills, promising more after the show. It’s so easy, she’s almost a little disappointed.
The Amazing Hawkeye, it turns out, is the first act up after the show’s opening fanfare, right before Natasha is due in the ring herself.
She has to admit, there’s something surprisingly festive about all the lights, the colors of the big top against the clear night sky. The imperfections she saw in the afternoon are invisible now, the slight autumn chill in the air raising goosebumps on the backs of her legs as she watches from the makeshift wings.
This circus only has one ring, one grandstand, which she’s surprised to see is mostly full. From what she’s seen of the surrounding town, most of the local population must be here tonight. The ring itself looks just a bit shoddy, just a bit worn, like everything else about this operation. Natasha finds herself questioning the integrity of the high wire that runs across it, not to mention the hanging silks she’ll be expected to use next. It’s far from the most dangerous cover she’s ever had, though, and she brushes those thoughts aside to focus on the elaborate series of bullseyes now being set up by a boy who looks no older than twelve. His exit is marked by a swell of canned music, the lights dramatically cutting out before slowly coming back up to reveal her mark, in the same painfully purple tunic and tights seared into her mind by the photo.
Barton begins his act with his back to the audience, silhouetted against the back of the tent, bow in hand, arrow already nocked and pulling at the taut string. For an impossibly long, breathless moment, he crouches in silence, letting the tension build. Then, when it feels as though the entire audience is poised on edge, he whirls, lightning quick, sending an arrow straight into the bullseye of the farthest target, the shot landing with a shower of bright gold sparks.
Natasha’s expected a mockery of a man, a virtual caricature fitting of the costume and the codename. All it takes is that first, single shot, for her to realize that she has been utterly wrong, too caught up in her own disdain to make a real assessment of her mark.
He doesn’t pause, just inclines his head to the audience for a moment before taking off on his next series of shots to the backdrop of music and applause. Barton sinks an arrow into the center of each target in rapid succession, every shot a trick--two blindfolded, two curved around the high wire supports, and the last from mid-air as he turns a neat front flip.
There’s a deadly precision in every movement--Natasha no longer doubts that he’s a talented killer, that he takes his victims with both speed and finesse. She’s underestimated the usefulness of a bow, too, sees now how it’s both silent and exact, like the knives she prizes for the same reasons. But what really captures her attention, draws her in and steals her breath--twists something in her gut--is the sparkle in his eyes through it all, like each shot he makes is a private joke on the audience.
For his next set, he pulls a girl from the front row of the audience and pulls the blindfold back down over his eyes before shooting oranges off both her palms and the top of her head. The arrows slice through so cleanly that no juice is spilled. When he’s finished, he kneels with a flourish, kisses the back of the girl’s knuckles and sends her back to her seat as the audience roars.
The music swells, then, clearly leading up to the finale. Still, Natasha is surprised when Barton makes the precipitous climb to ascend the highwire, his movements confident as ever. He holds his bow in his outstretched hands, using it as a makeshift balance pole as he walks to the middle of the tightrope, then turns to face the audience straight on.
He’s steady like it’s solid ground beneath his feet as he grabs an arrow from the quiver on his back, holding it in his teeth for the moment it takes to produce and strike a match. He touches the flame to the arrow’s tip, nocking it quickly as the shaft bursts into flame up to the bright orange fletching. He lets it fly straight toward the ground in the center of the ring, and the lights go out once more as a huge bullseye ignites, glows blindingly bright before it burns up in a cloud of purple smoke.
She’s standing perfectly still, her heart pounding, as Barton exits the ring in a few quick strides a moment later, brushes past her so that their shoulders make contact. Natasha jumps in spite of herself, and nearly misses her cue.
There’s something eerie about the circus in the witching hours of the night, most of the lights extinguished, a few empty cars on the ramshackle carnival rides still clattering along the tracks in the dark.
It’s well after midnight by the time the grounds are finally deserted, by the time Natasha decides to venture toward the trailers that flank the fairground. The air is downright chilly now, the grass beneath her feet covered in dew and the night’s trash, rapidly growing soggy. She’s taken the time to ask around, found out from some of the other girls which trailer belongs to Barton--which was unnecessary, it turns out, because it’s marked by another of his trademark purple bullseyes.
Natasha pauses a few yards off, suddenly uncertain. She’s intended this job to be quick and easy--get in, take out her target, leave before anyone has time to ask too many questions. But now she can’t seem to decide whether she’s intending to approach Barton, to leave his body cooling inside of his trailer, or to simply wait for him to emerge before putting a throwing knife between his eyes. If she’s honest with herself, the thing she wants most is an opportunity to see him in action again, to challenge him herself. To find out whether she can take him, all other odds being equal. It seems such a shame to waste skill like his, at least without giving him a chance to fight for his life first.
“You know,” comes a voice out of the shadows behind her, making her jump again, “if you’re going to make a kill, you’ve got to be faster than that. Decisive. But I would’ve thought you’d already learned that lesson.”
Natasha whirls, one hand already on the hilt of the knife that’s concealed at her hip. Barton’s standing a few feet away, giving her the same sly grin she recognizes from his show. It’s the look of a man who’s just pulled off the impossible, and had no doubt that he would succeed all along. He’s changed out of the ridiculous gaudy costume, is now dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans, all black, melting into the darkness around him. She can barely make out the lines of his bow, slung across his back. Easily within reach, she knows, but not pointed at her right now. She makes a conscious effort to relax her shoulders, lets her hand fall back to her side and mirrors his smile.
“And who says that’s what I’m trying to do?” she asks, taking a slow step toward him, telegraphing every movement. She can see the tension behind the nonchalance of his posture; this is a game, and it could turn lethal for either one of them within seconds. She can feels her heart pounding against her rib cage again like it did during the show, but the rush is not quite fear. Instead, it’s something much more primal, something like a twisted pleasure. This is going to be fun, she thinks.
He laughs, the sound like rough water over gravel. “Pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t send the Black Widow just to get an autograph from a carny.”
It’s like going over the edge of a drop on one of the fair rides, an icy jolt in the pit of her stomach. She chastises herself again for dismissing this mission, for failing to consider the possibility that someone with his track record and capabilities might have had just as much intel on her as she’s had at her disposal.
She presses her lips together. “No. They don’t.”
“I watched your set,” he says in reply, still looking wholly unfazed. “You’re one hell of a dancer. But then, I already knew that.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “If you want to flaunt your intel, lose the allusions and try telling me already. Subtlety is not your strong suit. But then I knew that already. The electric purple and the bow are a rather pathetic cry for attention, don’t you think?”
He snorts. “It’s eggplant, not electric. And a bow’s about as subtle as a weapon can get. You want to know how I knew you could dance?”
She waves a hand at him to continue already. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“There was a gala in Paris, last year,” he says evenly. “You were there, protecting a member of the World Security Council. Your mission was a rather spectacular failure.”
Her throat goes dry, just for a moment, as the pieces fall into place. “You were the hired gun who killed him. Right under our noses.”
“Not gun.” He smirks, infuriatingly smug. “Bow.”
“Bow,” Natasha echoes, rolling her eyes. “What would you like? A medal? A gold star?”
Barton just shakes his head. “No. I would like to know what you’re waiting for, though. If you’re here to kill me, then kill me. You've had more than enough chances.”
“So have you,” she counters. “What are you waiting for, Hawkeye?”
He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs, a look in his eyes that she can’t quite read. “Just seemed like a waste.”
“How flattering,” she deadpans, though in truth he’s got her off balance, outmaneuvered at every turn so far. He’s playing a game, she thinks, or maybe they both are, and maybe neither one of them will live to see the sunrise.
Barton shakes his head. “You should be flattered. Maybe I want to watch you dance again.”
“Maybe?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she takes another step toward him. He still smells of smoke, and gunpowder, and the heady burnt-sugar scent that seems to permeate everything on the fairground.
He mirrors her movements, meeting her halfway so that they stand less than an arm’s length apart, close enough that she can make out every line of his face in the dark. Close enough that it would take less than a second for either one of them to strike.
“You’re different here,” he says quietly, studying her with a gaze that makes Natasha feel oddly unsettled. She’s more than accustomed to men looking at her body, but she has the sense that he’s gauging far more than her appearance, has already seen straight through the guise of vulnerability she depends on so often.
“Well,” she says dryly, “this might come as a surprise to you, but I am, in fact, capable of maintaining more than one different cover.”
He chuckles darkly. “Not what I meant. In Paris, you looked--tired. Uninvested. Beautiful, but barely going through the motions.”
“Again with the flattery,” says Natasha, though the sense of unease is growing. He’s right, she knows; she’s been bored more often than not lately, questioning her ability to make any sort of real difference with S.H.I.E.L.D., her ability to continue at all when procedure seems so often at odds with her choice of strategy.
“Tonight,” he continues, leaning in so that the warmth of his breath brushes her face, “you were flying. Like you were weightless, didn’t even need the silks to stay in the air. Like you were born to flirt with death.”
She smiles at him, very slowly. She knows what he’s doing now, trying to disarm her the same way she’s done with so many marks. “Seduction’s my game, Barton.”
“Then why haven’t you tried it on me?” he asks, reaching out to touch the side of her face, his fingers feather-light and surprisingly rough--callused by all the hours spent with his bow, she imagines.
She shivers. “That what you want?”
“Maybe,” he admits, his voice going deeper, and a little rougher again. “Half the world’s out to kill me, you know. Maybe I was hoping for a private show first.”
Natasha isn’t sure what makes her do it--the challenge in his voice, the allure of danger, or the raw attraction she feels for him. She doesn’t allow herself to think, doesn’t allow herself to consider the consequences, just rocks up on her toes and kisses him. Barton groans softly in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair. She isn’t gentle, and he doesn’t try to resist, but then she hasn’t expected that he would. Natasha nips at his lower lip until she tastes the tang of blood, then breaks away from his mouth, moving to scrape her teeth down the long line of his neck.
“Come on,” he breathes, when he can speak again, and she lets him take hold of her wrist, lead her away from his trailer, into the thick stand of trees where the border of the fairground ends. It’s a risk and she knows it, but she isn’t about to back away from it now, drunk on adrenaline, on how very bad an idea this all is.
He stops a few paces into the cover, weak moonlight pouring down through the canopy of branches, and searches her face again. His own is a mask of open need, the intensity of his gaze twisting something inside her chest. She wonders suddenly how often he gets to have any sort of real connection, if he’s as lonely in his work as she’s been in hers.
Natasha closes the distance between them again, leaning up to kiss him quickly this time before sucking a bruise onto the hollow just below his ear. He runs one broad palm down over her back, letting his fingers play at the hem of her shirt.
She knows he’s going to find her knife a moment before he actually does, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away in reconsideration. Instead he meets her eyes, quirks one brow at her before lifting the knife out of its holster and wrapping his fingers around the hilt. It’s probably the stupidest decision she’s ever made, she thinks, but Natasha stays perfectly still, her breath coming in a series of quick, shallow gasps. Barton holds the knife up in front of her face for a moment, lets her see his decision before he tosses it away, onto the grass behind her.
Natasha says nothing, just reaches for his bow where it’s slung across his shoulders. He tenses a little when her fingers come into contact with the grip, but he doesn’t move to stop her as she discards it in the direction of her knife. He lifts the strap of his quiver over his head without prompting, steps away from her for a moment to set it down before returning, the skin of his palm rough against the nape of her neck as he pulls her close and kisses her lips again. He backs her up until her shoulder blades hit the rough trunk of a tree, and maybe she ought to feel trapped by that, but instead it’s only exhilarating, intoxicating, knowing where this is going to lead.
She reaches for his belt, then, feels his erection already pressing against his jeans. Natasha makes quick work of the buckle and buttons, shoving his pants and boxers down his hips before palming him roughly. Barton hisses at her touch, his hips jumping as he struggles to get her pants undone.
She laughs as she helps him along a little, wraps a leg up around his hip and lets him lift her without any further pretense. Natasha groans helplessly at the sensation of their bodies coming together, all bright heat in the cold and darkness of this place. Barton fucks her the way he shoots--quickly, precisely, and with an intensity that burns straight through her reservations, takes apart everything she’s thought was certain. Her fingers press bruises into his shoulders as she comes, burying a cry in the crook of his neck, and he’s right there with her, holding on like she might be his only lifeline in this moment.
When it’s over, he sets her carefully back on her feet, smoothes a lock of hair behind her ear, and steps back, pulling up his pants as she does the same. He looks utterly spent, the facade of aloofness in splinters. His eyes look empty now, she thinks, resigned in a way that she knows entirely too well.
“If you’re going to kill me,” he says quietly, “here’s your chance.”
Natasha pauses for only a moment longer, trying to find Fury’s voice, the voice of her mission, beneath all her other thoughts. She can’t, though, has already made her decision.
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m not going to do that. It would be a waste.”
“Of?” he asks, though she can tell he doesn’t entirely believe her yet, is still questioning whether or not this is a new sort of ploy.
“Your skills,” says Natasha. “S.H.I.E.L.D. could use someone like you.” She pauses. “I could use someone like you.” He still doesn’t look entirely convinced, so she forges ahead. “You get tired of it, going from one job to the next. Knowing there’s no support if things go sideways, nobody to find you and patch you up. S.H.I.E.L.D. could offer you all of that. Plus somewhere to sleep that isn’t a trailer or a tent.”
“And if I say no?” he asks, though she can’t read his true intent.
She considers for a moment. “Then I go home. Report my mission as a failure. They’ll send someone else. Then someone else after that. S.H.I.E.L.D. will keep coming, until they take you out, or somebody else does. You said it yourself, there’s a price on your head. I’m offering you an alternative.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, after a moment, his expression still guarded.
Natasha holds his gaze. “If you decide you want to live, meet me at the diner. Sunrise.”
He nods once, but says nothing. Natasha can feel his eyes on her as she turns away, deliberately picks up her knife.
She keeps her back to him all the way out of the trees, holding onto the foolish hope that she will see him again at first light, that he will take a chance on flying with her again.
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Slide In
A Gift For: sienamystic
Rating: Adult
Warnings: None
Summary/Prompt Used: Natasha’s expected a mockery of a man, a virtual caricature fitting of the costume and the codename. All it takes is that first, single shot, for her to realize that she has been utterly wrong. [Prompt: Alternate first meeting.]
banner by enigma731
Slide in, feel the future
Rushing slowly
Right now
( X)
The file is sitting on Natasha’s desk when she arrives, the only thing out of place, spotlighted in her neat work space like all it’s missing is a bow. She feels irritation forming tight behind her eyes, an instinctive sense kicking in before she’s even had a chance to open it. When she does, it takes less than a minute, scarcely more than an incredulous skim, before she scoops the whole thing up and is back out the door, marching straight down the hallway and onto the lift to Fury’s office.
“You’re not serious,” she says by way of greeting, not waiting for him to look up from the screen of the tablet that currently has his attention.
“And what, may I ask, gave you that impression?” asks Fury, taking a long moment to close out of the file and fix her with a hard look.
“The circus,” says Natasha, setting the file on his desk and folding it open to display the photo of her latest mark, decked out in a garish purple tunic, complete with matching headband and tights. It’s like something out of a children’s book, she imagines, not that she’s ever spent any actual time with one of those. “This is a punishment, isn’t it. For Istanbul? At what point are you going to forgive me for that?”
Fury sighs, like he’s aware this is at least partly a game, the latest step in the power play that’s been emerging between the two of them. Natasha is the best agent he has, and she knows S.H.I.E.L.D. is damn lucky she’s on their side. But that hasn’t stopped anyone there from trying to put her into the neat little teamwork-bound box they insist upon for all their agents, hasn’t stopped them from trying to cramp her style. And if she’s forced to think about it, that’s the real point: she’s grown bored of the missions, of the endless pile of paperwork, of the fact that, five years after Fury plucked her off the street and put her through the Academy, he’s still acting like some sort of frustrating father figure.
“Did you actually read anything beyond the word ‘circus’?” he asks finally, sounding more tired than anything else. He takes the folder out of her hand and turns it around, so that it faces her again. “Clint Barton. Codename Hawkeye. Responsible for half a dozen kills in the last three months. You know when Senator Edwards’ body turned up in a ditch a few weeks ago, made every headline in the country? That was his work.”
Natasha eyes the photo, trying to see anything resembling lethality in the weathered face, the hackneyed carnival costume. “Says his weapon of choice is a bow,” she insists skeptically. “What is this? A Renaissance festival?”
“You prefer a knife,” Fury says pointedly. “And this is not up for debate, Romanoff. I want you on this for a reason.”
She searches his face for another long moment, sees that this isn’t a battle worth fighting. The circus will be a change of scenery, at least. “You sending Morse and Sitwell with me again, or have you learned that they can’t keep up?”
“No,” he says resignedly. “As you are so fond of reminding me, it seems you’ll work best on this one alone.”
The circus is in Florida when Natasha catches up. She spends a day and a half watching the operation unpack, the faded tents springing up, once-colorful awnings that now look like they’ve been bleached by the sun, chewed on by unfriendly winds for years. The few rides that are being set up look equally old and treacherous, a death trap for a fewcheap tickets apiece.
It’s immediately clear why this place would make a good cover--If she had to hazard a guess, there’s probably half a dozen illegal operations going on behind the scenes. Everything about it is rife with secrets, reeks of poor labor conditions and the sort of flexible morals she remembers well from her years on the streets of New York. At least, she decides, it’s one of the more interesting assignments she’s had recently, for the atmosphere alone.
Getting inside is easy enough--She focuses her attention on the circus’s aerial dancer, a big-eyed waif who looks as though she’s barely begun puberty. Natasha waits until the girl ventures into the town’s roadside diner for a pre-show meal and slips a long-acting tranquilizer into her drink.
The manager is every bit as squirrely as Natasha has expected. He takes one look at her body in a gold-sequined leotard, watches her demonstrate a few seconds of choreography, and then hands her a few tattered bills, promising more after the show. It’s so easy, she’s almost a little disappointed.
The Amazing Hawkeye, it turns out, is the first act up after the show’s opening fanfare, right before Natasha is due in the ring herself.
She has to admit, there’s something surprisingly festive about all the lights, the colors of the big top against the clear night sky. The imperfections she saw in the afternoon are invisible now, the slight autumn chill in the air raising goosebumps on the backs of her legs as she watches from the makeshift wings.
This circus only has one ring, one grandstand, which she’s surprised to see is mostly full. From what she’s seen of the surrounding town, most of the local population must be here tonight. The ring itself looks just a bit shoddy, just a bit worn, like everything else about this operation. Natasha finds herself questioning the integrity of the high wire that runs across it, not to mention the hanging silks she’ll be expected to use next. It’s far from the most dangerous cover she’s ever had, though, and she brushes those thoughts aside to focus on the elaborate series of bullseyes now being set up by a boy who looks no older than twelve. His exit is marked by a swell of canned music, the lights dramatically cutting out before slowly coming back up to reveal her mark, in the same painfully purple tunic and tights seared into her mind by the photo.
Barton begins his act with his back to the audience, silhouetted against the back of the tent, bow in hand, arrow already nocked and pulling at the taut string. For an impossibly long, breathless moment, he crouches in silence, letting the tension build. Then, when it feels as though the entire audience is poised on edge, he whirls, lightning quick, sending an arrow straight into the bullseye of the farthest target, the shot landing with a shower of bright gold sparks.
Natasha’s expected a mockery of a man, a virtual caricature fitting of the costume and the codename. All it takes is that first, single shot, for her to realize that she has been utterly wrong, too caught up in her own disdain to make a real assessment of her mark.
He doesn’t pause, just inclines his head to the audience for a moment before taking off on his next series of shots to the backdrop of music and applause. Barton sinks an arrow into the center of each target in rapid succession, every shot a trick--two blindfolded, two curved around the high wire supports, and the last from mid-air as he turns a neat front flip.
There’s a deadly precision in every movement--Natasha no longer doubts that he’s a talented killer, that he takes his victims with both speed and finesse. She’s underestimated the usefulness of a bow, too, sees now how it’s both silent and exact, like the knives she prizes for the same reasons. But what really captures her attention, draws her in and steals her breath--twists something in her gut--is the sparkle in his eyes through it all, like each shot he makes is a private joke on the audience.
For his next set, he pulls a girl from the front row of the audience and pulls the blindfold back down over his eyes before shooting oranges off both her palms and the top of her head. The arrows slice through so cleanly that no juice is spilled. When he’s finished, he kneels with a flourish, kisses the back of the girl’s knuckles and sends her back to her seat as the audience roars.
The music swells, then, clearly leading up to the finale. Still, Natasha is surprised when Barton makes the precipitous climb to ascend the highwire, his movements confident as ever. He holds his bow in his outstretched hands, using it as a makeshift balance pole as he walks to the middle of the tightrope, then turns to face the audience straight on.
He’s steady like it’s solid ground beneath his feet as he grabs an arrow from the quiver on his back, holding it in his teeth for the moment it takes to produce and strike a match. He touches the flame to the arrow’s tip, nocking it quickly as the shaft bursts into flame up to the bright orange fletching. He lets it fly straight toward the ground in the center of the ring, and the lights go out once more as a huge bullseye ignites, glows blindingly bright before it burns up in a cloud of purple smoke.
She’s standing perfectly still, her heart pounding, as Barton exits the ring in a few quick strides a moment later, brushes past her so that their shoulders make contact. Natasha jumps in spite of herself, and nearly misses her cue.
There’s something eerie about the circus in the witching hours of the night, most of the lights extinguished, a few empty cars on the ramshackle carnival rides still clattering along the tracks in the dark.
It’s well after midnight by the time the grounds are finally deserted, by the time Natasha decides to venture toward the trailers that flank the fairground. The air is downright chilly now, the grass beneath her feet covered in dew and the night’s trash, rapidly growing soggy. She’s taken the time to ask around, found out from some of the other girls which trailer belongs to Barton--which was unnecessary, it turns out, because it’s marked by another of his trademark purple bullseyes.
Natasha pauses a few yards off, suddenly uncertain. She’s intended this job to be quick and easy--get in, take out her target, leave before anyone has time to ask too many questions. But now she can’t seem to decide whether she’s intending to approach Barton, to leave his body cooling inside of his trailer, or to simply wait for him to emerge before putting a throwing knife between his eyes. If she’s honest with herself, the thing she wants most is an opportunity to see him in action again, to challenge him herself. To find out whether she can take him, all other odds being equal. It seems such a shame to waste skill like his, at least without giving him a chance to fight for his life first.
“You know,” comes a voice out of the shadows behind her, making her jump again, “if you’re going to make a kill, you’ve got to be faster than that. Decisive. But I would’ve thought you’d already learned that lesson.”
Natasha whirls, one hand already on the hilt of the knife that’s concealed at her hip. Barton’s standing a few feet away, giving her the same sly grin she recognizes from his show. It’s the look of a man who’s just pulled off the impossible, and had no doubt that he would succeed all along. He’s changed out of the ridiculous gaudy costume, is now dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans, all black, melting into the darkness around him. She can barely make out the lines of his bow, slung across his back. Easily within reach, she knows, but not pointed at her right now. She makes a conscious effort to relax her shoulders, lets her hand fall back to her side and mirrors his smile.
“And who says that’s what I’m trying to do?” she asks, taking a slow step toward him, telegraphing every movement. She can see the tension behind the nonchalance of his posture; this is a game, and it could turn lethal for either one of them within seconds. She can feels her heart pounding against her rib cage again like it did during the show, but the rush is not quite fear. Instead, it’s something much more primal, something like a twisted pleasure. This is going to be fun, she thinks.
He laughs, the sound like rough water over gravel. “Pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t send the Black Widow just to get an autograph from a carny.”
It’s like going over the edge of a drop on one of the fair rides, an icy jolt in the pit of her stomach. She chastises herself again for dismissing this mission, for failing to consider the possibility that someone with his track record and capabilities might have had just as much intel on her as she’s had at her disposal.
She presses her lips together. “No. They don’t.”
“I watched your set,” he says in reply, still looking wholly unfazed. “You’re one hell of a dancer. But then, I already knew that.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “If you want to flaunt your intel, lose the allusions and try telling me already. Subtlety is not your strong suit. But then I knew that already. The electric purple and the bow are a rather pathetic cry for attention, don’t you think?”
He snorts. “It’s eggplant, not electric. And a bow’s about as subtle as a weapon can get. You want to know how I knew you could dance?”
She waves a hand at him to continue already. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“There was a gala in Paris, last year,” he says evenly. “You were there, protecting a member of the World Security Council. Your mission was a rather spectacular failure.”
Her throat goes dry, just for a moment, as the pieces fall into place. “You were the hired gun who killed him. Right under our noses.”
“Not gun.” He smirks, infuriatingly smug. “Bow.”
“Bow,” Natasha echoes, rolling her eyes. “What would you like? A medal? A gold star?”
Barton just shakes his head. “No. I would like to know what you’re waiting for, though. If you’re here to kill me, then kill me. You've had more than enough chances.”
“So have you,” she counters. “What are you waiting for, Hawkeye?”
He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs, a look in his eyes that she can’t quite read. “Just seemed like a waste.”
“How flattering,” she deadpans, though in truth he’s got her off balance, outmaneuvered at every turn so far. He’s playing a game, she thinks, or maybe they both are, and maybe neither one of them will live to see the sunrise.
Barton shakes his head. “You should be flattered. Maybe I want to watch you dance again.”
“Maybe?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she takes another step toward him. He still smells of smoke, and gunpowder, and the heady burnt-sugar scent that seems to permeate everything on the fairground.
He mirrors her movements, meeting her halfway so that they stand less than an arm’s length apart, close enough that she can make out every line of his face in the dark. Close enough that it would take less than a second for either one of them to strike.
“You’re different here,” he says quietly, studying her with a gaze that makes Natasha feel oddly unsettled. She’s more than accustomed to men looking at her body, but she has the sense that he’s gauging far more than her appearance, has already seen straight through the guise of vulnerability she depends on so often.
“Well,” she says dryly, “this might come as a surprise to you, but I am, in fact, capable of maintaining more than one different cover.”
He chuckles darkly. “Not what I meant. In Paris, you looked--tired. Uninvested. Beautiful, but barely going through the motions.”
“Again with the flattery,” says Natasha, though the sense of unease is growing. He’s right, she knows; she’s been bored more often than not lately, questioning her ability to make any sort of real difference with S.H.I.E.L.D., her ability to continue at all when procedure seems so often at odds with her choice of strategy.
“Tonight,” he continues, leaning in so that the warmth of his breath brushes her face, “you were flying. Like you were weightless, didn’t even need the silks to stay in the air. Like you were born to flirt with death.”
She smiles at him, very slowly. She knows what he’s doing now, trying to disarm her the same way she’s done with so many marks. “Seduction’s my game, Barton.”
“Then why haven’t you tried it on me?” he asks, reaching out to touch the side of her face, his fingers feather-light and surprisingly rough--callused by all the hours spent with his bow, she imagines.
She shivers. “That what you want?”
“Maybe,” he admits, his voice going deeper, and a little rougher again. “Half the world’s out to kill me, you know. Maybe I was hoping for a private show first.”
Natasha isn’t sure what makes her do it--the challenge in his voice, the allure of danger, or the raw attraction she feels for him. She doesn’t allow herself to think, doesn’t allow herself to consider the consequences, just rocks up on her toes and kisses him. Barton groans softly in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair. She isn’t gentle, and he doesn’t try to resist, but then she hasn’t expected that he would. Natasha nips at his lower lip until she tastes the tang of blood, then breaks away from his mouth, moving to scrape her teeth down the long line of his neck.
“Come on,” he breathes, when he can speak again, and she lets him take hold of her wrist, lead her away from his trailer, into the thick stand of trees where the border of the fairground ends. It’s a risk and she knows it, but she isn’t about to back away from it now, drunk on adrenaline, on how very bad an idea this all is.
He stops a few paces into the cover, weak moonlight pouring down through the canopy of branches, and searches her face again. His own is a mask of open need, the intensity of his gaze twisting something inside her chest. She wonders suddenly how often he gets to have any sort of real connection, if he’s as lonely in his work as she’s been in hers.
Natasha closes the distance between them again, leaning up to kiss him quickly this time before sucking a bruise onto the hollow just below his ear. He runs one broad palm down over her back, letting his fingers play at the hem of her shirt.
She knows he’s going to find her knife a moment before he actually does, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away in reconsideration. Instead he meets her eyes, quirks one brow at her before lifting the knife out of its holster and wrapping his fingers around the hilt. It’s probably the stupidest decision she’s ever made, she thinks, but Natasha stays perfectly still, her breath coming in a series of quick, shallow gasps. Barton holds the knife up in front of her face for a moment, lets her see his decision before he tosses it away, onto the grass behind her.
Natasha says nothing, just reaches for his bow where it’s slung across his shoulders. He tenses a little when her fingers come into contact with the grip, but he doesn’t move to stop her as she discards it in the direction of her knife. He lifts the strap of his quiver over his head without prompting, steps away from her for a moment to set it down before returning, the skin of his palm rough against the nape of her neck as he pulls her close and kisses her lips again. He backs her up until her shoulder blades hit the rough trunk of a tree, and maybe she ought to feel trapped by that, but instead it’s only exhilarating, intoxicating, knowing where this is going to lead.
She reaches for his belt, then, feels his erection already pressing against his jeans. Natasha makes quick work of the buckle and buttons, shoving his pants and boxers down his hips before palming him roughly. Barton hisses at her touch, his hips jumping as he struggles to get her pants undone.
She laughs as she helps him along a little, wraps a leg up around his hip and lets him lift her without any further pretense. Natasha groans helplessly at the sensation of their bodies coming together, all bright heat in the cold and darkness of this place. Barton fucks her the way he shoots--quickly, precisely, and with an intensity that burns straight through her reservations, takes apart everything she’s thought was certain. Her fingers press bruises into his shoulders as she comes, burying a cry in the crook of his neck, and he’s right there with her, holding on like she might be his only lifeline in this moment.
When it’s over, he sets her carefully back on her feet, smoothes a lock of hair behind her ear, and steps back, pulling up his pants as she does the same. He looks utterly spent, the facade of aloofness in splinters. His eyes look empty now, she thinks, resigned in a way that she knows entirely too well.
“If you’re going to kill me,” he says quietly, “here’s your chance.”
Natasha pauses for only a moment longer, trying to find Fury’s voice, the voice of her mission, beneath all her other thoughts. She can’t, though, has already made her decision.
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m not going to do that. It would be a waste.”
“Of?” he asks, though she can tell he doesn’t entirely believe her yet, is still questioning whether or not this is a new sort of ploy.
“Your skills,” says Natasha. “S.H.I.E.L.D. could use someone like you.” She pauses. “I could use someone like you.” He still doesn’t look entirely convinced, so she forges ahead. “You get tired of it, going from one job to the next. Knowing there’s no support if things go sideways, nobody to find you and patch you up. S.H.I.E.L.D. could offer you all of that. Plus somewhere to sleep that isn’t a trailer or a tent.”
“And if I say no?” he asks, though she can’t read his true intent.
She considers for a moment. “Then I go home. Report my mission as a failure. They’ll send someone else. Then someone else after that. S.H.I.E.L.D. will keep coming, until they take you out, or somebody else does. You said it yourself, there’s a price on your head. I’m offering you an alternative.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, after a moment, his expression still guarded.
Natasha holds his gaze. “If you decide you want to live, meet me at the diner. Sunrise.”
He nods once, but says nothing. Natasha can feel his eyes on her as she turns away, deliberately picks up her knife.
She keeps her back to him all the way out of the trees, holding onto the foolish hope that she will see him again at first light, that he will take a chance on flying with her again.