Avengers (2012): "Shot in the Dark" (4/6) (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Shot in the Dark (4/6)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Pre- Clint/Natasha (UST)
Rating: R (mostly for violent themes and language)
Warnings: language and some violence
Spoilers: None
Type: Completed
Word Count: 2,409
Summary: In her life there comes a moment. A moment when survival is no longer enough. A moment to say "I choose to live. A moment that changes everything.
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for Notes.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Mid-June, 2000 ~ Paris, France
She let him lead right up until they were far enough away that they didn't need the confused tourist cover, then she pulled away and shifted her gait so that she was slightly ahead of him. She hadn't expected him to be in her hotel room. She'd had a plan for their first face-to-face meeting, where she'd disarm him, maybe even seduce him, then convince him that she could be an asset to SHIELD. There were several files worth of information stored on a disk in a safe deposit box that she'd intended to send home with him to prove her worth to his superiors. She could still get to the box, could still manage the seduction, but first they had to shake the operatives that had tried to kill them in the hotel. He'd caught her off guard by showing up like he did - she hated it when she underestimated someone. It was sheer dumb luck that he hadn't pulled the trigger when she'd hesitated, and she didn't like relying on fickle things like luck.
"You wouldn't happen to have a safe house nearby, would you?" he asked her after a few minutes.
She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Unfortunately, no."
"What kind of European spy network - from any country doesn't have a couple bolt-holes in Paris?"
"The kind that is one person, not a network, who hasn't spent any appreciable amount of time here," she snapped.
"Huh," he replied.
Years of training was all that kept her from rolling her eyes. Instead, she made do with a vaguely disgusted look. "That begs the question, do you have any kind of a safe house or other 'bolt-hole' in this city?"
He reached up and scratched at the back of his head and had the gall to look sheepish.
"Not as such, no. That is, I don't happen to have the coordinates to one handy right at the moment. Nothing in the immediate neighborhood, at least."
She muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary in Russian and tried to map out the surrounding streets in her head. "And you call yourself a spy?"
"No, babe, I call myself an assassin. Which a little different than a spy. I'm more the see 'em and shoot 'em type than the wine and dine 'em sort."
"Don't call me 'babe'."
"Fine. What would you prefer? Blondie? Wido-" her hand came up and clapped over his mouth, then stayed there.
"If you don't shut up we will be found, very quickly. Is that what you want? Because if they find us and somehow manage to take me, I will make sure they take you, too."
It was the first time she'd really looked him in the eyes, at this close a distance. There, behind the charm and the tendency to run off at the mouth, she found a cold edge. It wasn't quite as honed as hers was, but she was fairly confident she could count on one hand the number of people as cold as she'd been trained to be. He must have realized what she was doing, maybe even guessed what she was looking for, because he let slip his reins for just a moment and let her see more.
More was enjoyment rather than guilt, pleasure about what he did rather than pain. Not always - there would occasionally be regret over what he was ordered or had decided to do, but overall, yes. He liked his work. Warmth flushed through her chest and her breath caught, only slightly, a microscopic pause, but somehow she thought he probably noticed.
Slowly, she took her hand away, and rocked back from the balls of her feet so there was more space between them. "You can call me Natasha. For now. It's as good as anything else."
His grin was vaguely predatory. Oh yes, he'd noticed. "I take it from your reaction, those weren't friends of yours?"
"They were carrying PP-19 Bizons. Those haven't made it that far out of Russia yet, and they were breaking into my room. So yes, I am assuming they were coming after me."
He gave her an appreciative look. "Girl knows her guns. Nice."
The look she gave him was both terrifying and yet still seemed to amuse him. She could tell by the way his shoulders tightened, but the corners of his mouth fought to turn slightly upwards.
"So, any idea why you're Miss Popular all of a sudden? Or do they want you dead for the same reasons my guys do?"
She slipped by him and got as close as she could to the end of the alley without opening herself up to the street beyond, looking back and forth to try and find any hint of someone following them.
"I'd say they probably want their property back," she murmured, soft enough he almost missed it.
"Property, huh? I'm gonna guess you didn't stash it in your room."
"Don't be an idiot."
Coming back over to him, she changed the subject. "Do you speak Bulgarian?"
"Fluently"
"Well, I need you to speak it badly."
He didn't miss a beat, and seemed content to let her set the cover. That was certainly a point in his favor.
"With a heavy accent badly, or-"
"Stupid America tourist badly," she clarified and he grinned.
"Profession?"
She considered it for a moment. "Writer."
"Published?"
"Not really. A few pieces for obscure travel guides, perhaps."
"What about you?"
"I'm a student on break. We met in Varna three weeks ago and fell madly in love so we're wandering around Europe for awhile. Really, I'm leading you on for your money, but you don't know that."
"If I'm not published, where'd I get my money from?"
"You're a rich American. Why would I care?"
"Blowing money left by an uncle, then. Not used to having it, don't really know how to handle it, and don't actually have much left. Not that I'm telling you that. But it'll give us something to fight about, later."
She nodded. It was good, it would work. She could already see him shifting how he held himself, letting his shoulders relax and roll forward just little bit, his head tilt down, and his arms loosen. His fingers started drumming lightly against his leg.
"You gonna take me down if I touch you?"
"Our cover wouldn't be very convincing if you didn't," she scoffed. "As long as someone is watching, do as you please."
"Alright. What's the game plan?"
"I picked this part of the city because the streets are close and winding. It's hard for a sniper to get a shot. There's a marketplace about three blocks southwest where we can get some other clothes and sundries. I want to avoid public transportation until we're at least a few miles from here."
He swept a hand out in the direction of the main street. "After you, then," he grinned. This time she did roll her eyes, because she figured a silly fortune-hunting girl from Dobrich would be inclined to.
*****
They stepped easily into the flow of people on the street - no one seemed to be in a particular hurry and she supposed that crowd control had already started to dissipate the gawkers near the hotel. As she had promised, they found a small but vibrant open air market within a mile of where they'd started and she wove them through the people and stalls, occasionally stopping to chat with a merchant or picking up an odd here and an end there. To an outside observer, there wasn't any particular method to her madness, but Clint could see that she was building up a wardrobe to go with whatever new cover was percolating in her head. Occasionally she would grin brightly and shove something into his arms, leaning into him with a lingering touch. He obliged, throwing an arm around her shoulders, pointing every so often at something that caught his eye, while still keeping most of his attention on the people around them and any potential threat.
Two hours later, they were sitting at a small cafe having lunch. She'd pointed out with infinite practicality that they needed to eat, and it would look far more suspicious if they didn't take a break from shopping for a meal. Being at one of the little outdoor tables made his shoulder blades shift uncomfortably but it wasn't that open given how close the buildings were to one another and the cheerful awning above their heads. He knew good and well she hadn't let her guard down either, but nothing in her body language gave that alertness away and he was developing a newfound appreciation for just how good she really was.
"So how do you see this going?" he finally asked. Other than their conversation in the alley she hadn't given him any kind of hints about what she intended to do or where she intended to go. He wasn't even sure why she was still with him, except that he had the guns and she probably figured he could shoot her before she could escape.
But she also hadn't tried to take the guns away.
"You were sent to kill me," she said evenly. "So far, you've both spared my life and helped to save it. Either you're extremely bad at following orders, or you have a counter-proposal. Or," she amended, "you are simply waiting for a better opportunity to follow through, but I somehow doubt that." There was that eyebrow again, gracefully rising in a way that conveyed both skepticism and a question.
"Look - this wasn't supposed to be a dead-or-alive type of an affair. They don't want you brought in, they want you taken out of the equation."
"I assumed as much."
"If you were suicidal, why didn't you just hang out back at the hotel?" his voice was relaxed, flippant even, but his hand tightened on the ceramic. “You were going to let me kill you. Why?”
“I had a moment.”
He looked at her for a long time, trying to puzzle out what she was saying. Finally, unsure of what he was seeing, he outright asked “What do you mean?”
“You watched me for at least a month before you made contact. You followed me across three cities and two continents without losing track. You’re very good; no one else has been able to do that since I was a little girl. I’m not sure I could say you’re my equal, but you are much better than anyone else they’ve ever sent. Let's just say it gave me pause.” She was carrying on this conversation the same way he imagined she would make small talk about the weather, and to a passerby, that’s what he was sure it looked like they were doing. Just making small talk, maybe flirting a little, because she had this secretive half-smile on her face that he knew was an act. Her new pants and blouse were the picture of French casual-yet-dressy, a nice contrast to his jeans and leather jacket. It was a little bit outside his experience. She picked her cup back up and took another sip of her espresso. “I have a question for you, Agent Barton.”
“Alright.” He shifted in his chair, matching her more relaxed pose. “Shoot. As it were.”
“What are you planning to tell your handlers?”
“Don’t know yet. I guess that depends on you.”
“I’m not about to stand still for your gun again, if that’s what you’re thinking. That inclination has passed.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Maybe I don’t want you dead just yet.”
That earned him a frown.
"Why are you still here?"
"If I try to run, you will shoot me, yes? And you currently have all the guns."
He had no doubts that if she wanted to, she could come up with an effective way of getting away from him. He might - might - be able to kill her first, but based on what he'd seen her do, she had better than good odds. More to the point, she had to know he was aware of that. There was something else going on, it was niggling at the back of his brain. There was some other angle she had to be playing, because nothing else made sense.
“Look, Natasha, or whatever your name really is - let me talk to my handler. Let me… I don’t know. You could always come work for us, you know.” He had no idea how he would ever get them to agree to that, but it jumped into his brain and he suddenly wanted that, more than he’d wanted anything in a long time.
Her eyes narrowed and he wondered just how much of that he'd let slip across his face. "Fine. You see what kind of deal they're willing to make."
Bingo, he thought. She was on the run, obviously from more than just SHIELD. He wondered what might make her desperate enough to come to them, knowing they also wanted her dead.
"The hit on the base - that wasn't personal at all, was it?"
"Of course not. I was hired to do a job. I did it."
"So you don't have anything against SHIELD? No grudge, no 'kill all the Western capitalists' bullshit?"
She tilted her head. "No. Why should I? I'm a business woman, Agent Barton. My business is information, and occasionally assassination. If you think I have any greater loyalty than myself, well. You'd be sadly mistaken. I certainly wouldn't be here, if that were the case."
"So you're willing to make a deal? Trade information for a new job?"
Something changed. Her eyes changed just a little, softening slightly. "I'm willing to trade information and my services for something more precious than a paycheck. What I'm looking for is... safety, I suppose you'd say."
"Safety?"
"Very powerful people would very much like to get their hands on me, Agent Barton. For numerous reasons. I know that I won't be able to survive on my own indefinitely. People with these kinds of resources aren't the type you can just disappear from. They want me, and they will find me. But if I belong to an agency such as SHIELD, they might think twice about it."
*****
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Pre- Clint/Natasha (UST)
Rating: R (mostly for violent themes and language)
Warnings: language and some violence
Spoilers: None
Type: Completed
Word Count: 2,409
Summary: In her life there comes a moment. A moment when survival is no longer enough. A moment to say "I choose to live. A moment that changes everything.
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for Notes.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Mid-June, 2000 ~ Paris, France
She let him lead right up until they were far enough away that they didn't need the confused tourist cover, then she pulled away and shifted her gait so that she was slightly ahead of him. She hadn't expected him to be in her hotel room. She'd had a plan for their first face-to-face meeting, where she'd disarm him, maybe even seduce him, then convince him that she could be an asset to SHIELD. There were several files worth of information stored on a disk in a safe deposit box that she'd intended to send home with him to prove her worth to his superiors. She could still get to the box, could still manage the seduction, but first they had to shake the operatives that had tried to kill them in the hotel. He'd caught her off guard by showing up like he did - she hated it when she underestimated someone. It was sheer dumb luck that he hadn't pulled the trigger when she'd hesitated, and she didn't like relying on fickle things like luck.
"You wouldn't happen to have a safe house nearby, would you?" he asked her after a few minutes.
She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Unfortunately, no."
"What kind of European spy network - from any country doesn't have a couple bolt-holes in Paris?"
"The kind that is one person, not a network, who hasn't spent any appreciable amount of time here," she snapped.
"Huh," he replied.
Years of training was all that kept her from rolling her eyes. Instead, she made do with a vaguely disgusted look. "That begs the question, do you have any kind of a safe house or other 'bolt-hole' in this city?"
He reached up and scratched at the back of his head and had the gall to look sheepish.
"Not as such, no. That is, I don't happen to have the coordinates to one handy right at the moment. Nothing in the immediate neighborhood, at least."
She muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary in Russian and tried to map out the surrounding streets in her head. "And you call yourself a spy?"
"No, babe, I call myself an assassin. Which a little different than a spy. I'm more the see 'em and shoot 'em type than the wine and dine 'em sort."
"Don't call me 'babe'."
"Fine. What would you prefer? Blondie? Wido-" her hand came up and clapped over his mouth, then stayed there.
"If you don't shut up we will be found, very quickly. Is that what you want? Because if they find us and somehow manage to take me, I will make sure they take you, too."
It was the first time she'd really looked him in the eyes, at this close a distance. There, behind the charm and the tendency to run off at the mouth, she found a cold edge. It wasn't quite as honed as hers was, but she was fairly confident she could count on one hand the number of people as cold as she'd been trained to be. He must have realized what she was doing, maybe even guessed what she was looking for, because he let slip his reins for just a moment and let her see more.
More was enjoyment rather than guilt, pleasure about what he did rather than pain. Not always - there would occasionally be regret over what he was ordered or had decided to do, but overall, yes. He liked his work. Warmth flushed through her chest and her breath caught, only slightly, a microscopic pause, but somehow she thought he probably noticed.
Slowly, she took her hand away, and rocked back from the balls of her feet so there was more space between them. "You can call me Natasha. For now. It's as good as anything else."
His grin was vaguely predatory. Oh yes, he'd noticed. "I take it from your reaction, those weren't friends of yours?"
"They were carrying PP-19 Bizons. Those haven't made it that far out of Russia yet, and they were breaking into my room. So yes, I am assuming they were coming after me."
He gave her an appreciative look. "Girl knows her guns. Nice."
The look she gave him was both terrifying and yet still seemed to amuse him. She could tell by the way his shoulders tightened, but the corners of his mouth fought to turn slightly upwards.
"So, any idea why you're Miss Popular all of a sudden? Or do they want you dead for the same reasons my guys do?"
She slipped by him and got as close as she could to the end of the alley without opening herself up to the street beyond, looking back and forth to try and find any hint of someone following them.
"I'd say they probably want their property back," she murmured, soft enough he almost missed it.
"Property, huh? I'm gonna guess you didn't stash it in your room."
"Don't be an idiot."
Coming back over to him, she changed the subject. "Do you speak Bulgarian?"
"Fluently"
"Well, I need you to speak it badly."
He didn't miss a beat, and seemed content to let her set the cover. That was certainly a point in his favor.
"With a heavy accent badly, or-"
"Stupid America tourist badly," she clarified and he grinned.
"Profession?"
She considered it for a moment. "Writer."
"Published?"
"Not really. A few pieces for obscure travel guides, perhaps."
"What about you?"
"I'm a student on break. We met in Varna three weeks ago and fell madly in love so we're wandering around Europe for awhile. Really, I'm leading you on for your money, but you don't know that."
"If I'm not published, where'd I get my money from?"
"You're a rich American. Why would I care?"
"Blowing money left by an uncle, then. Not used to having it, don't really know how to handle it, and don't actually have much left. Not that I'm telling you that. But it'll give us something to fight about, later."
She nodded. It was good, it would work. She could already see him shifting how he held himself, letting his shoulders relax and roll forward just little bit, his head tilt down, and his arms loosen. His fingers started drumming lightly against his leg.
"You gonna take me down if I touch you?"
"Our cover wouldn't be very convincing if you didn't," she scoffed. "As long as someone is watching, do as you please."
"Alright. What's the game plan?"
"I picked this part of the city because the streets are close and winding. It's hard for a sniper to get a shot. There's a marketplace about three blocks southwest where we can get some other clothes and sundries. I want to avoid public transportation until we're at least a few miles from here."
He swept a hand out in the direction of the main street. "After you, then," he grinned. This time she did roll her eyes, because she figured a silly fortune-hunting girl from Dobrich would be inclined to.
*****
They stepped easily into the flow of people on the street - no one seemed to be in a particular hurry and she supposed that crowd control had already started to dissipate the gawkers near the hotel. As she had promised, they found a small but vibrant open air market within a mile of where they'd started and she wove them through the people and stalls, occasionally stopping to chat with a merchant or picking up an odd here and an end there. To an outside observer, there wasn't any particular method to her madness, but Clint could see that she was building up a wardrobe to go with whatever new cover was percolating in her head. Occasionally she would grin brightly and shove something into his arms, leaning into him with a lingering touch. He obliged, throwing an arm around her shoulders, pointing every so often at something that caught his eye, while still keeping most of his attention on the people around them and any potential threat.
Two hours later, they were sitting at a small cafe having lunch. She'd pointed out with infinite practicality that they needed to eat, and it would look far more suspicious if they didn't take a break from shopping for a meal. Being at one of the little outdoor tables made his shoulder blades shift uncomfortably but it wasn't that open given how close the buildings were to one another and the cheerful awning above their heads. He knew good and well she hadn't let her guard down either, but nothing in her body language gave that alertness away and he was developing a newfound appreciation for just how good she really was.
"So how do you see this going?" he finally asked. Other than their conversation in the alley she hadn't given him any kind of hints about what she intended to do or where she intended to go. He wasn't even sure why she was still with him, except that he had the guns and she probably figured he could shoot her before she could escape.
But she also hadn't tried to take the guns away.
"You were sent to kill me," she said evenly. "So far, you've both spared my life and helped to save it. Either you're extremely bad at following orders, or you have a counter-proposal. Or," she amended, "you are simply waiting for a better opportunity to follow through, but I somehow doubt that." There was that eyebrow again, gracefully rising in a way that conveyed both skepticism and a question.
"Look - this wasn't supposed to be a dead-or-alive type of an affair. They don't want you brought in, they want you taken out of the equation."
"I assumed as much."
"If you were suicidal, why didn't you just hang out back at the hotel?" his voice was relaxed, flippant even, but his hand tightened on the ceramic. “You were going to let me kill you. Why?”
“I had a moment.”
He looked at her for a long time, trying to puzzle out what she was saying. Finally, unsure of what he was seeing, he outright asked “What do you mean?”
“You watched me for at least a month before you made contact. You followed me across three cities and two continents without losing track. You’re very good; no one else has been able to do that since I was a little girl. I’m not sure I could say you’re my equal, but you are much better than anyone else they’ve ever sent. Let's just say it gave me pause.” She was carrying on this conversation the same way he imagined she would make small talk about the weather, and to a passerby, that’s what he was sure it looked like they were doing. Just making small talk, maybe flirting a little, because she had this secretive half-smile on her face that he knew was an act. Her new pants and blouse were the picture of French casual-yet-dressy, a nice contrast to his jeans and leather jacket. It was a little bit outside his experience. She picked her cup back up and took another sip of her espresso. “I have a question for you, Agent Barton.”
“Alright.” He shifted in his chair, matching her more relaxed pose. “Shoot. As it were.”
“What are you planning to tell your handlers?”
“Don’t know yet. I guess that depends on you.”
“I’m not about to stand still for your gun again, if that’s what you’re thinking. That inclination has passed.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Maybe I don’t want you dead just yet.”
That earned him a frown.
"Why are you still here?"
"If I try to run, you will shoot me, yes? And you currently have all the guns."
He had no doubts that if she wanted to, she could come up with an effective way of getting away from him. He might - might - be able to kill her first, but based on what he'd seen her do, she had better than good odds. More to the point, she had to know he was aware of that. There was something else going on, it was niggling at the back of his brain. There was some other angle she had to be playing, because nothing else made sense.
“Look, Natasha, or whatever your name really is - let me talk to my handler. Let me… I don’t know. You could always come work for us, you know.” He had no idea how he would ever get them to agree to that, but it jumped into his brain and he suddenly wanted that, more than he’d wanted anything in a long time.
Her eyes narrowed and he wondered just how much of that he'd let slip across his face. "Fine. You see what kind of deal they're willing to make."
Bingo, he thought. She was on the run, obviously from more than just SHIELD. He wondered what might make her desperate enough to come to them, knowing they also wanted her dead.
"The hit on the base - that wasn't personal at all, was it?"
"Of course not. I was hired to do a job. I did it."
"So you don't have anything against SHIELD? No grudge, no 'kill all the Western capitalists' bullshit?"
She tilted her head. "No. Why should I? I'm a business woman, Agent Barton. My business is information, and occasionally assassination. If you think I have any greater loyalty than myself, well. You'd be sadly mistaken. I certainly wouldn't be here, if that were the case."
"So you're willing to make a deal? Trade information for a new job?"
Something changed. Her eyes changed just a little, softening slightly. "I'm willing to trade information and my services for something more precious than a paycheck. What I'm looking for is... safety, I suppose you'd say."
"Safety?"
"Very powerful people would very much like to get their hands on me, Agent Barton. For numerous reasons. I know that I won't be able to survive on my own indefinitely. People with these kinds of resources aren't the type you can just disappear from. They want me, and they will find me. But if I belong to an agency such as SHIELD, they might think twice about it."
*****
Chapter 5
Chapter 6