FIC: A Remaking (Clint/Natasha)
Title: A Remaking
Author:
im_ridiculous
Fandom: Clint/Natasha, Avengers movie-verse (with as much of comicanon as suits my purpose...which isn't much)
Rating: R for a couple of bad words and a bit of violence.
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Summary: The day Natasha decides to go rogue is the day Clint is sent to kill her. My 'he made a different call' fic.
Length: A bit over ~2300
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one at all.
Thanks: To the incomparable
workerbee73 for the beta, the mentoring, the enabling and being generally awesome. There simply are not enough bagels and muffins in the land.
A/N: I live in a movie-verse world where the only bit of comic canon I'm really down with is that Natasha has been genetically manipulated so that her body renews itself. In my mind, she's been an agent, with many lives, since the 1960s. No superpowers though. I know some people really hate that idea, but I think you can probably handwave it here. Or at least I hope so! Also... this is my first fic. Ever. So please be gentle with me...
A Remaking
V.
The vodka burns, but not enough.
She wishes it would burn her up, leave nothing but a clean pile of ash behind.
She is nothing but ash. Less than ash.
She is nothing and no one at all.
Maybe the wipes have stopped working.
Her body renews itself, but she has to be removed and replaced, scooped out so that someone else can be poured in. She. Now there's a concept. Hasn’t been a 'her' for a very long time now.
She doesn't remember the last wipe. Won't remember the next. But she knows protocol, and protocol says she is to be periodically remade. Everything she was, everything she did, reduced to a few notes in her file. A glorified bodycount. By rights she shouldn't feel the loss, but she knows it’s coming. Spends all her lives waiting for it. That's knowledge enough, she thinks.
The door opens and a dark figure slides into the bar. Scans the room, hesitates a fraction of a second when he sees her. He orders a drink, retreats to a safe distance.
Half-hidden in her dark corner, she doesn't even care.
Pours another shot of vodka instead.
I.
The moment she steps off the train in St Petersburg, she knows she doesn't want to be there. Shouldn't be there. That her presence in this place is obscene.
Of course, she can't remember why.
Turns her feet toward the hotel though. The same hotel, she thinks, then stamps the feeling down again.
She can’t deny it’s happening more frequently these days though. Strange fits of deja vu, a creeping feeling under her skin.
They’ve told her she's unusual for surviving so long, that the others didn't fare so well. That she's talented. Special. Their longest-serving agent. What they mean is that they have no idea where the limit is. How much manipulation a mind can survive. How much guilt.
Guilt. She almost laughs.
‘Emotion is for children.’ For those who can't control themselves. For those who aren't controlled.
Still, things begin as planned.
She was sent to take care of someone and she does.
Then finds that when they said ‘dispose of the witnesses,’ what they meant was ‘kill his eight-year-old daughter.’
It’s strange they never specified the detail, although it shouldn't matter. But now the girl is looking at her with wide eyes, too terrified even to scream, the body of her still-bleeding father on the floor between them. A small stuffed mouse clutched in her hand.
And it’s not even a memory, not really. Not like getting off the train is a memory. But something inside her comes to a grinding, shuddering halt and she just... can't.
She finds her legs as the child finds her voice.
The screams follow Natasha into the night.
2.
From the roof across the street he hears a child scream, sees the red-haired assassin run out the door. Has her in his sights as she pauses on the threshold.
Then she turns and he sees her face. The flash of panic.
He hesitates.
But the child keeps screaming, and now she's running headlong up the street away from him.
He curses. Runs after her.
III.
She doesn't stop until she runs out of air, until she reaches a part of town she doesn't recognise.
Doesn't understand what she's just done, what she's failed to do.
Doesn't understand because it can't be happening. She's not programmed to allow this to happen. Doesn't recognise the feeling. Yes, you do. This feeling is yours.
She can't breathe.
Of course you can breathe. You can always breathe. Breathe.
Think.
'Your first task post-mission is to secure the asset and assess any damage.' She is the asset. Secure the asset.
'Trust your instincts, they'll keep you alive.' Realises she's standing in the middle of the road, directly under a streetlight. Get off the street. Yes. Off the street.
A bar. It'll do.
She steadies herself, tries to throw her shoulders back, reaches for nonchalance. Fails, mostly.
Furtive, then. Surely she can still manage furtive.
Pulls the door open and ducks inside.
4.
He watches her stop to catch her breath. Right under the fucking streetlight. Anywhere Else is where you stand on this street. He could take her out right now if he wanted to.
Remembers half a second later that's exactly why he's there.
Fits an arrow to his bow. Lines her up. Prepares to take the shot.
Two seconds pass. Five. He doesn’t take it.
Tells himself it's too easy. She's the Black Widow. This is no way for the Black Widow to go out. He has a certain professional respect and he's in no hurry, that's all. It is what it is. Which is nothing.
And anyway, she sees the bar now. Ducks her head and slips inside.
He looks at the building behind him. The roof has a clear line of sight to the bar's front door and adjoining alley. Makes to turn, climb the fire escape.
Hesitates. She did look spooked though. Could be something else is after her tonight. The windows are frosted glass; he can’t see inside from here. Wouldn't want to be in a bar that's about to get hit but wouldn't want to lose his mark either.
Decides to check the perimeter, follow her instead.
VI.
She sits in the darkness, stares without seeing. The bar seems safe enough and her focus is needed elsewhere.
Assess any damage.
The vodka dulls the unfamiliar tightness in her chest. Is that panic? She doesn't panic. How else would you explain what just happened?
Her breathing is still too fast and too shallow, she knows, but controlled enough to fool an observer.
She throws back the shot. Recognises the searing sensation in her throat at least. Welcomes the heat.
Pour, drink, swallow.
Assess the damage.
She's alone in a bar, in a part of the city she doesn't know, with no backup, no base to return to and no escape plan.
It occurs to her then. Defection.
How does her programmed brain even know the word? She snorts. The involuntary sound surprises her. She puts the glass down, pushes it away.
They'll be coming for her soon. If she's going to go, she should go.
Doesn’t move.
Defect. Who would take her? She's an asset like an amnesia patient is an asset. She should have so many years of intel to offer. What she’s got is five days.
Could she anyway? She's been running ops against the Americans (and plenty more besides) for so many lives now. They're her enemy, or at least she's theirs. Thinks maybe to have an enemy you have to be a person. Have loyalties. Belief.
And what does she believe? What’s in her head that they didn't put there? She’s a weapon, not a person. Without anyone to wield it, what use is that? What is the point of her? Nothing and no one.
She has to concentrate to keep her features controlled then, but she manages it. Emotion is for children. Weapons can't cry.
She can't defect. It would only mean more red, more red in her ledger and there's already too much. She may not remember all the things she's done, but she feels the weight of them. She's certain they'll crush her, in the end.
She takes another drink. Wishes they'd just find her and get it over with.
7.
He can't look away.
He's made a life of observation, of seeing what others can’t and connecting the dots. But what he sees now... doesn't make sense. It's compelling.
She should be more guarded. Should be scanning the bar. Should have noticed the man watching her.
But she's focused completely inwards. Thinks she's fooling everyone with that breathing, but not him. And when she raises her eyes to pour another shot...
Well. He knows despair when he sees it. She hides it well, but not well enough. Not from him.
Good, he thinks. His advantage. Why is he still sitting here anyway? He should have killed her an hour ago. But he just... can’t.
Tells himself it's the bar, full of people, potential collateral damage. And it's the Black Widow. Appearing defenceless is her MO. Better to wait. And watch.
And christ she's worth watching. Catches himself. Not that he... that's not important.
And he realises (and why did it take him so long?) that if she's just sitting here (of all places) it's because she has nowhere else to go. And if she's been compromised (because she's clearly been compromised) why doesn't she call for backup? She's gone out on her own. He's sure of it.
And that changes things, doesn’t it?
VIII.
She looks up when the bartender comes to clear her glass away and sees for the first time that the bar is full of people. Knows that when they come to take her out, they won't do it quietly.
Unexpectedly, finds she doesn’t want these people caught in the crossfire. That's new. That’s enough to push her out of her chair at last.
Shoves the door open and is gone.
9.
He's just decided what to do, what he could say, when she's up and through the door.
He downs his drink, throws some cash on the table and follows her out.
Into an empty street.
He curses. Hears a muffled thud. Runs toward it.
Rounds a corner into an empty lot, surrounded on three sides by concrete slab buildings. Three black-windowed vans make a haphazard ring, guns protrude from the drivers' windows, pointing at a figure between them.
At the Black Widow. The Black Widow, who's on her knees while a man twice his own size pulls her up by her hair and cracks her across the jaw.
This oughta be good, he thinks. He has a certain professional respect, and he's read her file. Knows she's gotten out of dozens of scrapes like this and worse. And she can tire herself out on these idiots before he swoops in with the sales pitch.
But there's another dull thud as she's kicked in the gut. A muffled cry.
And he realises there won’t be any show of skill here. This is a ritual slaughter. Self-sacrifice.
And he can't let her do it.
It's a waste, and she's an asset, and she's a legend and, godammit, she's a pretty girl who's just had a really bad fucking day, and he can't let her do it.
Snaps his bow, fits a couple of arrows, takes out two in the centre of the ring, all in the same breath.
As the guns turn in his direction, he sends a couple of light explosive rounds into two of the vans. Takes them out without blowing her to kingdom come as well.
And now he's running towards her, and he's too close for arrows. Dodges a bullet aimed at his head, sends a knife into the eye socket of the shooter who crumples at her feet.
More fire from the third van, behind him now, and he takes out his sidearm, swings around and they're done too.
Pauses a moment to check there's no one else, then turns to face her. To receive his thanks.
Or... not. She rips the knife out of the man at her feet and she’s ready to take him. Eyes wild, breathing heavy, blood oozing down the side of her face and from the corner of her mouth.
He raises his arms in surrender. Raises his eyebrows to show what he means to do. Slowly, slowly lays his weapons on the ground. Backs away a bit too, palms still held out in front of him, just in case.
There’s a pause. And then she speaks.
“Who are you?”
“Aww, you haven't heard of me? And they told me the offbeat choice of weaponry would make me a hit with the ladies.”
X.
She hesitates. Thrown. Is he... is he flirting with her?
Tries to cover her confusion with another question.
“Who sent you?”
“SHIELD sent me. To kill you.”
He's mad, she thinks. All this and now a madman.
“'If you were hoping to claim that honour for yourself, you should know that I've decided I've had enough of dying.”
“Good,” he says. “I've had a much better idea.”
She doesn’t lower the knife, but she hears him out because he saved her life and she's not sure that's ever actually happened before.
When he's finished she can't say anything at all.
And as she’s thinking about the fact that all her old safehouses are compromised and all her old contacts are burned... his phone rings.
He raises another eyebrow at her and she realises he's asking her permission to move, to answer it. She nods.
“Director. ... yeah. Look, I'd say it's been a success, yeah. I'm heading to the rendezvous point now. ... I'll have a body with me, sure. But, ah...Director?”
He looks at her.
She looks at him. Trust your instincts, they'll keep you alive.
She blinks.
Then nods.
He smiles.
“Yeah, that body? It may be a little more alive than we had originally planned...”
Author:
im_ridiculous
Fandom: Clint/Natasha, Avengers movie-verse (with as much of comicanon as suits my purpose...which isn't much)
Rating: R for a couple of bad words and a bit of violence.
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Summary: The day Natasha decides to go rogue is the day Clint is sent to kill her. My 'he made a different call' fic.
Length: A bit over ~2300
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one at all.
Thanks: To the incomparable
workerbee73 for the beta, the mentoring, the enabling and being generally awesome. There simply are not enough bagels and muffins in the land.
A/N: I live in a movie-verse world where the only bit of comic canon I'm really down with is that Natasha has been genetically manipulated so that her body renews itself. In my mind, she's been an agent, with many lives, since the 1960s. No superpowers though. I know some people really hate that idea, but I think you can probably handwave it here. Or at least I hope so! Also... this is my first fic. Ever. So please be gentle with me...
A Remaking
V.
The vodka burns, but not enough.
She wishes it would burn her up, leave nothing but a clean pile of ash behind.
She is nothing but ash. Less than ash.
She is nothing and no one at all.
Maybe the wipes have stopped working.
Her body renews itself, but she has to be removed and replaced, scooped out so that someone else can be poured in. She. Now there's a concept. Hasn’t been a 'her' for a very long time now.
She doesn't remember the last wipe. Won't remember the next. But she knows protocol, and protocol says she is to be periodically remade. Everything she was, everything she did, reduced to a few notes in her file. A glorified bodycount. By rights she shouldn't feel the loss, but she knows it’s coming. Spends all her lives waiting for it. That's knowledge enough, she thinks.
The door opens and a dark figure slides into the bar. Scans the room, hesitates a fraction of a second when he sees her. He orders a drink, retreats to a safe distance.
Half-hidden in her dark corner, she doesn't even care.
Pours another shot of vodka instead.
I.
The moment she steps off the train in St Petersburg, she knows she doesn't want to be there. Shouldn't be there. That her presence in this place is obscene.
Of course, she can't remember why.
Turns her feet toward the hotel though. The same hotel, she thinks, then stamps the feeling down again.
She can’t deny it’s happening more frequently these days though. Strange fits of deja vu, a creeping feeling under her skin.
They’ve told her she's unusual for surviving so long, that the others didn't fare so well. That she's talented. Special. Their longest-serving agent. What they mean is that they have no idea where the limit is. How much manipulation a mind can survive. How much guilt.
Guilt. She almost laughs.
‘Emotion is for children.’ For those who can't control themselves. For those who aren't controlled.
Still, things begin as planned.
She was sent to take care of someone and she does.
Then finds that when they said ‘dispose of the witnesses,’ what they meant was ‘kill his eight-year-old daughter.’
It’s strange they never specified the detail, although it shouldn't matter. But now the girl is looking at her with wide eyes, too terrified even to scream, the body of her still-bleeding father on the floor between them. A small stuffed mouse clutched in her hand.
And it’s not even a memory, not really. Not like getting off the train is a memory. But something inside her comes to a grinding, shuddering halt and she just... can't.
She finds her legs as the child finds her voice.
The screams follow Natasha into the night.
2.
From the roof across the street he hears a child scream, sees the red-haired assassin run out the door. Has her in his sights as she pauses on the threshold.
Then she turns and he sees her face. The flash of panic.
He hesitates.
But the child keeps screaming, and now she's running headlong up the street away from him.
He curses. Runs after her.
III.
She doesn't stop until she runs out of air, until she reaches a part of town she doesn't recognise.
Doesn't understand what she's just done, what she's failed to do.
Doesn't understand because it can't be happening. She's not programmed to allow this to happen. Doesn't recognise the feeling. Yes, you do. This feeling is yours.
She can't breathe.
Of course you can breathe. You can always breathe. Breathe.
Think.
'Your first task post-mission is to secure the asset and assess any damage.' She is the asset. Secure the asset.
'Trust your instincts, they'll keep you alive.' Realises she's standing in the middle of the road, directly under a streetlight. Get off the street. Yes. Off the street.
A bar. It'll do.
She steadies herself, tries to throw her shoulders back, reaches for nonchalance. Fails, mostly.
Furtive, then. Surely she can still manage furtive.
Pulls the door open and ducks inside.
4.
He watches her stop to catch her breath. Right under the fucking streetlight. Anywhere Else is where you stand on this street. He could take her out right now if he wanted to.
Remembers half a second later that's exactly why he's there.
Fits an arrow to his bow. Lines her up. Prepares to take the shot.
Two seconds pass. Five. He doesn’t take it.
Tells himself it's too easy. She's the Black Widow. This is no way for the Black Widow to go out. He has a certain professional respect and he's in no hurry, that's all. It is what it is. Which is nothing.
And anyway, she sees the bar now. Ducks her head and slips inside.
He looks at the building behind him. The roof has a clear line of sight to the bar's front door and adjoining alley. Makes to turn, climb the fire escape.
Hesitates. She did look spooked though. Could be something else is after her tonight. The windows are frosted glass; he can’t see inside from here. Wouldn't want to be in a bar that's about to get hit but wouldn't want to lose his mark either.
Decides to check the perimeter, follow her instead.
VI.
She sits in the darkness, stares without seeing. The bar seems safe enough and her focus is needed elsewhere.
Assess any damage.
The vodka dulls the unfamiliar tightness in her chest. Is that panic? She doesn't panic. How else would you explain what just happened?
Her breathing is still too fast and too shallow, she knows, but controlled enough to fool an observer.
She throws back the shot. Recognises the searing sensation in her throat at least. Welcomes the heat.
Pour, drink, swallow.
Assess the damage.
She's alone in a bar, in a part of the city she doesn't know, with no backup, no base to return to and no escape plan.
It occurs to her then. Defection.
How does her programmed brain even know the word? She snorts. The involuntary sound surprises her. She puts the glass down, pushes it away.
They'll be coming for her soon. If she's going to go, she should go.
Doesn’t move.
Defect. Who would take her? She's an asset like an amnesia patient is an asset. She should have so many years of intel to offer. What she’s got is five days.
Could she anyway? She's been running ops against the Americans (and plenty more besides) for so many lives now. They're her enemy, or at least she's theirs. Thinks maybe to have an enemy you have to be a person. Have loyalties. Belief.
And what does she believe? What’s in her head that they didn't put there? She’s a weapon, not a person. Without anyone to wield it, what use is that? What is the point of her? Nothing and no one.
She has to concentrate to keep her features controlled then, but she manages it. Emotion is for children. Weapons can't cry.
She can't defect. It would only mean more red, more red in her ledger and there's already too much. She may not remember all the things she's done, but she feels the weight of them. She's certain they'll crush her, in the end.
She takes another drink. Wishes they'd just find her and get it over with.
7.
He can't look away.
He's made a life of observation, of seeing what others can’t and connecting the dots. But what he sees now... doesn't make sense. It's compelling.
She should be more guarded. Should be scanning the bar. Should have noticed the man watching her.
But she's focused completely inwards. Thinks she's fooling everyone with that breathing, but not him. And when she raises her eyes to pour another shot...
Well. He knows despair when he sees it. She hides it well, but not well enough. Not from him.
Good, he thinks. His advantage. Why is he still sitting here anyway? He should have killed her an hour ago. But he just... can’t.
Tells himself it's the bar, full of people, potential collateral damage. And it's the Black Widow. Appearing defenceless is her MO. Better to wait. And watch.
And christ she's worth watching. Catches himself. Not that he... that's not important.
And he realises (and why did it take him so long?) that if she's just sitting here (of all places) it's because she has nowhere else to go. And if she's been compromised (because she's clearly been compromised) why doesn't she call for backup? She's gone out on her own. He's sure of it.
And that changes things, doesn’t it?
VIII.
She looks up when the bartender comes to clear her glass away and sees for the first time that the bar is full of people. Knows that when they come to take her out, they won't do it quietly.
Unexpectedly, finds she doesn’t want these people caught in the crossfire. That's new. That’s enough to push her out of her chair at last.
Shoves the door open and is gone.
9.
He's just decided what to do, what he could say, when she's up and through the door.
He downs his drink, throws some cash on the table and follows her out.
Into an empty street.
He curses. Hears a muffled thud. Runs toward it.
Rounds a corner into an empty lot, surrounded on three sides by concrete slab buildings. Three black-windowed vans make a haphazard ring, guns protrude from the drivers' windows, pointing at a figure between them.
At the Black Widow. The Black Widow, who's on her knees while a man twice his own size pulls her up by her hair and cracks her across the jaw.
This oughta be good, he thinks. He has a certain professional respect, and he's read her file. Knows she's gotten out of dozens of scrapes like this and worse. And she can tire herself out on these idiots before he swoops in with the sales pitch.
But there's another dull thud as she's kicked in the gut. A muffled cry.
And he realises there won’t be any show of skill here. This is a ritual slaughter. Self-sacrifice.
And he can't let her do it.
It's a waste, and she's an asset, and she's a legend and, godammit, she's a pretty girl who's just had a really bad fucking day, and he can't let her do it.
Snaps his bow, fits a couple of arrows, takes out two in the centre of the ring, all in the same breath.
As the guns turn in his direction, he sends a couple of light explosive rounds into two of the vans. Takes them out without blowing her to kingdom come as well.
And now he's running towards her, and he's too close for arrows. Dodges a bullet aimed at his head, sends a knife into the eye socket of the shooter who crumples at her feet.
More fire from the third van, behind him now, and he takes out his sidearm, swings around and they're done too.
Pauses a moment to check there's no one else, then turns to face her. To receive his thanks.
Or... not. She rips the knife out of the man at her feet and she’s ready to take him. Eyes wild, breathing heavy, blood oozing down the side of her face and from the corner of her mouth.
He raises his arms in surrender. Raises his eyebrows to show what he means to do. Slowly, slowly lays his weapons on the ground. Backs away a bit too, palms still held out in front of him, just in case.
There’s a pause. And then she speaks.
“Who are you?”
“Aww, you haven't heard of me? And they told me the offbeat choice of weaponry would make me a hit with the ladies.”
X.
She hesitates. Thrown. Is he... is he flirting with her?
Tries to cover her confusion with another question.
“Who sent you?”
“SHIELD sent me. To kill you.”
He's mad, she thinks. All this and now a madman.
“'If you were hoping to claim that honour for yourself, you should know that I've decided I've had enough of dying.”
“Good,” he says. “I've had a much better idea.”
She doesn’t lower the knife, but she hears him out because he saved her life and she's not sure that's ever actually happened before.
When he's finished she can't say anything at all.
And as she’s thinking about the fact that all her old safehouses are compromised and all her old contacts are burned... his phone rings.
He raises another eyebrow at her and she realises he's asking her permission to move, to answer it. She nods.
“Director. ... yeah. Look, I'd say it's been a success, yeah. I'm heading to the rendezvous point now. ... I'll have a body with me, sure. But, ah...Director?”
He looks at her.
She looks at him. Trust your instincts, they'll keep you alive.
She blinks.
Then nods.
He smiles.
“Yeah, that body? It may be a little more alive than we had originally planned...”