Chapter Text
Clint unfolded the piece of paper he had been carrying in his chest pocket through 7 countries in Europe. This was the last stop, he would make sure of that. He glanced at the blurred picture of the woman whose only identifiable characteristic was her wild crimson curly hair, eager to finally put a face to the infamous Black Widow.
SHIELD had flagged her as a problem a few months ago after countless sightings across Eastern Europe. Bodies of politicians, arms dealers and intelligence operatives kept turning up in her wake. By the time SHIELD started piecing together the pattern, she had already vanished across three borders. Clint had been following her, then losing her, then finding another trail of bodies waiting for him two cities later. Every lead ended the same way, with a trail of dead men, burnt files, and rumors about a red-haired ghost.
The first time Clint came close to catching her had been in Prague. He’d arrived at the hotel less than four minutes after the kill, only to find an open window and a dead corpse sprawled across the suite floor, throat sliced so cleanly he stared at it for a minute in awe.
The second time was in Vienna. He tracked her through a crowded train station for nearly 20 minutes before losing sight of her near the platforms. Thirty minutes later, an informant SHIELD was in contact with turned up dead in a gas station bathroom with a bullet between the eyes.
Then it was Bucharest. Belgrade. Krakow.
His newest intel had brought him to a run-down motel in the middle of Budapest, one that looked like it needed to be torn down two years ago. The outside of the motel room smelt like mildew, smoke, and the sharp metallic scent of blood. Clint turned the doorknob, taking a cautious step in. The dying fluorescent bulb flickered every few seconds, throwing the room in and out of darkness. He took another step in, freezing as something brushed past his cheek.
A bald, overweight, slavic man who had already gone grey hung from the ceiling fan by an extension cord, turning slowly in circles as the fan creaked dangerously. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, as far as Clint could tell, which put the time of death anywhere between 1 to 2 hours ago. He stepped aside before it could touch him again. Pulling an arrow out of his quiver in a swift move, he slid it onto the rest before clicking the nock into the bowstring. He glanced around warily, taking another step forward.
“Did you like it?” A low, raspy voice asked.
Clint’s gaze snapped toward the far right corner of the room. All he could make out was the bright red hair, unmistakable after a month of chasing her. She sat slumped against the wall, one leg tucked close to her chest while the other stretched out stiffly. Blood soaked through the fabric around her thigh, and next to it sat a tracker stained in red, miniscule and easily overlooked by the untrained eye.
“Did you enjoy following me around Europe?” Her head tilted slightly against the wall.
Clint took another step in. The light flickered once more, revealing a sharp jawline and pale complexion. “You knew.”
“28 days.” She replied. “You’re persistent.”
“I have a job.”
“I know. You’re here to kill me,” she stated plainly, so calmly that Clint started to think it was a trap.
“Yes.” Clint lowered his bow, taking a step closer. “I am.”
The woman nodded slowly, gaze still fixed somewhere in her lap. “Well, then. I have a favour to ask.”
“Is this the part where you convince me not to kill you?” Clint replied dryly.
Her split lips cracked into a small smile, “I think we’re way past that, don’t you?”
“You’re goddamn right.” He muttered under his breath, not knowing why he was even entertaining her. If it were any other assignment, he would’ve let go already. He would have completed the assignment and headed home. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase. It would feel like a shame if he never got to properly see her face while she was still alive. The woman who had outsmarted him throughout an entire continent. He wanted to look her in the eyes and know that he had won.
There was another thing that bothered him. The way she sat there too still and too composed for someone who had carved a tracker out of her leg unnerved him. Why remove it now? Why stay here at all? She could have disappeared before he even crossed the border, like she had done repeatedly in the past.
But she hadn't. Which meant that this wasn’t a successful hunt on his part, and she’d been expecting him, maybe even counting on it. Would it still count as a win if he had been manipulated into pulling the trigger?
“Tell me your name.”
Clint blinked, the request catching him so off-guard his brain nearly short-circuiting.
“What?”
“It’s only polite.” she said quietly. “You are going to be the one to kill me, after all.”
“Never thought of you as someone who cared about manners.” He remarked with a light scoff.
“What do you know?” She let out a faint exhale. “Humor me.”
Clint let out a short laugh despite himself. “Clint Barton.”
She shook her head, the movement shifted loose strands of hair away from her face for a second, just enough for Clint to catch a glimpse of a bruise darkening beneath one eye.
“Your full name.”
“You’re not really in any position to be making demands.”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, she let out a sound of frustration, her mouth curving down into a frown. “Disappointing,” she said softly. “But I guess it is what it is.”
Clint raised his bow again, pulling the string back slowly.
She finally raised her head fully. “Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”
Clint faltered at her appearance. The flickering light caught her face in flashes, revealing pieces of her one at a time. Damp crimson curls framed her face beautifully yet messily, some strands sticking to the sweat along her temple. Her face was pale and sharp and younger than Clint had imagined, definitely of Eastern European descent. But it was her eyes that stopped him. They were green, sharp and alert, and oh so determined.
She was determined to die right then and there.
The Black Widow – Natalia, continued without breaking her gaze , “Born December 3rd, 1984. Completed her last mission in Budapest, Hungary.” She drew in another careful breath, her voice evening out as she continued like she was reading a eulogy. “Killed on the 4th of October, 2005, at 9:37 in the evening, by the hands of Clint Barton.”
Fuck this all to hell.
For the first time in years, Clint hesitated. The arrow released a fraction too late and at an angle to the left, striking into the wall just beside her head with a sharp crack.
Natalia’s eyes flicked toward it. Then back to him. “Well.” She almost sounded disappointed. “That was underwhelming.”
Clint exhaled sharply through his nose, tension tightening in his jaw.
“Try not to miss this time.”
He moved towards her slowly, boots crunching over remnants of a broken lamp on the carpeted floor. Natalia didn’t flinch, not even minutely, not even when he stopped right in front of her. “I never miss,” he muttered. With one hand, he yanked the arrow free from the wall. With the other, he pulled out a taser from his belt and jammed it hard against the side of her neck.
“What are you-”
Natalia gasped as the taser crackled violently, her body seizing up instantly. Her fingers twitched once, then went slack as her body tipped forward. Clint caught her before her head hit the floor, before lowering her down carefully away from the broken glass.
For a second, the room went silent except for the creaking from the ceiling fan. Clint stared down at the unconscious Black Widow. Then he looked toward the corpse slowly spinning above them.
“Making a big mistake, apparently.”