Chapter Text
The first time Natasha felt Clint’s hands was in Minsk.
She had received orders to quietly execute an American diplomat. She didn’t know much about him beyond his appearance, agenda, and most basic information. He was a family man, early to rest and early to rise most of the time, but he was also proud of his tourism method. Natasha learned that he was fond of taking strolls through quiet little neighborhoods wherever he was sent. He was one of those. One of the types who thought the only way to really know a destination was to act like a local, to eat at the little hole-in-the-wall places that only served Grandmother’s traditional favorites, to return home with some garment or bit of home décor that really showed the true flavor of the place.
Pretentious. That was the word for it.
Natasha waited patiently that evening, taking her time as she walked down the quiet street. She wore her hair tucked under a thick wool hat and kept her hands tucked into the pockets of her brown coat. She looked entirely boring, as plain and unremarkable as the stone street. No one looking at her would think she had a gun and plans to use it.
At exactly 9:08 PM, the diplomat appeared. Natasha began to walk toward him, gripping her gun a little tighter, ready to pull the trigger and continue walking without so much as a flinch, just as she had done so many times before. She drew closer, closer, closer, until she could almost see the whites of his eyes –
“Patrick! Wait up!”
The sound of a woman’s voice threw Natasha off slightly, and she glanced past her mark to see a woman hurrying to meet up with him. She carried a little girl, no more than three years old, impeccably and adorably dressed in a pink pea coat, a cherub with rosy cheeks. His wife and child, Natasha realized, her heart stopping. This was not in the plan. They were not supposed to be here. When had their plans changed?
Never mind that. She had her orders. She moved her gun a fraction of an inch in her pocket, ready to take the shot –
And then the little girl laughed. And Natasha couldn’t do it. She couldn’t shoot this man in front of his child, nor could she eliminate the child for the crime of being a witness to her father’s death. She released her grip on her gun and walked quickly, walked past the happy family just as her target gave his child a kiss on the cheek. The little girl’s happy giggle echoed as Natasha raced around the corner.
She had failed her mission. She would pay for this. Punishment would come swiftly and consume her for an age. She leaned against a brick wall, warring with herself. She could go back and finish the job, try to just take out the diplomat without being seen by his wife and daughter, but the chance of not being witnessed was too slim.
Before she could take so much as a step, she became aware of a presence to her left. She snapped into action, but every attempt at a blow was expertly blocked. The man she fought was a full head taller than her and much broader, and he could probably have taken her out easily through brute force, but he didn’t seem to want to hurt her. Natasha was quick and lithe, graceful as a dancer, but the man finally managed to pin her against the wall. He pressed a hand over her mouth, and it was only then that Natasha saw the urgency in his bright blue eyes. He actually shushed her, shushed her like a schoolchild, and it was only when Natasha gave him the tiniest nod that he moved his hand away.
They stared at each other for a long, terrible moment. Natasha briefly considered that the desperate, almost frightened look on the man’s face could just be a ploy to distract her long enough to kill her, but no – she knew how to read people well enough to see the earnestness in his face. He looked around to be sure they were alone, then reached down and grabbed her hand. He actually grabbed her hand, tugging her along at breakneck speed down alleys and side streets, not letting go until they reached an inconspicuous doorway. He swiped a card at a hidden scanner to unlock it, then pushed Natasha inside and locked the door.
“Who the hell are you?” Natasha snapped as the man checked the windows to be sure they weren’t followed. “I followed you this far, not that you gave me much choice. You owe me a name.”
“Barton,” said the man. “Agent Barton. I’m with SHIELD.”
Natasha snorted. Of course he was. Now she saw the faint emblem on his shoulder, now she noticed the weapon he carried – a bow and arrow. How oddly old-fashioned. And this was a trick, and he was going to try to get information out of her by pretending to be on her side, and then he was going to torture and kill her when she refused. It wouldn’t be the first time she had found herself in this position. Before she could berate herself for not seeing this obvious trap sooner, for not being able to tell that the man’s sincere face had all been an act, he was back in front of her, eyeing her with what looked like concern.
“You’ve got a bad cut there. My fault,” he said, pointing to her cheek. “Come here. I have a first aid kit.”
Barton led Natasha to a table in the tiny kitchen and flipped on a fluorescent light. Natasha sat, waiting for the catch. Maybe the “first aid kit” was really full of hypodermic needles, loaded with some kind of drug to knock her out. Maybe he was just going to shoot her right there without asking questions. She braced herself as Barton opened the little tin kit and pulled out…rubbing alcohol and cotton.
“This is going to sting. Sorry,” said Barton, and Natasha was struck by the gentleness in his tone.
She allowed Barton to clean the cut, but didn’t allow herself to wince at the sharp sting or smell of alcohol. While Barton cleaned the abrasion with his right hand, his left held Natasha’s chin steady with the lightest possible touch. Barton applied a couple of butterfly closures to the cut and declared her as good as new.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” he said as he put away the first aid kit. “Shouldn’t even leave a mark, I don’t think.”
“You can drop the act,” said Natasha. “It’s not going to get you anywhere.”
“I’m not…”
He trailed off, seeming to realize that protests would fall on deaf ears. He dropped his head for a moment, an odd gesture, then reached up and pulled his woolen hat off of his head to reveal messy blond hair. He showed the hat to Natasha.
“Nothing in the hat,” he said.
He took off his jacket, turned out his pockets, and even shook out his shoes, all to show Natasha that with his bow in the far corner of the room, he was utterly unarmed.
“You can pat me down if you want, I wouldn’t be offended,” said Barton, daring to be cheeky. Natasha’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Didn’t think so.”
“Just tell me what you want,” said Natasha.
Her patience was fading fast, sped along with the sick feeling in her stomach at the thought of what would happen to her if her failure were discovered. Barton redressed as he spoke.
“I was sent here to take you out,” he said simply. “I think that would be a serious waste of talent. I know a little about you. You’re good at what you do. You’re quick, you’re focused, and you don’t miss. Those are all things I value.”
“You want me to come work for SHIELD,” said Natasha, unable to mask the derision in her voice.
Barton shrugged. “I think you could at least consider it. Your mission was to take out Patrick Ward. You didn’t, and you didn’t by choice. I saw the whole thing. I can’t imagine that’s going to go over well with your bosses. Come with me and we can protect you.”
“Defect, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Well, he was certainly direct. Natasha would give him that. And given the circumstances, he was probably right. But give up everything she knows? Make that decision right now, in an instant, in some dingy little safe house in Belarus where an overgrown American archer stood with his eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer? It was unthinkable, in the strictest sense of the word – Natasha simply could not think. Perhaps he sensed her distress, because Barton’s body language relaxed a little and he reached into the tiny refrigerator for a bottle of water. Natasha took it gratefully and drank for a long moment, briefly considering that it could be poisoned but deciding that at this point, it wouldn’t really matter. Her web had been severed.
Natasha locked her eyes onto Barton’s and gave a small, solitary nod. The archer’s face broke into a little half-smile, and he suddenly looked boyish and sweet in a way that contradicted the powerful, professional build. He stepped forward and held out a hand to Natasha. She took it, standing as she did, and they shook. Barton’s hand was large enough to engulf hers, and despite a few callouses from using his bow and cracked, dry skin from the chill, he felt welcoming and warm in the cold air. He patted Natasha’s shoulder softly with his free hand.
“You can call me Clint.”