Perched on the Novgorod rooftop, the sniper rifle is balanced lightly in his hands. On the terrace of the building across the street, his quarry paces, graceful and deadly. For a long moment, Clint studies her through the scope.
The notorious Black Widow! The grainy surveillance photos haven’t done her justice. Too bad; he has his orders.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he mutters.
As if she heard him, she glances up. They make eye contact through the rifle-sight.
There’s a hot buzz of pain across the back on his left wrist. Frowning, he glances down, only to see that his soulmark has turned from dark brown to crimson. Her? Impossible! But across the way, she’s pushed up her sleeve and is rubbing her wrist.
Hardly believing he’s doing it, Clint breaks down the rifle and stows it back in its case.
By the time he reaches street level, she’s waiting for him. Up close, her hair is redder, her eyes bluer and her poise makes him feel like a big, clumsy oaf by comparison.
He says something in Russian, and he wilts. “My name is Clint Barton,” he says, and she stops.
“You’re American?” she asks in disbelief.
He nods.
“And you were sent to kill me?” Her English is flawless.
“Can’t do that….” He shows her his wrist, the little inch-long mark that looks like an arrow.
It’s her turn to nod and display her wrist. She looks troubled, and he has a feeling that being conflicted isn’t something she’s used to. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, I’m not going to kill you, that’s for sure.”
“But…the people who sent you…won’t they be angry?”
“Not if I bring you in.” He’ll take on Coulson and even Fury if he has to for her. “I won’t force you, but they’d only send someone else. Come with me if you want to live.”
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timeasmymeasure
Fill -- Making the Call (MCU, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff)
Date: 2019-10-07 04:30 pm (UTC)The notorious Black Widow! The grainy surveillance photos haven’t done her justice. Too bad; he has his orders.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he mutters.
As if she heard him, she glances up. They make eye contact through the rifle-sight.
There’s a hot buzz of pain across the back on his left wrist. Frowning, he glances down, only to see that his soulmark has turned from dark brown to crimson. Her? Impossible! But across the way, she’s pushed up her sleeve and is rubbing her wrist.
Hardly believing he’s doing it, Clint breaks down the rifle and stows it back in its case.
By the time he reaches street level, she’s waiting for him. Up close, her hair is redder, her eyes bluer and her poise makes him feel like a big, clumsy oaf by comparison.
He says something in Russian, and he wilts. “My name is Clint Barton,” he says, and she stops.
“You’re American?” she asks in disbelief.
He nods.
“And you were sent to kill me?” Her English is flawless.
“Can’t do that….” He shows her his wrist, the little inch-long mark that looks like an arrow.
It’s her turn to nod and display her wrist. She looks troubled, and he has a feeling that being conflicted isn’t something she’s used to. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, I’m not going to kill you, that’s for sure.”
“But…the people who sent you…won’t they be angry?”
“Not if I bring you in.” He’ll take on Coulson and even Fury if he has to for her. “I won’t force you, but they’d only send someone else. Come with me if you want to live.”
.