Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/654600.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen
  Fandom:
      The_Avengers_(2012), Avengers_(Marvel)_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Clint_Barton/Natasha_Romanov, Clint_Barton_&_Natasha_Romanov
  Character:
      Natasha_Romanov, Clint_Barton, Nick_Fury, Natalia_Romanova
  Additional Tags:
      dark!Natasha
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-25 Words: 2641
****** Self-Destruct Button ******
by racheesi
Summary
     After Clint is left blind in an attack meant for Natasha, Agent
     Romanoff reverts back to some old techniques to get revenge. Even if
     it means having lost Clint in the process.
Notes
     Please look at the warnings. This is pretty dark.
     Note: This was originally written as a solo para for a roleplay that
     I'm in, and I've adapted it slightly to post here. I've added in some
     background that might not have been clear without knowing the
     roleplay, but if I've left anything out, or anything is confusing,
     let me know.
Natasha walked out of Clint’s hospital room, ignoring his cries for her. He was
safer this way. He was blind. Her Hawkeye lost his sight. Because of her.
Because she made the mistake of getting close to him, caring for him, marrying
him. Granted, the marriage was one of convenience, born of a need for her to be
in the hospital room with him on a mission, but continued because she didn't
have it in her to take it back later. They traced him to her and she let
herself get close. She got complacent. She let herself be happy, and she knew,
deep down, that mistake was the biggest of all. She put a rock-solid,
indifferent look on her face as she strode down the hall and into the elevator.
She got to her car, white-knuckling the steering wheel as she kept her body
from shaking.
She entered his apartment, barely remembering how she got from the car to the
door. She never been so glad that Little Guy (the name Clint gave his little
rescued mutt as a joke, and it had stuck) was at Pepper’s, and not there to
greet her. To make her want to stay. She kept a straight face as she packed her
clothes into a small duffel bag. She put the bag by the door, passing her
television on the way. She pictured him, sitting on the couch, watching a Jets
game, and it seemed like it was more his tv than hers anymore. Not that he’d
ever be able to watch it again. Before she knew what she was doing, her tiny
pistol at her hip was out, safety off, and she’d emptied an entire clip into
the screen of the large TV.
She took a moment to breathe, compose herself. This was the sort of behavior
that, if she were back at the Red Room, she’d end up with no meals for a week
and a loss of her blanket, pillow, and likely her bed for at least a month for
her display of emotion. She dusted up the glass, leaving the skeleton of the
television still on the stand. She went into their- his room one last time, her
eyes softening as she made his bed, pulling the comforter down just under his
pillows, the way he liked it. She was about to leave the room when she spotted
the blue glass spider that he got her from the marketplace on one of their
first missions together. She put the spider in her palm and she remembered the
way she felt when Clint first gave it to her.
She’d just started to trust him, just started to even get used to the idea of
trusting another person like that. And then he just handed her this spider.
Little and glass, forgettable to anyone else, but the blue glass sat heavy in
her palm. More than just a trinket from a market far away. It was partnership.
It was friendship. It was her opening herself to this man who, when they first
met, tried to kill her, and had since then become the absolute most important
person in her world. He still was. He always would be. But he was safer away
from her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been shaking, overwhelmed, until
the spider slid from her hand, shattering on the floor. And, in that moment,
Natasha Romanoff broke.
She slid to the floor with an anguished cry, her body curled in on itself. Her
tears flowed freely and her sobs shook her entire frame. She cried so hard, for
so long, and she managed to crawl into the bathroom just as her stomach rolled.
She continued sobbing as she emptied her stomach into the toilet. She cried
openly and without reservation. For the first time since she could remember,
she let the emotion run freely through her veins without any thought to
herself. She kept up the rotation of crying and getting sick until her body was
dry of tears, and she was curled up in pain on the cool bathroom floor. She
allowed herself this weakness until her body stopped shaking.
Natasha stood and looked at herself in the mirror and frowned in disgust. Her
eyes were rimmed in red, making the green stand out garishly. They were puffy
and her cheeks were splotchy against her pale skin. Her hands were still
shaking, but she managed to splash some cold water on her face, not that it
helped much, before she stood, putting the steeled look on her face again
before leaving the apartment. This time for good.
_________________________________________________________________
 
She kept her cool as she headed to SHIELD HQ. She was already on probation,
though that wasn’t Fury’s call. The man tried to defend her, but the council
was pissed she left her Russia mission to lead the extraction team the very
second she knew Clint was in danger. But she respected Fury as her superior,
and assumed he’d want to know about her plans. And if there was anyone who
would help her, it was him.
She held her head high and ignored the looks as various agents noticed her red
streaked face. She was as deadly as ever, and now, she had a more important
mission than she’d ever had before.
She didn’t bother knocking, and Fury, to his credit, didn’t seem fazed. It
almost seemed like he was expecting her.
“I want the marriage to Barton annulled,” she started with the easy requests,
“I want to be reassigned as a solo agent. I’ve been here over ten years, I
deserve that much, Fury. And I’m going after Abram. This is on my own time, and
I’ll handle cleanup. Just thought you should know, sir.” She kept her face
perfectly blank, but she couldn’t help her one giveaway. Her jaw was clenched
so tight that it was throbbing, and she spoke through her teeth in nothing more
than a whisper.
The man looked at her with a look of almost pity, or as much as Fury could
give. His features remained as schooled and professional as Natasha’s for the
most part, but she could read him, and he could read her. This was personal for
her, and she was going to cut this tie as soon as she made sure he was safe.
She wouldn’t let him get hurt anymore. Not over her. The imposing man in front
of her crossed his arms and nodded slightly.
“I can’t do anything to help you, officially, Agent Romanoff. You’re still on
probation with the council. You shouldn’t even be in the building, if I
remember the terms of your suspension correctly,” he said, not sounding the
least bit concerned about Natasha being in the building, “I will have legal
take care of the annulment within the week. What you do in your free time is
your business, Romanoff.”
Fury stood and fixed her with a knowing look. “I’m going to go get a cup of
coffee, Agent Romanoff. I expect you to have vacated the premises by the time I
return.” As his office door swung shut behind him, Natasha stood and it was
then she saw the key card for Fury’s personal quinjet lying in the center of
his desk. In plain sight.
She smirked and walked out of the door with a mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”
 
______________________________________________________________
 
The flight to Russia was short and Natasha didn’t sleep a wink upon arrival.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Clint, sitting in that damned hospital
bed. Or at home, Little Guy curled on his lap, telling the little puppy that he
didn’t know why mama was gone, or if she was coming home. She couldn’t afford
those distractions. She preferred the distraction of being tired. It was
comfortable. Simple.
Tracking Abram was easy, but that didn’t surprise Natasha. She knew he wanted
to be found. And by her. She knew he had a plan to get her. What he didn’t know
was that she was better. She was younger, smarter, stronger. And she had
something else driving her. Something with a strength that Abram couldn’t even
touch. Revenge.
She spent the day meticulously cleaning, sharpening, and organizing her
weapons. Her guns were locked and loaded, with plenty of extra bullets. Her
knives were hidden in damn near every place she could hide them. Her Widow’s
Bite were charged, her body pliant from a few hours of yoga. She was ready. She
was Natalia.
Stepping into the small store the Abram used as a front, Natalia turned the
sign to closed and didn’t waste a breath contemplating the clerk’s confused
stare before landing a clean headshot, watching as the man slumped lifeless to
the side. She stepped behind the counter and into the back room, where his
first level of security waited. He was so predictable. All of the Red Room
officers set things up the same way, and she’d killed 4 out of the 7 of them.
It would soon be five. She took out two of the security guards before they even
registered what was happening, and the other three soon had matching bullet
holes right between their eyes. None of them had time to hit the alarm. Good.
The second, third, and fourth levels of security were just as easy. All clean,
fast headshots. Most before they could even reach for their gun. The fifth
level, a guard had got off one shot, but it went wide and she had her thighs
snapping the man’s neck before he could even think about trying again. The
sixth level was last. They had heard one of the guards from fifth yelling so
they were prepared for her. She dodged bullets and ducked behind a table,
occasionally popping up to take out three of the seven guards. She knew the
moment they ran out of bullets and she struck, taking out another one, feeling
the pop of the man’s neck between her hands. The other two tried a group
approach, one meaty arm grabbing her arm so hard that she felt her shoulder
pull out of the socket. She feigned a cry of pain, waiting until the men wore a
confident smirk before popping the shoulder back in herself and lodging a knife
in each of the men’s throats.
It took her no time to hack into the security code allowing her entrance to the
private room where Abram sat with his three personal bodyguards. He looked as
though he’d been expecting her, which Natasha had been prepared for. She only
managed to take out one of the bodyguards before they managed to get a few
shots off at her. She felt one tear through the flesh of her thigh, but she
didn’t care. She bit through it, taking out the second guard. Abram was behind
a chair, popping out shots at her while the last guard approached her. She
snapped the man’s arm as she pushed him in front of her, using him as a human
shield for Abram’s bullets until she heard him moving to change the clip. She
dropped the long dead guard and kicked the chair forward into Abram’s nose,
knocking the gun out of his hand, and as he reached for it, she gave him just
enough of a shock to knock him out.
Natalia tied Abram tightly to the chair. She didn’t care if he was comfortable.
This wasn’t going to last too long. Long enough to ease her own mind. While she
waited for him to wake up, she took a belt from one of the bodyguard’s corpses
and tied it tightly over her thigh, trying to stop the bloodflow from her
bullet wound.
When the man woke up, he fixed her with a cocky glare, which she responded by
clocking him with the butt of her gun. She ripped off a section of his shirt
and tied it around his head, over his mouth.
“You don’t need to talk,” she snapped, “This isn’t about getting information.
This is about making your death slow and painful. This is going to hurt you.
And I am going to enjoy every second of it. There is no option where you live
at the end of this. I just haven’t decided how I want you to die.” Natasha’s
glare was as cold and unfeeling as her words, but the fire behind them was
apparent and she relished the look of open fear on the man’s face. She took her
smallest, sharpest knife and meticulously made a series of tiny cuts on every
tender part of the man’s body. Where it would bleed less and hurt most. Between
his thumb and forefinger, behind his knees, next to his ear, just under his
nose, between each of his toes. When she had finished that, she went back over
each of the cuts with a bottle of cologne she found in the man’s desk. It was
sickly strong, with an acidic, stomach-churning smell. She dripped the liquid
into each cut, watching the sting register each time on his face. Her smile was
wide and empty. The was enjoying this. Oh was she enjoying this. She took a few
seconds for him to regain his breath and, as soon as she felt his body relax,
she brought the heel of her hand down on each of his kneecaps, dislocating them
smoothly. His muffled cry from behind the fabric brought a chilling laugh to
her lips.
Natasha straddled her prisoner’s lap, sitting down hard, knowing his legs
couldn’t hold her well with his kneecaps spending time on the sides of his
legs. She gave him an innocent look, practiced since she was a child. He was
the one who trained her to do it. She unbuttoned his pants, giving him the
wide-eyed flirtatious look she had known since she was thirteen years old, when
Abram first took her to her bed, spreading her legs, stealing her innocence
that was long since gone in every other way, and teaching her to use her body
as a new weapon.
“Do you remember what you taught me, sir?” she said sweetly, her voice dripping
with sugar and acid, as she wrapped a hand around his manhood, “How you said
this was the weakest part of a man? Do you remember teaching that to little
Natalia, sir?”
She let out a cold chuckle as she tightened her hand, letting the Widow’s Bite
do it’s work as she sent an electric shock through the most tender part of the
man, relishing his agonized screams through the fabric. She pulled the gag off.
“Scream. Louder.” She demanded, tightening her thighs around his legs and
squeezing him harder. She waited until the man had passed out from the blinding
pain before standing up and checking her gun. Eight bullets left. She raised
the gun to the man and said clearly, her eyes dark with rage and pain, “Для
моего ястреба.” She emptied the gun into the man. One shot between the eyes,
one in the throat, two in the heart, and the other four between the man’s legs.
She had more than enough explosives to blow the place to smithereens, but she
used them all anyway, setting them in place before walking out of the store and
heading straight for the quinjet.
She’d live in her office at SHIELD as soon as her suspention was over. There
was a couch that worked just fine. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but that was
fine, as well. As long as Barton was safe. She’d protect him until her dying
breath. Even from herself. She wiped a stray tear from her cheek, spreading
Abram’s blood over her face before she even realized it. The spider would save
her hawk. Even if she got stepped on in the process.
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