Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/440522.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      The_Avengers_(2012)
  Relationship:
      Clint_Barton/Natasha_Romanov
  Character:
      Clint_Barton, Natasha_Romanov
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-22 Words: 14312
****** Indebted ******
by sablier_bloque
Summary
     Clint Barton is sent to kill a young girl named Natalia Romanova. He
     makes a different call.
Notes
     Warnings: There are mentions of underage rape, and there is a scene
     where an underaged Natasha uses a sexual act for an ulterior motive,
     but there is no underage sex between Clint and Natasha. Also warnings
     for graphic violence, sex, and language.
     Once upon a time, I came across this fanart by jorston on Tumblr. She
     has her own headcanon underneath the artwork specifically stating
     that it wasn't meant to be Clint/Natasha, but my mind would NOT let
     it go. So, deepest apologies to jorston for bastardizing your
     beautiful artwork.
     This is movie-verse with special canon guest stars, Marvel.com and
     Wikipedia! If you're a purist, you'll probably hate this.
     Thanks to autumn_lilacs for a superb beta.
See the end of the work for more notes
She’s just a kid. A fucking kid.
She’s maybe 15, and Clint’s being generous with the estimate. Her bare feet are
pooled in a growing puddle of blood, her clothes too big for her small frame.
Her right hand is still tight on her gun as she surveys the warehouse of dead
men around her. She is breathing hard; Clint is positioned in the rafters above
her head, but he can hear it. There is something about the stance of her body
and the flat look in her eyes that tells him that her short, shallow breaths
have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with adrenaline.
His arrow is still trained on her, but if Fury thinks he’s killing a goddamn
teenage girl, he’s crazier than Clint thought.
She turns to run and he yells, “Wait!” before realizing that giving away his
position probably isn’t the best idea. Her gun is aimed at him quicker than
he’s comfortable with, though he knows she can’t see him from down there.
He drops his bow and arrow to the floor below and lowers himself with the cable
until he’s kneeling at her level. She walks up, gun pointed directly at his
forehead.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her English accented but obviously strong.
He swallows and looks her in the eyes.
“To take you home.”
///
“I could’ve killed you if I wanted to. I don’t miss,” he says, glancing to his
weapon on the floor.
“There are worse things than death,” she replies. There’s too much conviction
in her words to suggest that she simply read that in a book somewhere.
“Who did this to you?” Because he knows about things that are worse than death,
but his life has been fucked up for years, and just because he knew that at her
age, doesn’t mean she should.
Her answer is a tightened jaw combined with added pressure to the gun at his
head.
“I was sent here to kill you, Natasha. But I’m not going to do that. Not going
to do anything worse than that either.”
///
Clint’s been holed up in an old cheese factory for years, with a mattress on
the floor and a hot plate for a kitchen.
“I’ll get us a real place,” he says when she follows him inside for the first
time.
“This is adequate,” she replies.
“No, you need your own space, and I will, too.”
She’s 14 years old, or at least she said so when he asked. She has a convoluted
history in her head about her past that he knows isn’t true, not according to
her case file, anyway.
So he sits her down with the biggest pizza from the menu with extra cheese and
bacon before plopping her dossier in front of her. He didn’t even look it over
himself until they got back, but it’s all there: Natalia “Natasha” Romanova,
murdered parents, special ops beginning at age six by Red Room, brainwashing,
phony memories. Her eyes narrow as she reads, the only evidence that the file
affects her.
“A 14-year-old shouldn’t know how to kill a dozen men with a clean headshot.
Hell, a 14-year-old shouldn’t even know how to use a semi-automatic, Natasha.
These people fucked you up.”
She looks at him, resolution in her eyes, but she says nothing.
He makes her take the bed, and he sleeps in the loft above the factory to give
her as much space as possible. Well, he tries to sleep. It’s hard to rest when
there is someone moving and breathing in your own space for the first time in
years.
He hears her footsteps on the stairs to the loft right before dawn, and he
feigns sleep. His arm is already under his pillow, so it’s easy to grab the
knife he keeps there. His back is turned, but he hears her knees hit the floor
beside him. He waits for her hands around his neck, for the click of the
chamber from the gun she took from his nightstand, but there is nothing.
Nothing, that is, until her hand slides over his hip and into his boxers. His
hand catches hers and yanks it away.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I can do this for you,” she says, biting her lip, and looking up at him
through her eyelashes, playing up her innocence like a goddamn professional.
Clint adds “teaching seduction to underage girls” to the laundry list of shit
these people did to her.
“You’re a kid,” he says. “This is not what we have going on here.”
“I’m young, but I know what I’m doing.” She smiles, flips her red curls behind
her back, and tries to reach for him with her other hand. “I’m good.”
He stands up and moves to the other side of the loft. “No, we don’t do that.
You don’t do that to anyone, not right now.” He scrubs his hand through his
hair and sighs. “You don’t have to do that anymore. Can you understand that?”
She looks down and visibly swallows, but gives a small nod.
“Look, maybe this isn’t the best idea. I know a couple of ladies that I work
with that could probably look after you.”
“No!” She yells and stands up “Absolutely not. No one else. I won’t do it
again.”
And this is it, the first time he sees her act like a real human being.
“Okay.” He exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay.”
///
It takes three weeks for S.H.I.E.L.D. to realize that Clint didn’t kill
Natasha. He’s surprised that it takes them that long. Nick Fury knocks on their
door with two agents behind him, asking for a little chat.
“You want to tell me why you kidnapped an underage enemy of the United States
and concealed her in your…” He trails off, glancing around the factory as if it
will help him describe it. “Place of residence.”
“I’ve offered Agent Barton crucial information,” Natasha says, “on Red Room’s
Black Widow Special Ops Division: names, organizations, sources of funds and
weapons. In exchange, I asked to lay low while Red Room thinks me dead.”
Clint’s glad that Fury’s looking directly at Natasha because his look of
disbelief would surely give her away. He’s ten years older than her and he
still wouldn’t be able to negotiate with Fury like this. “I am also offering my
services in exchange for my life and freedom. I specialize in interrogation,
hand-to-hand and armed combat, and torture, if need be.” She smiles smartly.
“But I’ve always found that my particular brand of interrogation works just
fine in finding out information.”
“Okay,” Fury replies. “Let’s take you—”
“One more thing,” she interrupts. “I stay with Agent Barton.”
He looks at Clint and turns back to Natasha. “Any particular reason?”
She grabs a pen and paper and starts a list of names. “The first man you’re
looking for is Ivan Sazonov. He recruits the girls.”
///
Clint didn’t pick the factory for its quaintness or location; he picked it for
the space. The inside houses his own archery range, climbing wall, and a
workshop to make his own arrows.
Natasha wakes him up one morning about a month into their new arrangement.
“Coffee,” she says, handing him a mug. “Now, teach me how to shoot.”
He teaches her the proper stance, using only the tips of his fingers to move
her arms into correct position. He is always so wary, so careful when touching
her. His heart pounds angrily when he thinks of the men that used her before
she pressed her gun to his head.
Natasha isn’t a bad shot once she gets the hang of it, and she shoots so much
that day that her palms blister. “Guns will be a bitch for a week,” she says.
“Sorry,” he replies. “We can get you some archery gloves.”
“No, it was fun. I liked it.” She gives him a genuine smile for the first time.
“Just want to see what it’s like in case you get knocked out on the job and I
run out of bullets.”
Natasha has two handguns, and Fury has authorized clearance for her to use
their shooting range, but nothing has been said about her going out on the
field. He got it in his head that she simply trained for protection, or even
for something to do because he’s probably not the best company.
“Natasha, I don’t think…” he stands up and retracts his bow to encase it. “You
don’t have to do field work. I’m sure Fury is appreciative for the
information.”
“I told Fury I’m offering my services. If you think I’m sitting this out after
what they did to me—”
“You’re too young to do this kind of thing.”
She is behind him suddenly, left hand grabbing his hair and right hand pressing
a knife to his neck. “I could kill you right now,” she says, barely over his
shoulder because she is so much smaller than he is. “Slice this through your
jugular, break your neck, shoot a bullet into that pretty skull of yours. You
think I can’t do the same to them? To anyone? Because I’m too young?” She
throws the knife to the ground and pushes him away.
“Do not hinder me or speak of my age again.”
///
Clint’s known a lot of different people in his life, from street circuses to
S.H.I.E.L.D., but he’s never know anyone like her.
They train daily in hand-to-hand, and she continues to kick the shit out of
him.
“You’re killing me,” he says one morning, easing down the stairs one at a time
from the loft, barely able to move.
She laughs, well, cackles, more like. “Getting slow in your old age, Barton.”
“I’d make you pay for that if it didn’t hurt so bad.”
The first time he knocks her flat on the floor, he can’t stop himself from fist
pumping the air.
“Awww,” he says, standing over her. “Does the baby need a naptime?”
She kicks his legs out from under him, leaving him flat on his back next to
her. “Fuck off,” she says, but there’s lightness to it, a smile on her lips.
She punches him lightly in the leg before standing up and tensing her body.
“Again.”
///
She turns 15 en route to Russia, on an aircraft with a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D.
agents.
“Not the best way to spend a birthday,” Clint says to her. She has been silent
the whole flight, focused.
“Vengeance is a sweet gift,” she whispers, not looking at him.
“To help with your vengeance,” he says, holding a box out to her. She opens it
and sees a two-tone 9mm heavy inside of it.
Both of the guns strapped to her thighs are S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued; the one she
first pressed to his head months ago is buried in the past that is Russia.
“So you have your own,” he says. He debated on it, wondered if he should even
get her something for her birthday. He doesn’t mind that no one celebrates his
birthday now, but when he was a kid, even her age, he hated that it passed
without recognition.
She snaps in a new magazine and rubs her thumb over the barrel before loading
the chamber.
“This is…” She trails off, looks at him with clear green eyes. She takes his
hand and gives it a squeeze, the first time she’s touched him since that night.
“Thank you.”
He knows by the difference in her voice that her birthday was never
acknowledged either, that she expected absolutely nothing. He squeezes back and
doesn’t let go of her hand.
///
Natasha said that this wouldn’t be easy. There would only be a few Black Widow
trainees at headquarters during the night, but they are still deadly, no matter
their age.
“I am the best,” she says to Fury, “but they are almost as good.” The girls
aren’t the objective here, at least not to Clint, and he’s hoping it isn’t to
Fury. The plan is to take out the bosses and the minions of Red Room, not the
young women they are distorting. Natasha says she wants Sazonov for herself,
and Clint’s perfectly okay with letting her have him.
He’s nervous as hell, if he’s honest with himself. This is just another mission
for S.H.I.E.L.D., but for Natasha, this is personal. She’s never given him
details, but he’s read her file. And no matter what she says, she is still a
young girl, and he’s scared that being back will be too much for her.
But seeing Natasha in training and seeing her in action are two completely
different things. When they train, she will yell and laugh. Her pleasure is
obvious in the physical effort (and in kicking his ass, probably). Now she is
silent, almost scarily so. Here, she doesn’t look fifteen and too young for
this mission. She looks every bit as deadly as she’s promised. She comes upon a
guard with his back turned, and she breaks his neck before he even realizes her
existence.
She looks behind her once, and he realizes she is searching for him when her
eyes find his. Something in his gut pulls him toward her, and he quickens his
stride to walk next to her, bow and arrow in hand.
Then the storm starts. Red Room is alerted of their presence, and her guns come
out, each shot a kill. S.H.I.E.L.D. members are split up at this point, and
Clint walks backward, arrows shot at enemies who try to attack from behind.
They run into a girl, maybe ten years old, who gasps Natasha’s name. He doesn’t
understand what they say to one another, but he understands that Natasha tells
her to run, and he’s thankful the girl listens and races in opposite direction.
She leads them to a long hallway that’s eerily quiet. “I’m going for Sazonov,”
she whispers. “In that room,” she points with her gun. “Watch me?” Natasha
pointedly looks toward the ceiling tiles and he nods.
He listens for the sounds of voices once he is in the rafters, trying to
estimate an area that he can see but not be seen. He loosens a ceiling tile
slowly, as quietly as possible. Clint crouches and readies his bow when he sees
an older man, balding and fat, lounging in a dark leather armchair.
Sazonov beckons with the curl of his finger, and Natasha kneels in front of
him. He can barely see her face, but he sees Sazonov grab her chin and rub his
finger over her lips. His voice is quiet, but it is rough with arousal, and
Clint’s stomach twists sharply. It takes every ounce of self-restraint in his
body to not unleash a dozen arrows into the bastard’s body.
Natasha unzips Sazonov’s pants, pulls out his prick. Clint can’t… he can’t
fucking do this. She obviously wants this kill for herself, but she could’ve
just walked in and shot him. What the fuck is she doing? Her mouth descends and
his eyes avert to the floor. He can’t handle seeing her do that.
But then he sees her grab a knife from her ankle sheath, and she pulls off and
thrusts the knife into Sazonov’s dick, pinning it to the armchair. She leaps up
and screams at him, punches him over and over, consumed with rage. Clint shouts
her name but she deaf to it, all senses turned off by her anger.
He drops down. He grabs her and in one swift motion pulls her away and puts her
new gun in her hand. “Just shoot him,” he whispers, but it’s like Sazonov
flipped a switch by touching her, and she is senseless, completely inside
herself. “Tasha, come on.” He stands behind her, moving her arms to hold the
gun toward Sazonov’s face. Clint curls his finger over hers and pulls the
trigger. He hopes it will be enough, that she will still consider it her own
vengeance. He doesn’t want to take that away from her.
He doesn’t want to take anything away from her.
///
He has to carry her out of there, her body slung over his shoulder and into the
back of the van waiting in a nearby alley. A nameless new kid is in the
driver’s seat, serious and, from what Clint’s seen so far, by the book.
“Go,” Clint yells as he shuts the door behind him.
“I’m supposed to wait for Agent Marcus.”
“You can put the fucking car in drive, or I can make you. So you decide.”
“Sir, I’m not authorized--”
“Goddamn it!” Clint gets out of the van, opens the kid’s door, and throws him
onto the ground. “Here,” he says, tossing him a gun in case he needs it, and
drives away.
He has to ask for the location of their safe house in his ear-com, and he
decides to be nice enough to alert them that a certain agent is in need of a
ride.
“Natasha, are you okay?” he asks, feeling stupid as soon as he does. Of course
she’s not okay. He looks in his rearview mirror, and sees her sitting in the
corner of the van with her knees pulled up to her chest. “I think we’re almost
there. Just a few more minutes.”
He doesn’t carry her into the safe house, but he holds her up as they walk
inside. Fury is waiting for them, but Clint holds his hand up to silence him,
mouthing later. He opens doors in the hallway until he finds a bathroom. Clint
shuffles her inside and stands her in front of the mirror.
“Come on, let’s brush your teeth,” he says softly. If he did what she just made
herself do, he’d probably want to pour bleach directly into his mouth. “Can you
do that?” he asks. She hasn’t made a move and he wonders if he’ll have to do it
himself. She nods, though, and he finds her a new toothbrush in the medicine
cabinet.
She is so removed from herself, her body so pliant, as if he controls her like
a marionette. Clint frowns; he’s been taking care of himself for as long as he
can remember, but someone else? He doesn’t even know where to start.
“Give me your weapons,” he says after she finishes. “I’ll get your stuff and
you can take a shower.” He turns the water on for her, hesitating before
leaving to grab her things. Clint doesn’t want to leave her alone, but he can
hardly stay with her. “I’ll just… come get me if you need something. Or scream
or yell or whatever.”
He sits down with Fury, falling into the chair and suddenly realizing how damn
exhausted he is.
“She got Sazonov,” he says, “and some other people, but I don’t know who.”
"The other agents are doing the last sweeping perimeter to ensure we acquired
our targets,” Fury replies. “Can't say I'm too appreciative that you two cut
out early." Fury’s body is completely relaxed in his armchair; only his voice
betrays his annoyance.
Clint looks at him flatly. "I'm sure she'll tell you differently, but she
needed to get out of there. And she needs time, too. I don't know what you have
planned for her, but she needs a couple of weeks to get her bearings."
"I'm not enthusiastic about this situation to begin with, Barton. She's not the
most trustworthy member of this organization."
"Agent Romanova just killed the man who abused her in absolutely every way
imaginable. On her fifteenth birthday. I think she deserves a little fucking
time."
“She chose to do this.”
“She--” he stops, forces himself to breathe because he’s about two point five
seconds from punching Director Nick Fury in the face. “I’m not fucking talking
about this right now.”
He gets up and walks away.
“Agent Barton!” Fury yells, but Clint ignores it. He has enough to deal with
right now without his own temper getting in the way. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been good
to him, Fury has been good to him, but somehow Natasha came along and screwed
up his priorities, starting with day one when he couldn’t even follow through
on his mission.
Now he’s unsure of himself. Should he wait outside the bathroom for her, or
should he give her space? He would know how to handle the Natasha from 24 hours
ago (space, definitely, but then some pad thai, an hour training in the
factory). Now, though, he’s faced with the girl that he thought he was going to
end up with in the beginning.
The bathroom door opens as he’s debating with himself in the hallway. Steam
meanders out of the room, curling around her frame before dissipating.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he says, guiding her with a hand on her back, suddenly
realizing how much he’s touched her in the last hour; how he used to be so
scared to do so. He turns on the overhead light in the bedroom and watches her
crawl under the blankets.
Clint sits down next to her and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Do you
need anything?" he asks. She shakes her head no. "Okay," he replies. "Okay,
just let me know."
"Clint," she whispers, making him pause in the doorway. "Don't." And he hears
it, her unspoken plea. So he turns off the light, leaves the door wide open,
and crawls into the bed with her. She turns around and burrows into his body,
his arms finding themselves instinctively around her. He sometimes can't
believe how small she really is, especially when he knows how dangerous she can
be.
He wonders if she’ll cry, but she doesn’t. She just shakes; shakes for hours,
until she finally melts into sleep against him. It’s not until then that his
body will let him rest.
///
He wakes up to her sitting in the chair across from the bed, showered and
dressed. Composed. This is not the girl he pulled away from her abuser, this is
not the girl he held merely hours before.
“Nat—”
“When I was six years old, I thought Sazonov had saved me from the bad people
who killed my parents. I know now that he set up the entire thing. By the age
of ten, I could con anyone by pretending that I was lost, giving sob stories to
old ladies, playing Lolita to men who looked at me like,” she clears her
throat, “like Sazonov always did.” Her eyes finally leave his for a moment, her
mask slipping. “When I touched you that night—”
“No,” he stops her, shaking his head. “No, that’s behind us.”
”Okay,” she whispers, then stands up and grabs his hand. Her nails are clean
now, no longer rimmed with blood and dirt. “Thank you.”
He’s glad that she stops there, that he doesn’t have to hear more about what
they did to her. There’s no way he’d be able to quiet the rage that would build
within him if he had to watch her relive her torturous past.
///
He thinks maybe they should go somewhere—the beach, the mountains—give her a
few days to recuperate. Clint asks her on their way back to the States.
She shakes her head. “No, we can just go home.”
“It won’t be a big thing. Just a few days to rest and get us back on our game.
I’d kind of like some time to chill out.” This isn’t about him at all, but
he’ll say what he has to. It takes a few more tries, but she finally says yes.
So they drive three hours south after they get back, windows down in a rusty
Camaro that’s as old as he is. He had a girlfriend a couple of years back who
insisted they take some romantic getaway, even though they hadn’t been dating
that long. That’s how Clint knows about the cabin, and they’re lucky as hell
that it’s even available since it’s warming up now and prime for vacationers.
“I don’t have a bathing suit,” Natasha says when she sees the lake behind the
house.
Clint shrugs. “We can go buy one.”
“No, it’s not a big deal. I have something I can use.”
“You do know how to swim, right?” He asks, checking to see if there’s anything
in the fridge. He doesn’t think swimming’s a common pastime in Russia
considering that it’s cold as fuck there, but he could be wrong about that.
“Of course,” she replies. “It was part of our training.”
“Okay, good. You can go swim now. Or sleep. Whatever you want.”
“Let’s swim,” she says. “I’m tired of sleeping.”
She dives right in when they walk out onto the dock, without hesitation. She
comes up seconds later, her hair dark and heavy with water.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
“Is it cold?”
“No, it’s nice!” She smiles and waves at him to join her.
He runs and jumps in, but the water is so cold that it almost knocks the breath
out of him. He sputters when he comes up. “You are a little liar!” he yells,
and splashes her.
She laughs. “This is a hot spring compared to the waters of Russia. You’re just
a wimp.”
Something in him warms; he’s happy that she seems content, almost carefree.
He's glad that he talked her into coming. Clint knows it won't fix everything,
but he hopes it's a small start.
She asks him to race the length of the lake, and they swim back and forth for
an hour, Natasha only beating him once.
She pouts at him as they get out of the water. "You cheated," she says, drying
off her hair.
"In swimming? You kick my ass everyday. Now you know how it feels."
Natasha throws her towel at his face and walks back to the house, dirt caking
around her wet, bare feet as she walks.
He takes his time drying off and hangs up their towels on the clothesline that
someone strung up between two trees. When he gets inside, she's in dry clothes,
sprawled on the couch and fast asleep, even though she said she didn’t want to.
Natasha’s damp hair is hanging over the arm of the couch, and a strange
temptation comes over him to touch it, to curl a finger in the strands, to know
how it feels in his hands.
Clint resists, though. He takes a step back and suddenly feels a need to clear
his head. So he leaves her a note and drives to a nearby supermarket to get
enough food for the weekend.
When he comes back, she’s awake, but she’s staring at the ceiling, and she
doesn’t move an inch, even after he announced he brought food. He’s putting
milk in the fridge when he hears her say something, but he doesn’t understand
it.
“What?” he asks.
“I’ve never gone swimming just for fun before.”
He closes the door of the refrigerator, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“Okay?”
She sits up and looks at him. “When you took me to Rosy’s Diner a couple of
weeks after we first left Russia, that was the first time I’d ever eaten a meal
in a restaurant just to eat, without learning how to use dinner and wine to
retrieve information.
“I don’t remember life with my parents. I’d like to think they were good to me,
that they took care of me, but I don’t know. All I remember is Red Room, Black
Widow Ops. Sazonov. I never did anything for pleasure. I’ve never walked on a
beach or skated on a frozen lake. I don’t know what type of music I like. I
don’t have a favorite movie. ” She looks down. “I don’t know who I am.”
Clint sits down next to her and brings his arms around her, holding onto her as
tightly as he can.
“Tasha,” he begins, but wavers. He’s never been that great with words. They
spew out before he can stop them when he’s angry and his temper gets the best
of him, but times like this, it’s hard for him to get them out there. “I’ve…
I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re the strongest person I know. You—you can
be so fiery, yet so put-together, too. You’re funny and—and you’re beautiful.
And too goddamn smart.” His hand finds her hair this time, smoothing it down
where it’s scratching his chin. It’s frizzy from the lake water, but it’s still
soft. “You have the rest of your life to figure out the details.”
She nods against his collarbone, but she doesn’t say anything else. He leans
backward so that his back is resting against the couch, and she follows,
tucking herself into his side. She falls asleep again, and because he doesn’t
want to wake her, he closes his eyes to follow suit.
///
She drags him to a record store the next day, and she chats up the boy behind
the counter, asking him for recommendations.
"Well, what type of music are you into?"
"I like all sorts," she smiles, sweet and coy. Clint rolls his eyes, flipping
through a clearance bin of CDs.
The boy gives her a stack of truly awful punk stuff and explains to her that
it’s good that she’s never heard of them.
“That means they haven’t sold out yet,” he explains to her.
“Natasha, look at this,” Clint says, because he can’t listen to this guy talk
anymore.
“I’ll be right back,” she says to the kid, and Clint hadn’t even noticed that
she’s played up her accent while talking to him.
“First step in finding yourself, never ask the advice of teenage boys. They
don’t know shit. I’m in my twenties, and I barely know shit. Second of all,
never listen to the music a teenage boy tells you to listen to. It is also
shit. We’re going to buy you some classics, a couple of Top 40 albums to keep
you hip, and we’ll keep hitting up record stores ‘til you find what you like.
Don’t listen to that jackass.”
“Don’t ruin the fun, Barton. He’s kind of cute.” She’s joking, but he realizes
she has a point. He’s getting in the way of her doing things that girls her age
do.
“You pick out your music, and I’ll wait outside.”
It doesn’t take her long to come out with a plastic bag in hand.
“What’d you get?” he asks, getting into the car.
She smirks. “You’ll see.”
///
The Stones are her favorite. Well, her favorite so far. She did let the kid
talk her into one of his albums, but she scrunches her nose during the first
song, and then takes out the CD.
“I see that Clint Barton is an expert in life lessons. Don’t trust teenage
boys’ music tastes.”
“I wouldn’t trust them at all, to be honest.”
“What were you like as a teenager?” She’s sitting on the floor, opened cases
and liner notes spread all around her. He looks at her from the couch. They’ve
never talked about him before, which he’s perfectly fine with.
“Angry,” he says, “like every other teenager.”
“Oh?” Her attention is on him now, and he looks away.
“My parents died when my brother and I were little. We,” he chuckles, “joined
the fucking circus. What else are two kids going to do, you know? Anyway,
Barney, my brother, was always caught in bad shit, no matter where we went. I
pretty much raised myself. So I was angry. At my parents, at Barney, at God, at
whoever.”
“How did you find S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
“They found me. I was a good marksman, and my weapon doesn’t make much noise,
so I was perfect for secret kills.”
“You could’ve killed me,” she says. “I didn’t know you were up there. You’re
very good.”
“I didn’t, though,” he replies, and she gives him a soft smile.
///
During the next year, they watch more movies than Clint’s seen in his entire
life, in every genre and decade. She abhors action films, as she’s unable to
get past their flaws and unbelievable plots and maneuvers.
She sticks to her guns that the Rolling Stones is her favorite band of all
time.
They go to Barcelona, Hong Kong, Mexico City; easy assassin jobs that Clint
could do in his sleep, but he’s thankful for the quiet as she acclimates to her
new life.
It’s strange how every decision involves her now, how she’s slipped her way
into his life, how he can’t imagine not fighting by her side during every
mission or watching her back from rooftops above.
That’s not to say they don’t fight because they do. Natasha exudes a cool
exterior, but it can change instantly, at any time, especially if someone
belittles her because of her youth. And if Clint’s in a shitty mood when she
is, training turns into shouting, and ends with Natasha stomping out of the
factory in a teenage rage.
But then he’ll have brief moments when he wonders what would’ve happened if she
weren’t there, if he’d shot his arrow through her chest, if he’d watched her
crumple onto the pile of bodies at her feet. His chest will seize at the
thought, pain spiking within him, almost embarrassingly so. He’s never cared
about anyone but Barney. Worrying about someone who isn’t his own blood is both
foreign and frightening.
She’ll come back home shortly thereafter, neither of them willing to rehash
what just happened. And he knows, he knows by the way she acts when she walks
back in the door, that she was thinking the same thing he was.
We’re nothing on our own.
///
It’s a cool October day when a jet picks them up and taxis them to the
helicarrier. The first person they meet when they step off is their new
handler.
“Phil Coulson,” he says, shaking Clint’s hand vigorously.
"Nice to meet you."
"I'm really looking forward to working together. You have a fascinating
background." His smile is open, genuine, and Clint feels a little uncomfortable
under the intensity of his gaze.
Natasha stands on her tiptoes to whisper in Clint's year. "He's certainly...
eager, isn't he?" she asks. He pinches her side to silence her and then
introduces her to Coulson.
Coulson's expression immediately changes to sympathy. "You are incredibly
brave, Agent Romanoff. Your work in bringing down Sazonov is truly admirable."
"Romanoff?" Clint asks.
"Fury wants to Americanize me," she replies, "as if a name changes something."
"It's all part of the plan, Agent Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D. has great opportunities
in store for Agent Romanoff."
Clint’s eyes narrow slightly while Coulson continues speaking to Natasha. He
doesn't like the sound of that.
///
"What does Fury have up his sleeve?" Clint asks her. They're in her quarters
aboard the helicarrier, and she's searching for a hair tie in her duffel bag.
"You know as much as I do."
"I don't like it," he replies.
She rolls her eyes and pulls her hair back. "You know I can handle myself,
Barton."
“I know.” And he does. “I just...”
There’s a knock on the door before he can continue, and Natasha crosses the
room to open it. Coulson pops his head in, his eyes moving between the two of
them.
“Agent Romanoff, Director Fury would like to speak with you.”
Natasha looks at Clint with confusion before nodding to Coulson. “Okay.” Clint
stands up to follow her, but Coulson stops him.
“He just needs Natasha,” he says with a smile, “we’ll be back.”
Clint clenches his jaw, but keeps his tongue in check. He has a practice room
on board, so he grabs his bow and quiver and shoots until his arms ache and his
fingers cramp, driving himself crazy trying not to think about what they have
planned for her.
It’s dark when she finds him. She doesn’t speak at first; she simply grabs his
bow from his hands and fires a few of her own arrows. Each hits their targets,
but none are a perfect shot.
“I’ll be as good as you when I grow up,” she says in a purposely childish
voice.
“Nat, what’s...” He trails off, unsure of what exactly he’s even asking.
“There’s a Russian sector of HYDRA. Fury wants me to infiltrate it.”
“Oh,” Clint says, and that doesn’t sound too bad. It’s nothing like the crazy
stuff he was concocting in his mind. He’ll be on the sidelines, working down
the hit list of enemies she gives him, both of them working together to break
down the division bit by bit.
“It’s an actual spy gig,” she continues. “Working my way up in a human
trafficking operation, until I get to the big leagues. It can... it’s going to
take a couple of years.”
“Oh,” he says again, but he sees that she’s nervous, so there has to be more to
it. “Are you doing this by yourself?”
“Well, Coulson will be my handler, and I’ll have a contact in Russia, but I’m
the only spy.” She looks at him. “I’m going alone.” Natasha must see the look
on his face; she reaches out to him. “Not because I want to, you have to know
that.”
Clint wrenches his arm from her grasp, and walks out, a storm building inside
him as he runs to Fury’s briefing room. Fury is sitting there when he arrives,
almost like he’s just waiting for Clint to show up.
“Alone?” Clint yells. He hears Natasha coming up behind them, but his eyes
never leave Fury’s face. “You’re sending a 16-year-old girl to spy on a HYDRA
operation. Alone.”
“She agreed to the orders.”
“That’s bullshit! She’s not even legally old enough to make that sort of
decision on her own.”
“I’m standing right here, you know,” Natasha says behind him, but Fury
continues.
“Last time I checked, Agent Barton, you weren’t her legal guardian. She’s an
emancipated minor. S.H.I.E.L.D. has allowed her to utilize her training to work
on our side, and that’s why she’s going to Russia alone.”
“If you think I’m here because I have to be,” Natasha says, “or because my
heart beats for S.H.I.E.L.D., you are mistaken, Director.” She steps forward
now, between Clint and Fury. “I can leave at any moment, disappear off your
radar as if I never existed. I choose to be here. And the only reason I don’t
demand Barton’s presence in Russia is because the possibility of being found
with an American would get both of us killed.”
“Natasha,” Clint starts, but she cuts him off with a harsh glance.
“If there’s nothing else, Director, I have a trip to pack for.”
Fury responds with a nod before watching her leave. He looks at Clint and
smirks. “I think your girl can handle herself, Barton.” He stands. “We done
here?”
///
Clint doesn’t go to her room, tries to give her some space. He tries to give
himself some time to cool off, too. It’s hard when he doesn’t even know when
she’s leaving, when he doesn’t even know if she’s mad at him for his argument
with Fury.
She comes in when he’s trying to sleep, stepping inside his room without
knocking.
“Are you calmer now?” she asks. His eyes are adjusted enough to the darkness to
see her arms crossed in front of her chest.
He sits up and pats the bed next to him, even though he knows she can’t see.
“Come here.”
“I meant what I said to Fury,” she says when she sits down. “I don’t know my
contact yet, but she is Russian. Our meetings will be secret, but meeting with
a Russian girl is less suspect than me spending all my time with an American
man.”
“I know,” he says.
“You have to know...” She clears her throat. “You have to know that the idea of
working without you now feels... We were taught to work alone. From day one.
‘The other girls are not your friends,’ they’d say. ‘Use one another,’ they’d
say. And we did. It was all we knew. But now I know what it is like to trust.
To know that someone has my back. To know that... you would die for me just as
quickly as I’d die for you.” She whispers the last part, the words obviously
hard to say. So Clint grabs her hands in his own, squeezes them once.
He wants to say, Yes, yes, I’d do anything for you. But instead he whispers,
“I’ll be waiting for you while you save the world.”
///
She leaves after five days of debriefs and nights spent huddled over dossiers
at Clint's side. They don't talk much, silent like their first days together,
yet comfortable and familiar.
It’s cold when they walk to the jet. She’s in a peacoat and purple scarf, her
hair tied in a braid down her back. The wind paints her cheeks a pretty shade
of pink, and he drinks it all in, not yet ready to send her off to face the
enemy.
“Let’s not,” Natasha says, when she has to leave. “Let’s not... you know.”
“Of course,” he replies because he wouldn’t be able to say goodbye even if he
wanted to. So he hugs her, his fingers brushing her braid as her arms tighten
around him. “Be safe.”
“Always,” she says into his ear before letting go.
“Come back, okay?”
She smiles. “I have to. I owe you a debt.”
///
He has two missions back to back, one on his own, and one with another agent.
He does fine on his own, even though there’s a dull ache within him now. He
realizes that she made it fun. Even though the work they do is serious and
dangerous and scary, having her there made it enjoyable. Now, he just goes
through the motions, missing her triumphant grin when they make it out alive.
The partnered job, though, doesn’t go so well. He’d gotten used to their
synchronization, to Natasha’s training and her perfection in the field. He
feels clumsy without her there as a balance, and he fucks up an important shot,
almost getting both of them killed.
“She’s doing great you know,” Coulson tells him when Clint turns in his report,
as if worrying for her safety is the problem. And he does worry, but despite
his argument with Fury, he knows that she can handle herself when it comes down
to it.
“Of course she is,” he replies. “We got used to working together, is all.”
Coulson nods, but he’s smart enough to see that Clint just misses her. So
Coulson invites him out for a beer if they’re in town together, gets them
tickets to a Sox game the one time they have a gig in Boston. Clint always says
yes, grateful for the distractions that Coulson tries so hard to provide.
///
It’s the worst when he’s home, seeing her stuff everywhere, little things
throughout the day that make him think of her. He realizes he’s losing it when
he sees a Stones documentary on TV and almost turns to call for her to come
watch it.
So he leaves, gets in the Camaro and drives to Rosy’s. Their usual waitress is
there, a woman at least twenty years his senior but fairly pretty. She frowns
when she sees him.
“Where’s your sister?” she asks, and they’ve never told her anything about
their relationship, but Clint lets her assume what she wants.
“She’s back with our mom,” he replies.
He must be sporting some sad, pathetic look on his face because she’s extra
sweet to him through his whole dinner, and gives him a discount when he gets
the check. He thinks she’s mothering him until she tells him that she gets off
in half an hour if he wants to do something.
He fucks her on the floor of her living room, and he realizes, when she has to
get up to find a condom, that it’s been two years since he’s actually been with
someone. He shakes his head at himself and gives a depreciating laugh.
“You okay, honey?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he lies. “I’m fine.”
///
A year after Natasha leaves, he gets a postcard from Moscow, her writing messy
on the back of it. It's so very lonely, you're 2,000 light years from home.
Clint laughs because he hates that song, and she knows it. He’s not a big
Stones fan in general, but that one is especially weird. His address isn’t even
on the back of the card, so he isn’t sure how it got into the mailbox. He slips
the postcard under his mattress and plays that god-awful song on repeat until
he falls asleep.
///
Natasha turns 18 when Clint’s in South Africa, and he thinks they’d probably be
on a beach somewhere to celebrate if they were together. He hopes she’s got
some friends there, or that she can get a drink with her contact, Ana, to
celebrate.
Coulson calls the next day and tells him that Natasha didn’t show for her
contact meeting.
“What?”
“Ana waited the whole night, she even slept there.”
“Fuck.”
“But it doesn’t have to mean anything, Clint. She is supposed to be a part of
HYDRA now, maybe they took her out to celebrate. It was her birthday.”
“You think I don’t fucking know that? Jesus.” He stands up, paces the floor of
his hotel room, shaking with fear. “Goddamn it, what does this even mean? How
long do we have to wait before we go and make sure she isn’t dead?”
“She has 48 hours to make contact. I’m en route to get you and bring you back
to base.”
“So we can sit around with our thumbs up our asses? I want to go to Moscow
now.”
“Clint, I want you to sit down and take a deep breath and think. Think about
how we could be compromising everything to pull her out right now.” He does sit
down, a bit begrudged that Coulson knows he’s pacing around the room, but
thinking is a little difficult at the moment. “You know her better than anyone,
you know she’s the best, that she can get out of any situation. Right?”
“Yeah,” he concedes.
“We’ll be there in three hours,” Coulson says and hangs up.
He packs his bag, cleans up the room, and puts on a soccer game. He fidgets,
wringing his hands, walking from door to window, back and forth. Then he can’t
stand being inside anymore, so he walks to a nearby market and buys a fifth of
whiskey to keep him company while he waits for Coulson.
His mind is in overload, creating every twisted, warped scenario that she could
possibly be facing right now, and the alcohol probably isn’t helping. He
doesn’t realize how much he’s drunk until he stands to answer the knock on the
door.
Coulson’s eyes rake over his body, and he sighs. “You’re a mess.”
Clint smiles. “I am,” he replies, and then Coulson steps forward and gives him
a hug. Clint falls into it, not realizing he needed some human contact until he
gets it.
“She’s going to be okay. She still has time,” Coulson says softly before
pulling away. Coulson grabs Clint’s bag and bow case for him, and Clint
stumbles after him to the car.
“We’re flying to Moscow,” Coulson tells him in the car. “But we’re not making a
move until it’s time. It’s just a precaution.”
“Okay,” Clint replies. He can live with that.
He gets sick on the jet, and Coulson’s right beside him with a bottle of water
and a comforting hand on his back. Clint appreciates the gesture, even though
he hates throwing up in front of people and would rather be left alone.
“I think I might kill her if we do find her alive, just for putting me through
this,” Clint tries to say jokingly, but it comes out broken and desperate.
“I’ve seen her fight, Agent Barton. I’d like to see you try.”
///
They’re in Moscow for two hours when Coulson receives a message.
“She’s fine,” he says, and Clint exhales and closes his eyes. “A little beat
up, apparently, but fine.”
“What the fuck happened?”
Coulson opens his laptop and looks for the report. “KGB run-in. HYDRA’s not
exactly loyal to Russia, not loyal to anyone really. This is good, though; if
KGB is making hits, that means she’s actually weakened them. She could be home
within the year.”
///
It takes five months.
Clint gets a call at three in the morning, his hand fumbling for the phone in
the haze of sleep. He sees Coulson's name on the caller ID, though, and it
instantly sobers him.
"Barton."
"We need you to come in."
"Is everything okay?"
"That depends. Are you ready to bring Agent Romanoff back home?"
Clint exhales a shaky breath. "That's it? She's done?"
"Division take-down in two days, and you're on the team."
"That's the best fucking news I've ever heard."
///
Clint isn’t tasked with much besides disarming and making non-lethal shots (“We
want to bring in as many of these guys for questioning as possible, let’s keep
the shooting to a minimum.”) It’s a good thing since killing dozens of HYDRA
agents is hardly his priority right now.
He straps his bow to his back, and draws his gun; the rooms and hallways are
tight and narrow, and it’s easier to just defend and injure without the bow. He
hears Coulson behind him, instructing S.H.I.E.L.D. members to round up downed
HYDRA agents. Then he hears fighting up ahead, and runs around the corner to
see if he can help.
And he sees her. Her red hair is long and wild down her back, tangled from
fighting. She’s bending over an unconscious man, strapping his hands and feet
with cable ties to secure him for pick-up.
“Tasha,” he says, and she whips her gun on him, the one he gave her, before she
even turns. “Natasha, wai--” but then she finally sees him.
“Clint,” she whispers, lowering her gun and standing. And she’s... she’s
taller, her hips fuller, her mouth redder. Her black sweater hugs her frame a
hell of a lot differently than it would have two years ago. She left too
skinny, too young, and now... now she’s--
Natasha runs to him and grabs his hand to pull him down the hall. “You going to
stand there all day, Barton? We’ve got a job to do.”
///
If he’s honest with himself, Clint was scared that it’d be different now. That
she’d outgrow him, or that they’d lose the groove they had when fighting
together. He can see now that she’s a better fighter; the two years with HYDRA
helped hone her skills, but she still remembers how he fights, and she still
remembers his weaknesses that she needs to cover.
By the end, they have 32 agents in custody, seven dead, and four escaped.
Coulson finds Clint and Natasha shortly after and immediately moves to give her
a hug.
“What on earth have they been feeding you? You’re like,” Coulson holds her back
and looks at her. “A real woman now.”
“Thank you... I think,” she says, rolling her eyes toward Clint. Clint laughs,
but Coulson has a point. He was always too caught up in missing her and wanting
her back to think that with age comes aging, that she wouldn’t be the same girl
that left him on a jet to Russia.
Natasha doesn’t say much on the ride to their safe house, and anything she does
say is directed to Coulson about the mission. Clint has pictured tonight over
and over, and never once was she so quiet and reserved in his mind. Maybe he
was wrong; maybe they still fight the same way, but everything else will be
different.
The wind is icy when he gets out of the van, chilling him through his suit. He
runs into the house as quickly as he can, straight to the room he used before
the mission. He’s changing into a warm hoodie when Natasha comes in.
“Hey,” he says. She closes the door, crossing the room in two strides, and
wraps her arms around him so tightly it almost hurts. It takes him a second to
return the embrace, but when he does, his mind can only focus on how different
she feels in his arms. The curve of her waist, the press of her chest against
him. He shakes his head as if it’ll clear his thoughts.
“What?” she whispers, finally letting go.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing. You’re just so tall now.”
“Yeah?” She reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair. “I think you’re
getting gray,” she says with a malicious grin.
He smacks her hand away, smiling. “If I am, it’s your fault. Your little
birthday stunt aged me about ten years.”
“Hmm?” She thinks. “Oh, yes. The KGB. Just a couple of scratches, Barton. I was
fine.”
“We went to Moscow,” he says, and he can see by the look on her face that she
had no idea. “I was just waiting for your full 48 hours of radio silence so I
could take you out of there and bring you home.” He sits on the bed. “I was
happy you were okay, but part of me just wanted an excuse to get you out of
there.”
“I wouldn’t have let you anyway. I’d put too much work into that just to let it
go at that point. But...” she smiles softly. “It might’ve been worth it to have
seen you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, hating how hopeful his voice sounds, hating that he needs to
hear if she missed him.
“Yeah. Mostly so you could bring me a good hamburger and my music, though.”
“Your music? Oh, sorry, I was doing some spring cleaning and threw those CDs
out.” Clint is warmer now that he’s been in the house, so he takes off his
hoodie and switches it for a t-shirt.
“I may be very exhausted right now, but murdering you is not out of the
question.” She walks to the door and opens it, but then turns back around. “Any
chance you've got an extra t-shirt, Agent? I obviously don't have anything with
me except what I'm wearing."
"Uh, yeah." He grabs his bag. His hand reaches for a white undershirt, but his
mind flashes with the image of Natasha standing before him, her nipples dark
and visible under the fabric. He pushes the shirt aside. "Take this one," he
says, taking the black one off his back.
She gives him a confused look. "Well, I don't want to take it if you don't have
anything else."
"I do, it's fine. Take it." He holds it out, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Okay," she replies, elongating the o.
When she comes back, Clint is sitting on the bed. The shirt falls to her bare
thighs, but he does a pretty good job of not focusing on that. She turns off
the light and sits right next to him, their legs pressed from hip to knee.
"Do we still live at the factory?" She asks.
"Yeah, haven't left. I mean," he runs his hand through his hair. "You don't
have to live there. With me. Anymore. You can take care of yourself now."
He feels her shrug and she laughs softly. "Where else would I go? Unless you've
got a hot babe living there now, and I'd be in the way."
"No! No, not... no hot babes. What sane woman would live in that dump?" Natasha
elbows him. "You're welcome to come back, Nat. Just letting you know you didn't
have to feel obligated to."
“Are you okay?” She asks.
“Yeah.”
“I know haven’t seen you in two years, but you seem a little off.” She touches
his leg, obviously trying to comfort him if he needs it, but that’s just a bad
idea. So he grabs her hand and entwines it with his own.
“I’ve spent the last two years waiting for you to be done. And now you’re here.
And you’re... it’s just hard to process.”
She bumps his shoulder with her own before standing up to pull down the
blankets. “Are you jetlagged? Can you sleep? I’m so tired.”
Clint’s wired from the raid, from this new Natasha, but he says yes anyway.
“Come here,” she says. She lies on the bed and pulls him down behind her,
moving his arms to wrap around her waist. Her hair smells earthy, sweaty from
the raid, but with an underlying sweetness. He closes his eyes and his fingers
itch to trail up and under her shirt, to draw circles on her belly, to trace
upward until his fingertips brush the underside of her breasts, and--
He angles his hips away from her and wills sleep to come.
///
“So much paperwork,” Natasha says, huddled over her final report for the HYDRA
Russian division takeover. “I bet I wouldn’t have to do this much if I worked
for the KGB.”
“In Soviet Russia, your paperwork does you.”
She looks up. “What?”
“Nothing,” Clint replies.
Natasha has been in debrief after debrief for three days on the helicarrier.
She and Fury even had a video conference with The Council.
"If they think that bringing down this division is the beginning of the end for
HYDRA, they're naive. It's called HYDRA for a reason," she tells Clint.
"Well, they've got to start somewhere," he replies.
"You're in a mood," she says, crinkling up a piece of paper and throwing it at
him.
Clint is, well, he's bored. They've barely seen each other since they've
reached headquarters, and Natasha is ridiculously focused when she's in
business mode. He’s ready to go home and try to get things back to normal.
Because all of this boredom allows his mind to drift and wander to places it
really shouldn’t.
He’s mad at himself, which is making him short with everyone else. Coulson
keeps asking him what’s wrong, saying he thought Clint would be happier with
Natasha being back. Clint would be if she’d stop running around in a
S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform which doesn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, and
his imagination has been pretty hyperactive as of late anyway.
“We can go home,” she says, placing the report in a folder and standing up.
“I’m turning this in and then we’re free for the foreseeable future. Maybe then
you’ll be in a better mood.” She walks by and smacks him on the head with the
file.
He goes to his quarters, packs up his bag and his bow. Fury stops by and tells
him they’ve got a week before their next mission. So much for foreseeable
future. But he’ll take it.
They borrow a S.H.I.E.L.D. car when they get back to drive home. He looks at
Natasha when he pulls up and sees a small smile on her lips as she gazes at the
factory.
He gets how she feels. That the factory is home, even though it’s a dump and
it’s not even a house. He doesn’t ever want to leave it, to move into some
suburban nightmare with cookie cutter houses and manicured lawns. And this
small, or not so small, part inside him doesn’t want her to ever leave it
either.
He’d put clean sheets on her bed, made it up as nicely as he knew how. Her
stuff is still on the nightstand exactly where she left it, a couple of
candles, a stack of CDs.
“You haven’t been sleeping down here?” she asks.
He shrugs. “I like the loft.”
“You build yourself a little nest up there, Hawk Boy?”
“Hawk Boy? Seriously?”
“You spend the majority of every job watching people up high like some bird of
prey.”
“There’s got to be a better name than Hawk Boy.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “We’ll work on it.”
///
She has to go shopping later for everything from shampoo to shoes, reminiscent
of the time they had to do this four years ago. They end the night at Rosy’s;
the waitress smiles when she sees Natasha.
“Your sister’s back!” she says. She and Clint have slept together here and
there since the first time; it’s nothing serious. A distraction, a way to blow
off some steam.
“Yeah, she’s 18 now,” he replies. “Doesn’t have to stay with our mom anymore.”
“Clint doesn’t talk much, so it’s not like he said anything, but he surely did
miss you. I know he’s happy you’re back.”
“Sister?” Natasha asks when the waitress walks away with their order.
“Well, she--”
“Also, how does she know how much you talk?” Natasha raises a suggestive
eyebrow.
“Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much, they sometimes have
conversations.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know you had a thing for older ladies.”
“It’s not a... thing. It just happened.”
“Mmhm.”
She comes back with their food a little later, and Natasha gives her a sweet
smile. “You know, I didn’t put two and two together. Clint talks about you all
the time.” He’s not sure how she does it, but every remnant of her Russian
accent is gone.
“Oh,” the waitress replies, looking at Clint with hope in her eyes. Clint could
kill Natasha. This thing with the waitress was nothing and now she’ll want
more, now he’ll have to let her down.
“Nat, stop,” he says with a forced smile, trying to play it off as ‘my sister
sure is embarrassing’ instead of ‘I’m going to murder her later.’
The waitress pats Natasha on the shoulder. “I’m glad he has someone to talk to.
It’s not good to keep to yourself all the time.” She smiles at Clint again
before walking off.
“Wow,” he says. “You just made that an incredibly awkward and difficult
situation.”
“It was just a joke,” she replies, dipping a fry in ketchup.
“I slept with her like, five times. And now I talk about her constantly? Now
she thinks we have something we don’t. Now she’s going to want me to meet her
kids, and go out on dates. She’ll want flowers and jewelry, and you,” he lowers
to a whisper. “You know what we do. I don’t have time for that. So now I’ll
have to break things off and she’ll wonder why men always leave her. She’ll
wonder what she did wrong, when she didn’t do anything wrong at all.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh.’”
“I’m sorry, Clint.”
He throws some cash on the table. “Eat your food. I’ll be waiting outside.”
///
She changes into a sports bra and sweat pants when they get home. She walks
into the common area and stands between him and the TV with her hands on her
hips. “I know you’re mad at me. Let’s fight it out.”
“What?”
“You know, fight?” She brings her fists in front of her face and punches one
outward.
“I’m not going to fight you.”
“Fight. Spar. Train. Semantics. Let’s go.” She turns off the TV and brings the
mats to the middle of the room.
Natasha hits him in the gut the second he steps onto the mat. She tries to
punch him in the face but he grabs her fist, wrenching her arm behind her and
pressing her to the ground. She kicks her leg back and up and her foot hits him
in the head, knocking him off her. Then she jumps on top of him, and before he
knows it, The sparring turns into some sort of wrestling match, grappling at
each other like they’re kids, like he and Barney used to.
He flips her over and she laughs, and he finds himself smiling back, forgetting
what started all of this to begin with. Clint holds her down, and she bites
him, hard, hard enough that he flings his arm away. Natasha flips them over and
straddles him. Her hands grip his arms and she presses her body against him,
brushing against his hardening cock through their pants. Both of them gasp, and
she stills, looking down at him. He’s paralyzed, overwhelmed with want and
fear, simultaneously needing to throw her off and to pull her closer.
Her eyes trail to his lips, licking her own as she does so, and finally,
finally his brain catches up to what’s going on. He gently pushes her back when
she leans down to kiss him.
“Tasha,” he whispers. “I can’t.”
“I’m not blind. I see how you look at me now. I know you want it.”
“It’s not right.”
“Come on, Clint. I’m not a child anymore.”
“I know that,” he says. She’s still straddling his hips, so he moves her over
and sits up, putting a couple of feet between them. “But we didn’t just meet.
I’ve known you since you were still a kid.”
“It’s different now.”
“Is it? You were 14 years old and you stuck your hand down my pants because you
thought it was your duty or something. I’m not going to...” He angers so
suddenly he has to take a deep breath. “I’m not going to be like that sick
bastard who made you like that.”
“You are not Sazonov,” she says, her voice shaking. “There’s a big difference
in touching nine-year-old girls and having a consensual sexual relationship
with an 18-year-old woman.”
“I was basically your guardian. I fucking took care of you. And now I want you.
Constantly. How is that okay?”
“I am not a little girl.” Her voice is icy now, her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, maybe
I shouldn’t have offered to suck your dick when I was 14, but I could’ve taken
care of myself. I just single-handedly brought down an entire division of
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s greatest enemy. I thought I’d come back and we’d be done with
this petty argument that I’m too young to fight, to kill, to fuck whomever I
want.” She points to herself. “I make that decision, not you.”
She stands up and walks out of the factory, slamming the door behind her.
///
Twenty-four hours later, and she’s not back. She didn’t take a wallet or her
phone, so he doesn’t know where she slept the night before. Of course, he
didn’t sleep at all, so maybe she didn’t either.
He’s antsy and tired of sitting around wondering when she’ll come home. So he
calls up Coulson and asks him if Fury’s got a small job he can do before their
mission next week.
“We've got a lead on an illegal weapons manufacturer from one of the HYDRA
agents in custody. Could use an extra set of eyes,” Coulson replies. So Clint
grabs his bow and quiver and heads to the airport since the team is already in
Argentina. He leaves Natasha a note on his way out the door.
It’s supposed to be easy. A break-in at night with security overrides, a simple
look around to assess the situation. Of course, the mission Clint actually
volunteers himself for turns ugly ten minutes after they walk in.
He’s never worked with this group of agents, but they’re solid and efficient.
That can’t save them from a trap, though. He’s trailing behind their group with
his bow at his side when Natasha’s voice comes through their ear-coms.
“Clint! You and your team have got to get out of there. It’s a setup.”
“Fuck, let’s go,” he whispers, turning to run toward the exit. The lights
switch on overhead and they’re surrounded, at least three agents to every
S.H.I.E.L.D. member, each of them with aimed guns.
He almost laughs when he realizes that he and Natasha would take all of them
down if she were here, or at least die trying. This isn’t his team, though, and
he’s not going to risk them like that. A man orders them to put down their
weapons, and he looks at his own guys, each of them nodding to disarm
themselves.
“Just do whatever they tell you, Clint,” Natasha tells him through the ear-com.
“Cooperate.” He sets down his bow slowly, and raises his hands, allowing the
HYDRA agents to come forward and rid them of their other weapons. “Stay alive,”
she whispers.
And then he gets a pistol whip to the back of the head.
///
He wakes up with a throbbing head, and his legs and arms strapped to a metal
chair.
“Good morning.” He hears a woman’s voice, accented, but he can’t place its
origin. She steps in front of him with her arms at her side. She is older, but
in good shape, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun.
“This can be very easy for you, Agent Barton, or very difficult.” Eastern
European, maybe? “That’s up to you.” She crooks a finger and two men walk
toward her, big and beefy, and in all likelihood, stereotypically dumb.
“I have a bone to pick with someone who is apparently one of your fellow
agents. A certain Black Widow?”
Clint looks up at her and smiles. “I’m arachnophobic; I try to stay away from
spiders.”
“Oh, you’re a charming one.”
“You ever have that dream when, like, four-foot-tall spiders are chasing after
you and then your feet get stuck to the floor and you can’t run anymore? No?
Just me? Trust me, it’s terrifying.”
One of the guys steps forward and punches him twice in the gut, hard, and Clint
can hear the crack of a rib.
“My mind always tries to make it logical, too,” he says, barely above a
whisper, hunched over in agony. “My brain will tell itself that it’s some scary
genetic mutation and that third-grader-sized spiders really do exist now. And
didn’t you know...” he coughs and seering pain from his abdomen overwhelms him.
He takes a couple of shallow breaths, wincing as he does so. “Don’t you
remember buying these cool, melting shoes yesterday, Clint? That’s why these
scary-ass spiders are going to eat you alive.”
The other guy punches him in face, and his head whips backward. Clint’s pretty
sure he just broke his nose.
“Natalia,” the woman says, grabbing his chin roughly. “Our agents who escaped
saw the two of you together, so let’s not play coy. Where is she?”
“To be completely honest, not that you’ll believe me, but last time I saw her
she walked out the door in some teenaged hissy fit, and I haven’t seen her
since.” God, he’d like a drink and some vicodin and a week-long nap. “Have you
searched for all known aliases? Notice you never see her and Carmen Sandiego in
the same place at the same time.”
She smiles, malicious and downright scary. “Please pay Agent Barton for all of
his helpful information.”
She walks out of the room and the men unshackle him. He’s confused at first,
but then he figures out that it’s a hell of a lot easier to beat the shit out
of him if he’s huddled on the floor than if he’s strapped to a chair.
///
He wakes up on a concrete floor, unable to move, the smell of piss strong
around him. Every breath is excruciating, every second awake is unbearable. So
he drifts off again, vaguely recognizing the sound of gunshots in the distance
before he sleeps.
///
He hears his name, a cool touch to his forehead. C’mon, c’mon you have to wake
up.
“No,” he mumbles because he just wants to sleep.
He hears her laugh, her, and he feels himself smile.
“Open your eyes, Barton.”
One of his eyes is swollen shut, but his other flutters open and sees her
leaning over him, blood splattered and smeared on her face, her eyes wet with
tears. He’s not sure if the blood is hers or someone else’s, and he really
doesn’t want to think about it.
“I feel like Fury,” he tells her, and she laughs again.
“Hush, don’t speak. We’re going to get you to a hospital, okay? Try to stay
awake for me, Clint.”
“Tasha,” he tries to find her hand and she laces their fingers together. “I l-
- I love you so goddamn much.”
“Shhh.” She leans forward and kisses his forehead. “Don’t speak. Just rest.”
He really does try to stay awake for her sake, but he doesn’t last very long.
///
It’s too bright. He smells bleach. He’s thirsty as hell. His throat is dry, and
he coughs, which turns out to be a bad idea because, yeah, those ribs are still
cracked.
“Let me get you some water,” he hears Natasha say, and then she nudges a straw
into his mouth to drink.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “I’d bitch that I’m not an invalid, but I’m pretty
sure moving isn’t on my body’s to-do list for a while.”
“I’m most worried about those ribs,” she answers. “You’re lucky you didn’t
puncture a lung.”
“What’s the rest of my damage?” He finally opens his eyes, both of them, though
the left is still a bit swollen. Her hair is messy and there’s a hospital
blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“Internal bleeding, concussion, fractured radius, two broken ribs, a broken
nose, and--.”
“A partridge in a pear tree? Remind me to never volunteer for a mission again.”
She moves closer and sits on the edge of the bed. “If you would’ve died,” she
says shakily, “because of our stupid argument--”
He brings a finger to her lips to silence her, and she grabs his hand and
kisses his palm.
"We've got to get used to this, right?" He strokes his thumb over her cheek.
"You're a spy, I'm a hired gun. Near-death experiences are par for the course."
"Says the man who had a meltdown when I missed a contact meeting."
"Coulson exaggerates."
Natasha raises one eyebrow in disbelief.
He's tired again already, his mind fuzzy from whatever they're injecting into
his veins.
“Sleep, Barton,” she says, and he obeys.
///
It’s dark the next time Clint wakes, but the light from the window is enough to
see Natasha sleeping in the chair. Her legs are curled under her and her neck
is at an obviously uncomfortable angle. It takes a lot of effort to maneuver
himself all the way to the edge of his bed, enough to leave him breathless and
frustrated with himself.
“Natasha,” he says, realizing she isn’t actually asleep when she sits up so
quickly.
“You okay? You need something?”
“Come here,” he says. She stands up and walks to the wrong side of the bed.
“No, over here. Come lay down.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. I don’t want to jostle you or anything.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just get over here.” Natasha comes around and toes off her
shoes before getting on the bed. He wraps his good arm around her and she
scoots closer to lie right beside him.
“What happened?” he asks her.
“I got your note and called Coulson. He told me you were following a lead. I
wasn’t going to sit around doing nothing either, so I went to base. When I got
there, I asked him details on the mission and he told me the information from
the HYDRA agent. I knew right away that it was false. Of course, it was too
late.” She sighs. “We got a crew together and got there as quickly as we could.
“I was sure you’d be dead,” she continues. “We found the other agents of your
team first. All dead. Then I saw you there, and you...” It takes her a couple
of minutes to continue. “It’s strange to be thankful that all they did was beat
you, but I am.”
“They wanted information from me. That’s why I was still alive.”
“Oh? For what?”
“The whereabouts of the Black Widow,” he replies. He expects questions, a
response, but she says nothing, only the sudden frigidness of her body
betraying anything.
“What?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“Hey,” he says, reaching over with his casted arm to tip her chin up. He looks
at her, unable to read her face, even when his eyes meet hers. His thumb
brushes over her lips and she presses a kiss against it, looking up at him as
she does so. He knows right then that he’s lost to her. That she somehow
slipped through his defenses, that she owns every single inch of him.
He leans in presses his lips to hers softly; once, twice. Her tongue flicks at
his mouth and Clint opens to it, cradling the back of her head. She tastes like
coffee and her lips feel so soft against his own. He wants. He wants so badly
to touch her, to taste her everywhere, to learn what drives her crazy.
Her head moves, bumping his nose with her own, and he hisses, breaking their
kiss.
“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry. That was stupid.” She kisses the
corner of his mouth. “I got ahead of myself.”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you fine?” she asks, leaning back to see his face. “Are you battling an
internal freak-out?”
“I think whatever drugs they have me on prohibits all internal freak-outs.”
“Good. I’ll save that information for future use.”
///
Clint’s stir-crazy and ready to leave the hospital a couple of days later, but
it takes another week for them to release him.
It’s a long flight back to the US, even though Natasha scores them first class
tickets. “You’d think S.H.I.E.L.D. could send someone to fly us back,” he says
on the plane, but she doesn’t respond.
He’s embarrassingly unsteady on his feet, so Natasha buys him a cane, some
terrible purple, sparkly number. “The color suits you,” she tells him when he
tests it out.
“Just wait until I’m able to use it as a weapon,” he replies. Though who knows
how long it will take him to heal up enough to walk without every part of his
body protesting, especially since he’s off the good drugs now. “I’m sure Fury’s
flipping his shit that I’m out of commission.”
“He’ll live,” she says, her voice cold and absolute. He opens his mouth to
question her, but decides against it.
Standing for any long periods of time is still difficult, but weeks of sponge
baths is getting really fucking old. “Maybe I should get one of those old
people shower chairs,” he says one morning. “My sense of pride and dignity is
pretty much nonexistent these days anyway.” He’s been sleeping in her bed since
the loft is out of the question, but they haven’t done anything since the night
in the hospital.
Natasha stands up and holds out her hand. He takes it and she pulls him up,
wrapping her arm around his middle to keep him steady before walking to the
bathroom.
“Take off your clothes,” she says after she wraps up his cast to keep it dry.
She turns on the water and slips her shirt over her head.
Natasha turns to face him, and his breath catches in his throat. She’s... she’s
gorgeous. Her nipples are pebbled from the cool air, and he wants to cup her
breasts in his hands, feel them full and heavy against his palms. She slips off
her pants and panties in one go and steps forward to grab his shirt.
“Going to make me do everything?” Natasha asks before taking it off. Her hand
brushes his cock when she pulls down his briefs and a moan escapes his lips.
She ignores it, as if this were clinical and necessary, but he knows she’s
aching for it, too.
She steps into the shower and grabs his arm to steady him as he follows her.
“You okay?” she asks.
“That depends on your definition of ‘okay.’”
She still ignores his response, but her eyes do trail down to his cock and she
answers with a smirk.
She washes his hair for him while his arms are wrapped around her. It really
shouldn’t be hot in theory, but it apparently is because Clint’s crazed with
arousal, her body pressed so close to his own. Then she trails a bar of soap
lightly over his skin, extra gentle over injured areas, leaving suds in its
wake.
She soaps up his cock with her hand, stroking up and down, thumb rubbing over
the head. Breathing hard still hurts, but Jesus Christ, he really doesn’t care
right now.
“If you don’t stop soon, this is going to be over way too quickly,” he tells
her. She pulls her hand away and kisses him softly, a grin on her lips.
She dries him off when they step out, trailing drops of water with her tongue,
running her fingertips over his shoulders and kissing along his spine.
“Come here,” he says, wanting to kiss her so damn badly, but she takes him back
to the bed, pressing him to lie on his back, and she removes the covering off
his cast.
She straddles him, her cunt brushing the tip his cock, wet and smooth, and he’s
desperate with want. Everything leading up to this, him saving her and her
saving him, the worry and fear, was all for this. For them. He was stupid to
think she’s the same girl he almost killed so long ago.
She leans down and kisses him, her tongue tasting his, lips moving against each
other. She bites his bottom lip before she pulls away and lowers herself onto
on his cock. Her breathy moan is delicious when he enters her, and the next is
just as good. She grabs onto the window sill above the bed and shifts her hips
slowly, looking straight at him as she does so.
“Tasha,” he whispers, “Natasha.” He reaches his hand between them between them
and he rubs at her clit, making her shudder above him.
“Fuck.” She tilts her head back, her eyes closing as she loses herself in a
fast rhythm. He’s hurting, hurting everywhere, every breath inducing pain, but
nothing could stop this right now.
Her cries are louder now, her hips losing their rhythm, and he knows she’s
close. “Yeah, that’s it. You feel so good.I can’t wait to taste you, to suck on
your clit, to run my tongue along your cunt.”
She’s so pretty when she comes, her brows knit together, and she bites her
bottom lip, as if it’s too much to take in. Her cunt seizes his cock tighter,
and seeing her like that is enough to send him over the edge, pleasure white-
hot and burning within him as he comes inside of her.
She’s shaking when she slides off of him, and he kisses her, softly, trying his
hardest to ignore the ache of his body.
He turns to face her, wincing as he does so. She looks up at him with wide
eyes.
“What?” he asks.
Her jaw clenches before she answers. “I don’t want to do this anymore. No more
S.H.I.E.L.D. or HYDRA or Red Room or anything. I want us to go to Malaysia or
Tokyo and never look back.”
“What? Why?”
“They did this to you because of me. I made HYDRA angry, and so they nearly
killed you. I thought you were dead. Do you know how I—how it felt to almost
lose you? I’ve pissed off a lot of other people, Clint, and if I keep doing
this, that list will only get longer. And I can’t... I can’t deal with that
again.
“And Fury, Fury uses both of us, uses all of us. They didn’t even think to do
satellite surveillance on that supposed weapons plant before sending you in
there? We are disposable to all of them, and I don’t want to fucking do it
anymore.”
“Hey,” he says, rubbing her arm. “Coulson had no idea. I asked him for the
assignment.”
“I’m not including him in that. Of course Coulson is one of us.”
“How would we even survive?”
“I have access to money. That’s not a concern.”
He gives her a kiss. “And what would we do? Open up a restaurant? Sell
insurance?” She looks away and shrugs. “We’d live in constant fear of being
found, either by S.H.I.E.L.D. or something worse. We’d always be looking behind
us, never trusting anyone. We can’t go two days without itching for a job, a
hit, a mission.
“We were made to do this, Nat. Trained. We can’t be anything else. Is the idea
of running off with you to some crazy location tempting as hell? Of course. But
we are who we are. So we keep doing what we’ve been doing, but we just look out
for ourselves, now.”
“I told Fury my loyalty wasn’t to S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she says. “I offered
everything to S.H.I.E.L.D., but it was for you.” She touches his face. “My
loyalty has always been to you. It will always be to you.”
He looks at her and hears the I love you that he knows she’ll never say. So he
kisses her deeply to show her that she doesn’t have to.
End Notes
     This fic, as usual, is dedicated to my own Natacha. Bisoux!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!