FIC: On Friendship, and Other Lies (for _samalander) - G
Title: On Friendship, and Other Lies
Author: anillogicalmind
A Gift For: _samalander
Rating: G
Warnings: Vague mentions of former abuse
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Prompt Used: ‘Something that focuses on the friendship aspect of Clint and Natasha, and how they work as partners in the field. ‘
Summary: In that place, she knew that friendship was a lie.
Authors Notes: Absolutely huuuuge thanks to my amazing beta, who I won’t name until after the Secret Santa is revealed - but still, thank you, you’re awesome, and this wouldn’t have been written without you <3
Banner by frea_o
Natalia Romanova had never had friends.
None, at least, that she could count on remembering accurately.
All she had were vague impressions that appeared in her mind as if through a translucent veil, dissipating like mist if she tried to grasp them, to examine them, to bring them into sharper focus. So she decided it was better to leave them undisturbed, out at the edges of her mind. Better that than to discover that those ghostly tea parties and ballet classes had never happened at all.
And anyway, those girls (that were really only high-pitched giggles and flashes of taffeta dresses in the corner of her mind) were not her friends. She didn’t know if in another life they would have been.
Later, after the fire, and the heat, and the memories so white-hot that they blurred her vision, she was taken away from those girls that might have been friends.
Taken to the place of high, high walls that got smaller as she outgrew them -- but that would come later, so much later, in lifetimes to come -- of high, high walls with red velveteen paper and cold, cold mahogany floors -- for they took her shoes and they stole her dignity, but she didn’t learn that until she took it back -- and of so many faces that all looked the same.
And in that place, friends did not exist.
In that place, everything was ephemeral, and they taught Natalia that she was too.
They showed her how to lead a thousand different lives, how to end a thousand more, how to slip in and out of personalities and weave between relationships so she could undo their threads. She knew how to manipulate, she knew how to play.
She could generate an emotion in an instant, switch between despair and ecstasy and convince every cynic except herself that the person she was that day was real, and the sensation she created was sincere.
In that place, she knew that friendship was a lie.
…
Clint Barton never had much time for friends.
He had vague memories of an old swing set, and kids surrounding it and squalling, twisting the chains round and round, climbing to the top of the frame only to drop backwards, suspended by his knees, upside down and lightheaded.
That though, that was... temporary. The simple bonds of children in a playground, allies and enemies in easy succession until it was time to go home.
He could easily recall sitting at the front of a beat-up yellow bus, Barney silent and sullen beside him, a hush that settled when they got on board that seemed so loud to his juvenile ears because he could still hear the whispers behind it.
‘Stay away from the Barton kids, they’re trouble.’
And he could remember shouting at his mother, it wasn’t them that was trouble, it was Dad. He got a slap from her and a belt from him for that one. They told him to stay away and stay quiet, keep family business in the family, and don’t let no-one come nosin’ around in something that doesn’t concern them.
So he never had much time for friends as a child.
Instead, he’d sit and stare at the open sky, watching clouds scud past and wishing he could follow them, but being followed by something else instead.
That word.
Trouble.
It followed him from the playground to the classroom; to the hospital and to the graveyard. Then he chased it from the graveyard where his parents lay. He chased it all the way to the circus, finding talent along the way.
He also found mentors, support, a cast tied together by travelling a road unique to themselves, pitching up one night and gone the next.
He discovered enemies, and he discovered rivals.
Clint discovered how to fight.
Not just a playground scuffle or a foster home brawl, but an honest to God fight, where it was you or the other guy and you didn’t stop until one of you was down and refusing to get up. That, or those making quiet wagers on the side were content with the result.
He learnt a lot in the circus. But he still didn’t find any friends.
***
There they stood, lifetimes later, the cynic and the skeptic and enemies of the other.
He put down his bow and held out his hand.
She took it.
It was a start.
***
Looking back, neither of them could really define the point at which they knew they were friends.
Natasha (for that’s what they called her now) didn’t really understand when she started to believe such notions existed. Only that around him, a lot of things she’d previously believed to be lies became solid truths.
Clint wasn’t sure when he’d gained somebody that he trusted, that he laughed with, that he liked. Only that with Natasha, it all just seemed to sort of... happen.
Trouble had followed him, yes, but then so had Natasha.
He knew how to fight, but Natasha taught him how to do so with style. He observed how to control himself, all of that tension and all of that fear, how to channel it into swift bursts of taut energy. He learnt how to cause maximum damage with minimum output.
Initially, their matches had been fraught with tension, identical faces of intense concentration, both too stubborn to let the other win before they realised they could learn from each other.
He was constantly trying to match her preternatural grace, and she his sheer resilience.
The mats were always silent, only punctuated by laboured breathing and sharp exhales as fists made contact with sensitive flesh. That level of intensity, though, only had so much strength before it could snap, and after almost four months of training together, it did.
It had been a typical match, the gym long emptied of everyone but themselves.
The fight had descended into a bizarre game of tag, both of them ducking and weaving, barely able to land a blow before contact was lost again. By that time, both of them were breathing heavily, sweat dripping from Clint’s brow and into his stinging eyes, Natasha’s hair plastered to the nape of her neck. They were both also refusing to submit, until finally Clint had managed to grit out an order, that she, of course, ignored.
“Will you just give up already?”
“Not until you do, Barton”
“I’m not giving up ‘til --”
And then suddenly he was cracking up, at first a small chuckle and then he couldn’t seem to stop, sucking in gasping lungfuls of air and practically howling, doubling over so far that he ended up on the floor at the ridiculousness of it all.
Natasha looked at him like he’d lost his mind, which also struck him as hilarious, and his laughter doubled in strength.
It turned out to be contagious. Soon her bemusement morphed into amusement, a small smile developing into a wide grin and before too long she was sprawled beside him and they were laughing at each other, together, unable to look at the other without breaking out into hysteria once again.
Clint sometimes thought that maybe, if he had to name the point in time at which he knew he and Natasha would be friends, it would probably be that.
All he knew for sure was that from that point onwards sparring wasn’t about bettering the other anymore, it was about making the other better - not for a profit, not to pull in the crowds, not for revenge. It was new, and it was nice, and neither of them had experienced very much of that before.
***
Clint taught Natasha to appreciate distance, and it only served to make them closer.
The Red Room had drilled the importance of getting close to the mark, of worming the way underneath somebodys skin until you could peel away their layers from the inside out.
He led her to high places, up onto rooftops and hidden in vaulted ceilings, teaching her to watch from a distance and view the way the world played out, in pieces to become a whole.
He showed her the peace, the quiet that came from removing herself from a situation, to be an occasional spectator instead of a constant performer. When Natasha came too close to the past, he would give her the distance she needed, provide the wide view.
Almost a year into her time with SHIELD, on yet another mission where she was the bait, dangled in front of a mark until they bit, she walked into a room with red velveteen paper on the walls, and mahogany floors the colour of dried blood underneath her. She knew that if she dared to touch them, they would be cold.
Natasha barely managed to keep it together for the sake of the mission, to extract the required information and terminate the mark, but she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling.
Clint noticed. He always noticed.
He took her gently by the hand, leading her out of the building, weaving through quiet streets until he found what he was looking for. He led her into an apartment building and guided her towards the stairs, onwards and upwards, further and further until he quietly picked a lock and they emerged onto the roof, and she pulled in desperate lungfuls of air, still suffocating under the memories of that place.
He shepherded her towards the ledge, nudging her until she sat with her back against the ventilation shaft, looking out over a nameless city, street lights blinking on and taking up an ethereal quality from a distance, a steady stream of traffic providing an undulating source of illumination.
They sat together, high above the ground and on top of all of the walls that trapped her for hours, until the night sky changed to the dawn again. He sat with her, their interlocked fingers the only point of contact between them, and the only reminder that he was there.
It was exactly what she needed. It turned out he always was.
Author: anillogicalmind
A Gift For: _samalander
Rating: G
Warnings: Vague mentions of former abuse
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Prompt Used: ‘Something that focuses on the friendship aspect of Clint and Natasha, and how they work as partners in the field. ‘
Summary: In that place, she knew that friendship was a lie.
Authors Notes: Absolutely huuuuge thanks to my amazing beta, who I won’t name until after the Secret Santa is revealed - but still, thank you, you’re awesome, and this wouldn’t have been written without you <3
Banner by frea_o
Natalia Romanova had never had friends.
None, at least, that she could count on remembering accurately.
All she had were vague impressions that appeared in her mind as if through a translucent veil, dissipating like mist if she tried to grasp them, to examine them, to bring them into sharper focus. So she decided it was better to leave them undisturbed, out at the edges of her mind. Better that than to discover that those ghostly tea parties and ballet classes had never happened at all.
And anyway, those girls (that were really only high-pitched giggles and flashes of taffeta dresses in the corner of her mind) were not her friends. She didn’t know if in another life they would have been.
Later, after the fire, and the heat, and the memories so white-hot that they blurred her vision, she was taken away from those girls that might have been friends.
Taken to the place of high, high walls that got smaller as she outgrew them -- but that would come later, so much later, in lifetimes to come -- of high, high walls with red velveteen paper and cold, cold mahogany floors -- for they took her shoes and they stole her dignity, but she didn’t learn that until she took it back -- and of so many faces that all looked the same.
And in that place, friends did not exist.
In that place, everything was ephemeral, and they taught Natalia that she was too.
They showed her how to lead a thousand different lives, how to end a thousand more, how to slip in and out of personalities and weave between relationships so she could undo their threads. She knew how to manipulate, she knew how to play.
She could generate an emotion in an instant, switch between despair and ecstasy and convince every cynic except herself that the person she was that day was real, and the sensation she created was sincere.
In that place, she knew that friendship was a lie.
…
Clint Barton never had much time for friends.
He had vague memories of an old swing set, and kids surrounding it and squalling, twisting the chains round and round, climbing to the top of the frame only to drop backwards, suspended by his knees, upside down and lightheaded.
That though, that was... temporary. The simple bonds of children in a playground, allies and enemies in easy succession until it was time to go home.
He could easily recall sitting at the front of a beat-up yellow bus, Barney silent and sullen beside him, a hush that settled when they got on board that seemed so loud to his juvenile ears because he could still hear the whispers behind it.
‘Stay away from the Barton kids, they’re trouble.’
And he could remember shouting at his mother, it wasn’t them that was trouble, it was Dad. He got a slap from her and a belt from him for that one. They told him to stay away and stay quiet, keep family business in the family, and don’t let no-one come nosin’ around in something that doesn’t concern them.
So he never had much time for friends as a child.
Instead, he’d sit and stare at the open sky, watching clouds scud past and wishing he could follow them, but being followed by something else instead.
That word.
Trouble.
It followed him from the playground to the classroom; to the hospital and to the graveyard. Then he chased it from the graveyard where his parents lay. He chased it all the way to the circus, finding talent along the way.
He also found mentors, support, a cast tied together by travelling a road unique to themselves, pitching up one night and gone the next.
He discovered enemies, and he discovered rivals.
Clint discovered how to fight.
Not just a playground scuffle or a foster home brawl, but an honest to God fight, where it was you or the other guy and you didn’t stop until one of you was down and refusing to get up. That, or those making quiet wagers on the side were content with the result.
He learnt a lot in the circus. But he still didn’t find any friends.
***
There they stood, lifetimes later, the cynic and the skeptic and enemies of the other.
He put down his bow and held out his hand.
She took it.
It was a start.
***
Looking back, neither of them could really define the point at which they knew they were friends.
Natasha (for that’s what they called her now) didn’t really understand when she started to believe such notions existed. Only that around him, a lot of things she’d previously believed to be lies became solid truths.
Clint wasn’t sure when he’d gained somebody that he trusted, that he laughed with, that he liked. Only that with Natasha, it all just seemed to sort of... happen.
Trouble had followed him, yes, but then so had Natasha.
He knew how to fight, but Natasha taught him how to do so with style. He observed how to control himself, all of that tension and all of that fear, how to channel it into swift bursts of taut energy. He learnt how to cause maximum damage with minimum output.
Initially, their matches had been fraught with tension, identical faces of intense concentration, both too stubborn to let the other win before they realised they could learn from each other.
He was constantly trying to match her preternatural grace, and she his sheer resilience.
The mats were always silent, only punctuated by laboured breathing and sharp exhales as fists made contact with sensitive flesh. That level of intensity, though, only had so much strength before it could snap, and after almost four months of training together, it did.
It had been a typical match, the gym long emptied of everyone but themselves.
The fight had descended into a bizarre game of tag, both of them ducking and weaving, barely able to land a blow before contact was lost again. By that time, both of them were breathing heavily, sweat dripping from Clint’s brow and into his stinging eyes, Natasha’s hair plastered to the nape of her neck. They were both also refusing to submit, until finally Clint had managed to grit out an order, that she, of course, ignored.
“Will you just give up already?”
“Not until you do, Barton”
“I’m not giving up ‘til --”
And then suddenly he was cracking up, at first a small chuckle and then he couldn’t seem to stop, sucking in gasping lungfuls of air and practically howling, doubling over so far that he ended up on the floor at the ridiculousness of it all.
Natasha looked at him like he’d lost his mind, which also struck him as hilarious, and his laughter doubled in strength.
It turned out to be contagious. Soon her bemusement morphed into amusement, a small smile developing into a wide grin and before too long she was sprawled beside him and they were laughing at each other, together, unable to look at the other without breaking out into hysteria once again.
Clint sometimes thought that maybe, if he had to name the point in time at which he knew he and Natasha would be friends, it would probably be that.
All he knew for sure was that from that point onwards sparring wasn’t about bettering the other anymore, it was about making the other better - not for a profit, not to pull in the crowds, not for revenge. It was new, and it was nice, and neither of them had experienced very much of that before.
***
Clint taught Natasha to appreciate distance, and it only served to make them closer.
The Red Room had drilled the importance of getting close to the mark, of worming the way underneath somebodys skin until you could peel away their layers from the inside out.
He led her to high places, up onto rooftops and hidden in vaulted ceilings, teaching her to watch from a distance and view the way the world played out, in pieces to become a whole.
He showed her the peace, the quiet that came from removing herself from a situation, to be an occasional spectator instead of a constant performer. When Natasha came too close to the past, he would give her the distance she needed, provide the wide view.
Almost a year into her time with SHIELD, on yet another mission where she was the bait, dangled in front of a mark until they bit, she walked into a room with red velveteen paper on the walls, and mahogany floors the colour of dried blood underneath her. She knew that if she dared to touch them, they would be cold.
Natasha barely managed to keep it together for the sake of the mission, to extract the required information and terminate the mark, but she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling.
Clint noticed. He always noticed.
He took her gently by the hand, leading her out of the building, weaving through quiet streets until he found what he was looking for. He led her into an apartment building and guided her towards the stairs, onwards and upwards, further and further until he quietly picked a lock and they emerged onto the roof, and she pulled in desperate lungfuls of air, still suffocating under the memories of that place.
He shepherded her towards the ledge, nudging her until she sat with her back against the ventilation shaft, looking out over a nameless city, street lights blinking on and taking up an ethereal quality from a distance, a steady stream of traffic providing an undulating source of illumination.
They sat together, high above the ground and on top of all of the walls that trapped her for hours, until the night sky changed to the dawn again. He sat with her, their interlocked fingers the only point of contact between them, and the only reminder that he was there.
It was exactly what she needed. It turned out he always was.