can you make it feel like home if I tell you you're mine?, Avengers, Clint/Natasha, pg13(?)
He sees her in Chicago, under warm light in a makeshift bar in a basement, with her hair cut short and curled. The red of her hair matched the red of her eyes, but surely that was just a trick of the light. She's leaning against the piano, and those not-red eyes are all over the room. His own eyes run along the edge of her skirt while she starts to sing, and her voice is rough and warm and not red either, but blue, deep blue, and it sounds like suede on his skin.
She disappears after two more songs, and no one thinks to ask how she left with a purse that she didn't come in with.
-
He sees her in a diner outside of Jersey in the middle of the night, and he knows it's her, because she catches his eye for a moment. She's got the same red hair, but that's the only thing that matches. She's in pants now, a white blouse, black heels, and a man's fedora over that red hair, and she looks nothing like the woman in the speak-easy with the little red dress and the legs that went on 'til Sunday. When she opens her mouth, her voice is quick and sharp, answering the waitress in yes or no only, and he's almost convinced that it's someone else, except how her eyes look as she leaves.
She disappears into a car that's probably not her own, but there's no one else around to wonder.
-
He doesn't see her in New York until she's got a hand around his throat, up against a wall in an alley downtown. He's seen her around, but she's seen him too, and she grabs his chin and forces him to look at her. “I've seen you in every big city in this half of the country.” she says, twisting her fingers into his hair. “I'm starting to think I'm being followed. It would be in your best interest to tell me why.”
“I'm not following you.”
“Times like these, dirty cops everywhere you look and I've gotta say, I can't quite believe you, Detective Barton.”
“I'm not a... Okay, I am a detective, but I'm not following you. It's all just coincidence, I swear. You just keep showing up, like an... Albatross, or something.”
She loosened her grip, but kept her eyes fixed on his. “An albatross is a bad omen, Detective.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you are too.”
-
She follows him back to Atlantic City, and even then, he only sees her when she wants him to. She shows up on stake-outs, fucks him in the back of the car and leaves him a packet of cigarettes, and she must be a bad omen after all, because he's never going to get any work done like this.
She shows up at his apartment one night, but for all of his detective work, he still doesn't even know her name. “Why're you following me around like this anyway, doll?”
“You know too much about me already. I've got to keep tabs on you.” she says, in that voice that's soft like gasoline.
“Is that the only reason?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I am a detective.” he says with a grin, and she wants nothing more than to wipe it from his face.
“Never the right ones, though.”
-
“Where's home for you, anyway?” he asks in a parked car on the edge of town.
“Everywhere. Still not the right question.”
He thinks about this for a while, and has to think that maybe she should have his job instead. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in Russia.” she says, but he can't hear it in her accent.
“...Really.”
“Da.”
“Why's a pretty gal like you choose to stick around with a guy like me, then?”
“Because you're my responsibility now, Detective.”
-
She tells him her name on the way to California, in a car that he still can't be sure is hers. It's sleek and black and not-red like her, but she drives it fast and hard, just like he'd expect. It takes him less than ten minutes after learning her name to start calling her Nat, and the smile that escapes for a split second tells him that maybe home isn't a place after all.
He sees her in Chicago, under warm light in a makeshift bar in a basement, with her hair cut short and curled. The red of her hair matched the red of her eyes, but surely that was just a trick of the light. She's leaning against the piano, and those not-red eyes are all over the room. His own eyes run along the edge of her skirt while she starts to sing, and her voice is rough and warm and not red either, but blue, deep blue, and it sounds like suede on his skin.
She disappears after two more songs, and no one thinks to ask how she left with a purse that she didn't come in with.
-
He sees her in a diner outside of Jersey in the middle of the night, and he knows it's her, because she catches his eye for a moment. She's got the same red hair, but that's the only thing that matches. She's in pants now, a white blouse, black heels, and a man's fedora over that red hair, and she looks nothing like the woman in the speak-easy with the little red dress and the legs that went on 'til Sunday. When she opens her mouth, her voice is quick and sharp, answering the waitress in yes or no only, and he's almost convinced that it's someone else, except how her eyes look as she leaves.
She disappears into a car that's probably not her own, but there's no one else around to wonder.
-
He doesn't see her in New York until she's got a hand around his throat, up against a wall in an alley downtown. He's seen her around, but she's seen him too, and she grabs his chin and forces him to look at her. “I've seen you in every big city in this half of the country.” she says, twisting her fingers into his hair. “I'm starting to think I'm being followed. It would be in your best interest to tell me why.”
“I'm not following you.”
“Times like these, dirty cops everywhere you look and I've gotta say, I can't quite believe you, Detective Barton.”
“I'm not a... Okay, I am a detective, but I'm not following you. It's all just coincidence, I swear. You just keep showing up, like an... Albatross, or something.”
She loosened her grip, but kept her eyes fixed on his. “An albatross is a bad omen, Detective.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you are too.”
-
She follows him back to Atlantic City, and even then, he only sees her when she wants him to. She shows up on stake-outs, fucks him in the back of the car and leaves him a packet of cigarettes, and she must be a bad omen after all, because he's never going to get any work done like this.
She shows up at his apartment one night, but for all of his detective work, he still doesn't even know her name. “Why're you following me around like this anyway, doll?”
“You know too much about me already. I've got to keep tabs on you.” she says, in that voice that's soft like gasoline.
“Is that the only reason?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I am a detective.” he says with a grin, and she wants nothing more than to wipe it from his face.
“Never the right ones, though.”
-
“Where's home for you, anyway?” he asks in a parked car on the edge of town.
“Everywhere. Still not the right question.”
He thinks about this for a while, and has to think that maybe she should have his job instead. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in Russia.” she says, but he can't hear it in her accent.
“...Really.”
“Da.”
“Why's a pretty gal like you choose to stick around with a guy like me, then?”
“Because you're my responsibility now, Detective.”
-
She tells him her name on the way to California, in a car that he still can't be sure is hers. It's sleek and black and not-red like her, but she drives it fast and hard, just like he'd expect. It takes him less than ten minutes after learning her name to start calling her Nat, and the smile that escapes for a split second tells him that maybe home isn't a place after all.
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