This land is mine (Avengers team-fic, g-rated, 1350 words)
I've been writing little bits of this for ages. It is gen id-fic, if such a thing exists.
This land is mine
(Avengers team-fic, g-rated, 1350 words, unbeta'd and movie-verse)
Natasha spends twelve days hidden in a ditch of freezing mud outside the illegal weapons plant in Polish Silesia. Then, once she has gathered all the intel SHIELD requires, she spends a further twelve minutes breaking in, acquiring her target and interrogating him for the last details she needs.
As per Fury's orders, her target won't know in which direction to turn. Dabrowski will know that his situation is compromised, but he won't know to connect Natasha to SHIELD. Natasha was never there, Natasha doesn't exist.
Fury is on the plane home to meet her but says he'll save the debriefing until after she's showered. He leaves her alone, to sit silently feral by the window, staring out at dreaming gray banks of clouds. Twelve days is not the longest time Natasha has gone isolated on a mission, but it's long enough for words to be unpracticed concepts, beyond her reach.
Back at the base, she showers the mud off and scrubs until her skin glows red. The mud is ingrained, sunk into the whorls of her fingertips and the pores of her cheeks. She scrubs until the water that sluices over her and into the bottom of the cubicle stops coming off grayish-brown.
By the time Natasha returns to Fury, she is entirely functional as a civilized human being again. The debriefing is thorough, but Natasha never falters, never has to stop to recall a detail. Fury works her as hard as he needs to, and only then nods at her and says, "Good job, agent."
Natasha's guard doesn't begin to drop until she's back in New York, until she's in the cool blue illumination of the Stark Tower elevators. She sighs deeply, and lets go of a breath she's been holding since she left. She allows herself to think of brushed cotton pajamas, and toothpaste, and fluffy socks.
It's silent when the elevator doors slide open. Assassin to the core, Natasha immediately knows there are people here. She eases off her shoes and pads across the floor towards the level's core.
Even if it weren't hardwired into his nature to make a dramatic entrance whenever possible, Stark would announce his presence if only by the headlamp in his chest that burns right through his Black Sabbath t-shirt.
"You had a science question," he says, in what Natasha considers an unnecessarily accusatory tone. "You had a science question, and you called Banner. You didn't call me."
He has the manic wide-eyed look of someone who should have been in bed hours ago, if not days. There are little red imprint marks down his cheek, where he has obviously had his face pressed into machine parts while he worked on them.
"Hello, Tony," says Natasha.
"I do science too, you know. I'm actually kind of well known for it. That suit I wear? That's all science. Well-" He pauses, cocks his head like he's calculating an obscure equation, "there's a lot of style and flair and general panache there too, but it's mostly science."
"Someone felt a little neglected," says Bruce, appearing at Stark's elbow. He smiles, and it's a toss-up whether he looks as washed-out as he usually does, or more so due to his role as Stark's scientific wingman. "Welcome home, Natasha."
"Next time I'll be sure to conference call," she says. She allows herself to smile because she's safe here, and because she can smile and mean it.
"The guys are in the den," says Stark. "Even Barton."
The siren call of pajamas and fluffy socks is disregarded, and Natasha neatly changes course to the den. The door is open, and flickering, grayish light filters through to the corridor. The television is just audible as she approaches.
She stops in the doorway. This is the strange domesticity her life has acquired.
Steve is sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading the back of a DVD cover while the movie plays on the screen in front of him. Thor and Clint are at either end of the couch, Mjolnir between them. Clint's head droops to one side under the weight of sleepiness. Thor is watching the movie, one big hand resting in a bowl of popcorn.
Clint's the first to notice her. He makes an effort to straighten up, and rubs his hand over his eyes to clear them. "Hey, you're home!"
She knows he's looking her over for injuries; she's doing the same to him. But aside from obvious exhaustion, he's healthy and happy. And he, like Fury, knows better than to ask her how she is. She's home in one piece, so all is well.
Thor's smile is brilliant, his whole face lighting up with pleasure at her arrival. He lifts Mjolnir and sets it at his feet. He gestures welcomingly at the empty space. "This seat has been waiting for you."
"Apparently his hammer works great for saving seats as well as smashing stuff," says Clint. "It's multi-functional."
She slides into the spot between them. Bookended by a god and the only assassin in the world that's possibly as good as her, Natasha tries to get accustomed to feeling so safe.
"What are we watching?" she says.
"The Longest Day," says Steve. "But we can put something else on?" He's already reaching for the TV listings, no doubt about to try to find something he thinks will appeal to her - god only knows what they will be. Tony keeps trying to teach Steve to channel-surf instead but it hasn't taken yet.
"No, this is fine," says Natasha.
She yawns hugely, then gives in to the sudden impulse to collapse. She curls up, kitten-comfortable, pillowing her head on Thor's massive thigh and her feet snuggled in Clint's lap. She wriggles her toes meaningfully, and Clint obliges with a deep, slow massage that makes her want to moan. She yawns instead.
Thor shifts carefully, trying not to disturb her position, as he passes the bowl of popcorn to Steve. The movie continues: shells screaming as they fall, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, the wooden architecture of the barbed wire fences looking like broken down gallows.
"Oh wow," says Tony, from somewhere above Natasha's head. "Another war movie. Tell me, Captain, can there really be any more war movies you haven't seen already?"
"He hasn't even started on the foreign language ones yet, you know," Bruce points out. "Downfall, that's pretty good."
They settling around the couch; Natasha doesn't have to look to know it. She can map their places from their voices, the sound of their movement. Bruce and Tony are filling the minimal space between the edge of the couch and the patch of floor where Steve is. They're one continuous strand, and Natasha's been assimilated within it.
"I wish to see whether the Army of Allies captures the beaches," says Thor.
"Spoiler alert: they do. Now let's watch something else," says Tony. So far, Steve's probably keeping the remote control out of his reach, but Tony will lose patience soon and try wrestling him for it. Natasha really hopes they keep the fighting away from the couch.
"Like one of the news reports they keep showing about your stunt with the cryogenics lab?" Steve suggests wryly.
Natasha grimaces and hides her face in Thor's leg. She really doesn't want to hear what chaos Tony's been creating lately.
"Lower your voices," says Thor. He's trying to sound stern but there's laughter in his voice. "The lady wishes to sleep."
"The lady wishes to watch something other than war movies," Tony persists. "Like something featuring events from this century. C'mon, gimme that."
There's a scuffle, enough of one that the couch shifts.
"Hey, hey, careful!" Clint says. "Cap, give him the remote before he wakes her up."
"I'm fine," Natasha says. "I'm fine."
Thor's fingers are combing through her hair, unexpectedly soothing, and Clint's hands are working the tension out of her feet like he's done a hundred times before for her. Bruce is intervening to resolve the situation between Steve and Tony, and they're all trying to keep their voices down her so she can sleep through the dispute.
She's just fine.
~end
This land is mine
(Avengers team-fic, g-rated, 1350 words, unbeta'd and movie-verse)
Natasha spends twelve days hidden in a ditch of freezing mud outside the illegal weapons plant in Polish Silesia. Then, once she has gathered all the intel SHIELD requires, she spends a further twelve minutes breaking in, acquiring her target and interrogating him for the last details she needs.
As per Fury's orders, her target won't know in which direction to turn. Dabrowski will know that his situation is compromised, but he won't know to connect Natasha to SHIELD. Natasha was never there, Natasha doesn't exist.
Fury is on the plane home to meet her but says he'll save the debriefing until after she's showered. He leaves her alone, to sit silently feral by the window, staring out at dreaming gray banks of clouds. Twelve days is not the longest time Natasha has gone isolated on a mission, but it's long enough for words to be unpracticed concepts, beyond her reach.
Back at the base, she showers the mud off and scrubs until her skin glows red. The mud is ingrained, sunk into the whorls of her fingertips and the pores of her cheeks. She scrubs until the water that sluices over her and into the bottom of the cubicle stops coming off grayish-brown.
By the time Natasha returns to Fury, she is entirely functional as a civilized human being again. The debriefing is thorough, but Natasha never falters, never has to stop to recall a detail. Fury works her as hard as he needs to, and only then nods at her and says, "Good job, agent."
Natasha's guard doesn't begin to drop until she's back in New York, until she's in the cool blue illumination of the Stark Tower elevators. She sighs deeply, and lets go of a breath she's been holding since she left. She allows herself to think of brushed cotton pajamas, and toothpaste, and fluffy socks.
It's silent when the elevator doors slide open. Assassin to the core, Natasha immediately knows there are people here. She eases off her shoes and pads across the floor towards the level's core.
Even if it weren't hardwired into his nature to make a dramatic entrance whenever possible, Stark would announce his presence if only by the headlamp in his chest that burns right through his Black Sabbath t-shirt.
"You had a science question," he says, in what Natasha considers an unnecessarily accusatory tone. "You had a science question, and you called Banner. You didn't call me."
He has the manic wide-eyed look of someone who should have been in bed hours ago, if not days. There are little red imprint marks down his cheek, where he has obviously had his face pressed into machine parts while he worked on them.
"Hello, Tony," says Natasha.
"I do science too, you know. I'm actually kind of well known for it. That suit I wear? That's all science. Well-" He pauses, cocks his head like he's calculating an obscure equation, "there's a lot of style and flair and general panache there too, but it's mostly science."
"Someone felt a little neglected," says Bruce, appearing at Stark's elbow. He smiles, and it's a toss-up whether he looks as washed-out as he usually does, or more so due to his role as Stark's scientific wingman. "Welcome home, Natasha."
"Next time I'll be sure to conference call," she says. She allows herself to smile because she's safe here, and because she can smile and mean it.
"The guys are in the den," says Stark. "Even Barton."
The siren call of pajamas and fluffy socks is disregarded, and Natasha neatly changes course to the den. The door is open, and flickering, grayish light filters through to the corridor. The television is just audible as she approaches.
She stops in the doorway. This is the strange domesticity her life has acquired.
Steve is sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading the back of a DVD cover while the movie plays on the screen in front of him. Thor and Clint are at either end of the couch, Mjolnir between them. Clint's head droops to one side under the weight of sleepiness. Thor is watching the movie, one big hand resting in a bowl of popcorn.
Clint's the first to notice her. He makes an effort to straighten up, and rubs his hand over his eyes to clear them. "Hey, you're home!"
She knows he's looking her over for injuries; she's doing the same to him. But aside from obvious exhaustion, he's healthy and happy. And he, like Fury, knows better than to ask her how she is. She's home in one piece, so all is well.
Thor's smile is brilliant, his whole face lighting up with pleasure at her arrival. He lifts Mjolnir and sets it at his feet. He gestures welcomingly at the empty space. "This seat has been waiting for you."
"Apparently his hammer works great for saving seats as well as smashing stuff," says Clint. "It's multi-functional."
She slides into the spot between them. Bookended by a god and the only assassin in the world that's possibly as good as her, Natasha tries to get accustomed to feeling so safe.
"What are we watching?" she says.
"The Longest Day," says Steve. "But we can put something else on?" He's already reaching for the TV listings, no doubt about to try to find something he thinks will appeal to her - god only knows what they will be. Tony keeps trying to teach Steve to channel-surf instead but it hasn't taken yet.
"No, this is fine," says Natasha.
She yawns hugely, then gives in to the sudden impulse to collapse. She curls up, kitten-comfortable, pillowing her head on Thor's massive thigh and her feet snuggled in Clint's lap. She wriggles her toes meaningfully, and Clint obliges with a deep, slow massage that makes her want to moan. She yawns instead.
Thor shifts carefully, trying not to disturb her position, as he passes the bowl of popcorn to Steve. The movie continues: shells screaming as they fall, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, the wooden architecture of the barbed wire fences looking like broken down gallows.
"Oh wow," says Tony, from somewhere above Natasha's head. "Another war movie. Tell me, Captain, can there really be any more war movies you haven't seen already?"
"He hasn't even started on the foreign language ones yet, you know," Bruce points out. "Downfall, that's pretty good."
They settling around the couch; Natasha doesn't have to look to know it. She can map their places from their voices, the sound of their movement. Bruce and Tony are filling the minimal space between the edge of the couch and the patch of floor where Steve is. They're one continuous strand, and Natasha's been assimilated within it.
"I wish to see whether the Army of Allies captures the beaches," says Thor.
"Spoiler alert: they do. Now let's watch something else," says Tony. So far, Steve's probably keeping the remote control out of his reach, but Tony will lose patience soon and try wrestling him for it. Natasha really hopes they keep the fighting away from the couch.
"Like one of the news reports they keep showing about your stunt with the cryogenics lab?" Steve suggests wryly.
Natasha grimaces and hides her face in Thor's leg. She really doesn't want to hear what chaos Tony's been creating lately.
"Lower your voices," says Thor. He's trying to sound stern but there's laughter in his voice. "The lady wishes to sleep."
"The lady wishes to watch something other than war movies," Tony persists. "Like something featuring events from this century. C'mon, gimme that."
There's a scuffle, enough of one that the couch shifts.
"Hey, hey, careful!" Clint says. "Cap, give him the remote before he wakes her up."
"I'm fine," Natasha says. "I'm fine."
Thor's fingers are combing through her hair, unexpectedly soothing, and Clint's hands are working the tension out of her feet like he's done a hundred times before for her. Bruce is intervening to resolve the situation between Steve and Tony, and they're all trying to keep their voices down her so she can sleep through the dispute.
She's just fine.
~end