The Eye of the Beholder
Title: The Eye of the Beholder
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: PG
Fandom: Avengers
Disclaimer: The Avengers still don't belong to me, but Clint and Natasha appear to have followed me home.
Genre: Romance/Humor
Pairing: Hints of Clint/Natasha
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: Set pre-movie so no real spoilers.
Characters: Natasha
Secondary Characters: Clint
Summary: In the early days of their partnership, during a routine mission, Natasha begins to see Clint in a new way. It's...inconvenient.
A/N: I'm not entirely sure where this came from, lol, but it was a lot fun to write.
As always, I thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who is the source of all inspiration.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
The Eye of the Beholder
Natasha Romanoff knew that she was beautiful.
She could say that without any sense of pride, because when she looked in the mirror, she studied her reflection the same way she examined an AK-47 - they were, after all, much the same: tools of her trade. Nothing more, nothing less.
But, while she was conscious of her own beauty, the physical appearance of others meant very little to her. Her marks, after all, were not always suave, attractive men - more often than not, they were fat with plump fingers and greasy hair, or soldiers of fortune with missing teeth, scarred hands, and marred features. But, she needed to pretend that she was attracted to each and every one of them, to get close enough to slip under their defenses when they least expected it. Perhaps, then, it wasn't surprising that when those around her were physically appealing, she viewed them with a certain clinical detachment.
Clint, her partner of one year, was no exception.
She knew that he was handsome by most standards, but like her, his appearance was simply another weapon at his disposal. He used it less often than she did, but occasionally, they came across a female mark he needed to draw out with a few flirtatious grins and whispered promises.
Such was the case now.
Andre Bianchi was a prominent restaurant owner moonlighting as an arms dealer. He'd been expanding his client base recently, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had noticed. His twenty-five-year-old daughter, Isabella, was apparently unaware of her father's shadier business dealings, but their intel indicated that she was the apple of her father's eye, and just as importantly, that she was single. Surveillance had also revealed that Isabella played competitive tennis, and made regular trips to the local Y. So, a few days into the op, Clint was in place in the gym, waiting to "accidentally" bump into her.
Natasha was nearby, having claimed a treadmill across the room. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that dangled at her neck, and she was dressed in gray sweatpants and a purple spaghetti-strap top, blending in seamlessly with the gym's largely-casual clientele. She walked at a relatively slow pace, more interested in keeping an eye on the rest of the gym than actually challenging herself.
Clint had started a workout of his own as well, and after stretching, he'd done several reps of sit-ups, then headed for the lat machine in the corner. He'd set it for less than his usual weight - his upper-body strength was well above average due to the nearly constant use of his bow, and they didn't need to draw an audience of impressed onlookers.
Natasha didn't put much effort into watching him initially, though she glanced over at him every so often; he was in her line of sight, and it would have looked strange if she never seemed to notice him. But, she realized as the minutes passed, it was becoming very difficult not to notice him.
He was dressed causally like she was, in a loose black shirt and matching shorts, but his shirt was sleeveless, and offered a clear view of the broad expanse of his back and shoulders, perfectly sculpted from his many years of archery. He'd been exercising long enough to work up a light sweat, and his skin shown with perspiration, highlighting the muscle definition even more. It was nothing Natasha hadn't seen many times as they trained and practiced together, but she had never really bothered to look before.
And now that she had, she found that she didn't particularly want to stop.
She traced the lines of his shoulders with her eyes, her gaze lingering alternately on his biceps and neck, enjoying the way his lean muscles flexed and bunched as he gripped the metal bar.
Natasha wasn't sure how long she stood there, studying him, but when someone dropped a weight on the floor, the noise broke whatever spell the scene had cast over her. She became suddenly, acutely aware that she wasn't the only woman who had paused to admire Clint. The middle-aged woman a few treadmills over was staring at him wistfully, and a perky blonde on a stationary bike was inspecting him with a cat-that-caught-the-canary - Hawk, actually - smile.
Clint paid no attention to them, though Natasha had no doubt that he knew that he was being observed. People like them always did. The thought that Clint might have sensed her own gaze brought an unaccustomed rush of heat to her cheeks, and she purposefully turned her eyes away, forcing herself to be indifferent to the continued sounds of the lat machine and the faint rustle of fabric when Clint moved.
Nonetheless, an hour - and several pieces of exercise equipment - later, when it became clear that Isabella Bianchi had decided not to visit the Y that day, Natasha could admit that she was relieved.
Their initial plan had obviously been flawed. There were too many variables they hadn't considered, and one of those variables had…distracted her. That couldn't happen again, Natasha thought firmly, a little disturbed that she'd let it happen at all.
So, that evening, when she and Clint regrouped at their safe house, she coolly informed him that they needed to find different way to approach their target. She ignored the puzzled look Clint gave her, picked up the file they'd compiled on Isabella Bianchi and set about trying to come up with a new plan.
One, preferably, that would keep Clint out of the gym for the foreseeable future.
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: PG
Fandom: Avengers
Disclaimer: The Avengers still don't belong to me, but Clint and Natasha appear to have followed me home.
Genre: Romance/Humor
Pairing: Hints of Clint/Natasha
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: Set pre-movie so no real spoilers.
Characters: Natasha
Secondary Characters: Clint
Summary: In the early days of their partnership, during a routine mission, Natasha begins to see Clint in a new way. It's...inconvenient.
A/N: I'm not entirely sure where this came from, lol, but it was a lot fun to write.
As always, I thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who is the source of all inspiration.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
The Eye of the Beholder
Natasha Romanoff knew that she was beautiful.
She could say that without any sense of pride, because when she looked in the mirror, she studied her reflection the same way she examined an AK-47 - they were, after all, much the same: tools of her trade. Nothing more, nothing less.
But, while she was conscious of her own beauty, the physical appearance of others meant very little to her. Her marks, after all, were not always suave, attractive men - more often than not, they were fat with plump fingers and greasy hair, or soldiers of fortune with missing teeth, scarred hands, and marred features. But, she needed to pretend that she was attracted to each and every one of them, to get close enough to slip under their defenses when they least expected it. Perhaps, then, it wasn't surprising that when those around her were physically appealing, she viewed them with a certain clinical detachment.
Clint, her partner of one year, was no exception.
She knew that he was handsome by most standards, but like her, his appearance was simply another weapon at his disposal. He used it less often than she did, but occasionally, they came across a female mark he needed to draw out with a few flirtatious grins and whispered promises.
Such was the case now.
Andre Bianchi was a prominent restaurant owner moonlighting as an arms dealer. He'd been expanding his client base recently, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had noticed. His twenty-five-year-old daughter, Isabella, was apparently unaware of her father's shadier business dealings, but their intel indicated that she was the apple of her father's eye, and just as importantly, that she was single. Surveillance had also revealed that Isabella played competitive tennis, and made regular trips to the local Y. So, a few days into the op, Clint was in place in the gym, waiting to "accidentally" bump into her.
Natasha was nearby, having claimed a treadmill across the room. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that dangled at her neck, and she was dressed in gray sweatpants and a purple spaghetti-strap top, blending in seamlessly with the gym's largely-casual clientele. She walked at a relatively slow pace, more interested in keeping an eye on the rest of the gym than actually challenging herself.
Clint had started a workout of his own as well, and after stretching, he'd done several reps of sit-ups, then headed for the lat machine in the corner. He'd set it for less than his usual weight - his upper-body strength was well above average due to the nearly constant use of his bow, and they didn't need to draw an audience of impressed onlookers.
Natasha didn't put much effort into watching him initially, though she glanced over at him every so often; he was in her line of sight, and it would have looked strange if she never seemed to notice him. But, she realized as the minutes passed, it was becoming very difficult not to notice him.
He was dressed causally like she was, in a loose black shirt and matching shorts, but his shirt was sleeveless, and offered a clear view of the broad expanse of his back and shoulders, perfectly sculpted from his many years of archery. He'd been exercising long enough to work up a light sweat, and his skin shown with perspiration, highlighting the muscle definition even more. It was nothing Natasha hadn't seen many times as they trained and practiced together, but she had never really bothered to look before.
And now that she had, she found that she didn't particularly want to stop.
She traced the lines of his shoulders with her eyes, her gaze lingering alternately on his biceps and neck, enjoying the way his lean muscles flexed and bunched as he gripped the metal bar.
Natasha wasn't sure how long she stood there, studying him, but when someone dropped a weight on the floor, the noise broke whatever spell the scene had cast over her. She became suddenly, acutely aware that she wasn't the only woman who had paused to admire Clint. The middle-aged woman a few treadmills over was staring at him wistfully, and a perky blonde on a stationary bike was inspecting him with a cat-that-caught-the-canary - Hawk, actually - smile.
Clint paid no attention to them, though Natasha had no doubt that he knew that he was being observed. People like them always did. The thought that Clint might have sensed her own gaze brought an unaccustomed rush of heat to her cheeks, and she purposefully turned her eyes away, forcing herself to be indifferent to the continued sounds of the lat machine and the faint rustle of fabric when Clint moved.
Nonetheless, an hour - and several pieces of exercise equipment - later, when it became clear that Isabella Bianchi had decided not to visit the Y that day, Natasha could admit that she was relieved.
Their initial plan had obviously been flawed. There were too many variables they hadn't considered, and one of those variables had…distracted her. That couldn't happen again, Natasha thought firmly, a little disturbed that she'd let it happen at all.
So, that evening, when she and Clint regrouped at their safe house, she coolly informed him that they needed to find different way to approach their target. She ignored the puzzled look Clint gave her, picked up the file they'd compiled on Isabella Bianchi and set about trying to come up with a new plan.
One, preferably, that would keep Clint out of the gym for the foreseeable future.
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter