Thanks for thinking so very highly of her. It doesn't take a genius to check the date on newspapers or notice how much the world has changed. Granted, it hasn't changed much, but everything is subtly different. Cars, cellphones, clothes, hairstyles... Everything.
Just over ten years. The words hit Natasha like a bucket of ice cold water and she honest to god flinches. The faded remains of her smile are wiped clean off, and her heart drops sharply. Sudden fear --worse than him just knowing her name when she can't remember giving it to him -- clenches at her gut and her fingers curl tightly around the railing of the balcony. She hasn't told a living soul that she can't remember the past ten years. But somehow, he seems to know.
"How do you--" Hearing his call sign on the radio had been like being thrown a lifeline. But now, she realises that it's not a lifeline at all. It's a trap.
"You did this to me," she says, and betrayal shines clear in her eyes. It's not like she trusted him to begin with, but she could've used a steady point in her life right now. "SHIELD fucked me over. I should've known." They did something to her, and somehow she got away, and now they're looking to reel her back in. It's the only thing that makes sense. Well, she's not going to let herself be caught.
So. She does the only thing she can do. She pitches herself off the balcony. It's only a matter of tipping herself backwards, over the railing, and swinging her legs up and over for momentum. She catches the railing of the balcony one floor below with a hand, shoulder wrenching painfully as her body jolts to an abrupt stop. Swinging her body in, she lets go and crashes onto the balcony below that with far less grace than normal. From there, she jumps onto a conveniently placed dumpster, and then down on the asphalt, scraping a knee and her palms in the process. It's quick as hell though, her entire descent. And soon as she hits the ground, she's flat out running, and she's willing to bet that she knows the back alleys of Novgorod far better than he does.
The expression on his face when she accuses him of having done this to her must be comical to anyone watching. Anyone who sees him right now, must laugh, a little, at the way he looks both like he's been been poleaxed and like a fish out of water. That she thinks he--
But he doesn't even have time to finish the thought, because then she's vaulting over the side of the balcony and he's letting out a shout, a desperate "Nat!" that echoes empty in the alley, bouncing back and forth between buildings. He can't lose her. Not like this, not convinced that he's fucked over somehow, or that SHIELD's been playing games with her mind. He doesn't think, just follows, like he's always followed her, like he would follow her, to the ends of the earth and beyond, right into the mouth of hell if he had to. His descent is even less graceful than hers, mostly consisting of him grabbing that same balcony and grunting as he feels something twinge in his shoulders, and then letting himself drop the rest of the way. He should have gone for the dumpster though, because he rolls an ankle as he lands, but ignores the flash of pain and takes off running after her.
It's not smart, chasing her, especially not when she's backed into a corner like this and fleeing. Not when she thinks he's--well, on the opposite side and actually out for her, but he can't think of anything else to do. He's so desperately afraid he's going to lose her into the back alleys of Russia and never see her again until it's when a SHIELD agent finally brought her down and he runs as fast as he can after her---
--but it's her home turf, and she knows the place far better than he does. And he also hadn't been keeping up with his training as much as he should have in Jakarta, without her there to ride his ass about it. He comes to a stop with his hands on his thighs, panting, ankle and shoulder throbbing in time with his heart beat.
She's likely completely out of ear shot, but he has to try (always has to try) and he shouts: "I'm not here to hurt you, Widow! I just want to talk! Never hurt you before, and I think losing four missions in a year to you at least deserves an audience!" There's a lot more that deserves an audience, but--well, it's silent in the street, beyond the sound of a car passing a few blocks away, and a couple dogs barking. In the middle of a city and Clint thinks he's never felt a place be so desolate.
His comm crackles to life in his ear, and if she's still listening, she'll hear it.
"Come on back, Hawkeye. You're not getting anywhere running randomly through out Russia," It's Phil, it's always Phil, and she might recognize that voice if she thinks about it.
"She doesn't remember, Coulson," He admits as he catches his breath and turns away, fingers pressed to the comm. "Not any of it," and he's going to try and keep the hitch out of his voice, but--christ, Nat. He's going to find some way to give it back to you, he promises, because he can't entertain the idea that there might be a world where you've completely forgotten him and everything they worked so hard to have. He can't indulge the idea of a world where he only got to have you for two months before you were taken away.
"Come on home, Clint. We'll figure it out," Comes that soothing voice and he knows he wasn't entirely successful in pretending he's doing alright.
"Roger that. Barton out." He has a name at least, a place to start. He's got to find Durov and stake him out, see if that's actually a target or a decoy. Hell, could be a contact of hers from years ago. He doesn't know. He just---
Natasha's first instinct is to cut her losses and keep running.
In fact, the moment she comes back to what passes for a luxury hotel in Novgorod she's rushing to pack her things up. The rule is, you travel light if you have to. At any given moment, the things she cannot afford to leave behind, must always be light enough to carry. She grabs her backpack from under the bed, It already holds a small collection of passports, rolls of American dollars and Euros, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and a bottle of water. She stuffs her laptop, her smartphone and a collection of weapons on top of it.
Hawkeye is bright and observant and-- damn determined when he puts his mind to it. She mentioned Durov, so that mission is fucked. She'll have to beg out of it, even though it'll hurt her reputation.
She does a last sweep of the room just to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. The clothes in the closet can all be left behind. She'll get new ones when she touches down on-- Wherever she goes. Paris, maybe. Or London. Or, what the hell, why not Reykjavik? It's remote enough. Remote is good.
She checks to make sure that the black key card is still tucked away safely between the pages of her Russian passport in the bag. It's one of the few things she has that connects her to her past, she's not leaving it behind. On instinct she touches her hand over her heart to feel the familiar shapes of the rings resting there, to make sure she hasn't lost them. She was wearing them when she woke up, they must be important to her, for some reason. So she's hanging on tight to them.
Except, they might not even be hers. Someone might've placed them on her. Or they may've been for an assignment. Maybe they're important to her, maybe they're nothing. They're not inscribed, but if she got married, they wouldn't be, would they? She's too paranoid for that. Fuck, is she married? Or did she just walk out on a mission? She just doesn't know, and she's sick with not knowing.
She's out the door before it hits her. She can't leave.
The simple truth of it is that Hawkeye might well be her only link back to her past and the years she's lost. Though she keeps telling herself that it doesn't matter, the fact that she doesn't know anything she's been up to for the past ten years keeps niggling at her. It's like a sore tooth, or a bruise she can't stop poking at. Except worse.
She has nightmares like never before. In one, the sky opens and demons crawl through, descending on the city below. A great pillar of light shoots up in the sky, and she slices through it, throwing the world into darkness.
In another, a hospital crumbles around her, babies crying and sick people coughing as the ceiling catches fire. She can feel the heat of the flames licking at her face, but walking through the hospital corridors, she's untouchable, but for the way little worms of guilt eat away at her insides.
Other nightmares, she just remembers as disjointed little fragments. A strike of lightning; a man in green in a cage of glass; being chased by something unseen, the path behind her crumbling.
But they're not the worst. The worst are the dreams of places that she has never been. A little cottage atop a cliff with the sea raging below. Falling asleep to the cluck of waves in a bed under a mosquito-net, skin slick with sweat in the cloying warmth.
She can't tell what's memory and what's just her fucked up mind messing with her. (Though she assumes the demons at least are made up.)
Slowly, she walks back into the hotel room, lets her backpack drop on the bed, and then she just stares at the hideous painting on the opposite wall.
Hawkeye knows her name. He must know other things about her too.
A sudden wave of nausea hits her, and she's running for the bathroom. She barely makes it in time, the lid clattering harshly against the porcelain cistern, before she's vomiting into the bowl. It's over in seconds, but it feels like it goes on for eternity. Body trembling, she sinks to the floor, touching the back of her wrist over her mouth and swallowing thickly.
She can't trust anyone. She can't even trust herself.
Clumsily, Natasha wraps her arms around her shaking legs and rests her sweat-beaded brow against her knees. Thinking through the meeting with Hawkeye, running the conversation over in her head, it strikes her that he might not have said what she thought he did. A bit more than ten years isn't only the time she's lost, it's also how long it's been since they first met. So, maybe she's mistaken, maybe her own paranoia twisted his words in her head to make them sound more sinister than they truly are.
He knows her name, and that put her on edge from the first moment. But, they've known each other for ten years, and apparently, they've kept in touch. He said he was there to see her. That he wants to talk. Maybe it was just a social call. (God, he knows her name.) But why is his handler with him if he's just here to see her? It makes no sense.
Her instincts are thrumming through her body and yelling at her to run, but her mind overrules them and she stays put. Hawkeye is going to try to find her, she's pretty sure of that, and he'll do it through Durov. Because that's the only lead she's given him.
Nikolai Petrovitch Durov, an oil magnate with ties to the seedy underbelly of Moscow organized crime. His daughter -- heir to his fortune and mother of his grandson -- wants him dead. Natasha doesn't know why, she never asked.
While Hawkeye stalks Durov, Natasha stalks him. It comes as a surprise (and, okay, a bit of a relief) when she finds that he truly doesn't have a team with him. It's just him and his handler, and she's sorta impressed that it's the same guy all these years later.
There's a party at the Polish Embassy that Durov will attend. It's an excellent opportunity to take Durov out. It's in fact when Natasha planned to do it. But regardless, Hawkeye will be there. Expecting her. He'll find somewhere high up and a bit off and do his whole -- insanely hot -- sniper thing. For the best view of the Embassy, there's only one roof-top that qualifies.
"It wasn't four in a year, it was five," Natasha says behind Hawkeye. Yeah, she'd heard him yelling after her, as she climbed up the side of a building, heart pounding in her throat. "And, you shot an arrow through my shoulder. I think that qualifies as hurting. I mean, I still have the scar."
She's wearing a short black cocktail dress decorated with a complicated pattern of beads, and her too short hair is put up in a loose French twist.
"You want to talk? Let's talk." She tosses a small dart to him so that he can catch it. It's not quite as sleek or small as the one he shot out of the air all those years ago, but it's similar enough to drive home the point, and it'll do.
"The tip is infused with a slow-acting poison. It'll take at least a day for it to kill you. A couple of hours before you even feel it. It's a private blend, so I doubt SHIELD has an anti-dote on hand. I do, though. Hidden away safely -- and no, it's not in my cleavage this time, don't get your hopes up -- where only I can get to it."
If he trusts her, then maybe she can trust him. She folds her arms over her chest, and tilts her chin up defiantly in a way she hasn't since she was in her early twenties, though she doesn't know that.
"Prick yourself. Anywhere will do, long as you break the skin. And then we'll talk."
He limps back to his hotel and sits quietly while Phil manages to tape up his ankle, pronouncing it sprained, not broken and gives him the expected talking to about jumping off a balcony. The heat isn’t there though, because they both know he didn’t have another choice. It was as true now as it had been ten years ago, except, probably even more so. Clint would follow Natasha where she led, and they could all hope that she didn’t take him down a path they couldn’t retrieve either of them from.
It worked the other way for a long time too, so not all hope is lost for getting her back. They just have to find a way for her to remember that she trusts this man, and that SHIELD will do nothing to hurt her. Or at least, that Clint won’t, and he can vouch for the rest of them.
It may have been a needless precaution, but Phil is glad he came if simply to keep a leash on his asset. He knows Clint, and knows that something finally happened in Wales after the Manhattan Incident, and he knows something else happened in the Brazil after that, because there had been a steadiness to Clint that hadn’t been present before, like the man had finally found a balance on a particularly tricky perch. So, while he knew Clint came here to bring Tasha back, he also knew that if it didn’t work, and she asked Clint to join her, he likely would.
Neither of them slept well that night.
The next morning had Clint up early and hitting the streets, trying to dig up any information he could on Durov. He slipped through identities like he hadn’t in a decade, used any and all of the old tricks he’d thought he’d retired, to try and keep hidden keep his identity off the radar because the last thing he needs right now are people asking for autographs or for pictures. He knows Natasha doesn’t trust him, and if she’s tailing him-christ, if she’s even still in this town and hasn’t skipped five countries over, but Tony’s report had said she hadn’t shown up on Interpol at all, or anywhere else in the area so he’s going to hope-he knows she’ll trust him even less if she thinks he’s some sort of celebrity.
Eventually the information is gathered and the plan is set, and he’s settled into his perch and watching for her and watching for Durov because, well, the job is still a job, and there was nothing that used to draw her out faster than someone threatening her mark.
So it’s not entirely a surprise when she shows, and he tries not to let it show just how relieved he is to see her when she pulls herself up over the last little bit of the wall, looking as deadly and as beautiful as ever-he can’t help but admire the dress, and the fact she just scaled most of the side of a building in it-and if she wasn’t carrying her in a completely different way than he’s used to, he could almost think nothing was wrong. And he just-he wishes that maybe fixing her will be as easy as it was for her to knock a Norse god out of his head. They could even have matching scars.
“It was totally four,” he retorts, because, well, it was. And this is an old argument, almost familiar in the way it rolls off his tongue, “The one in Rio didn’t count because I told you about it before hand, and you had too much planning time.” He’s holding tight to his bow though, because he’s not entirely sure she doesn’t still consider him a threat and isn’t here to wipe him out. She could do it too, if she wanted, because while he hadn’t killed her before mostly because she was like nothing he’d ever seen before, he’s nearly certain he couldn’t kill her now. Knows he couldn’t. She means too much to him, and he knows he’d shoot wide every time, so, if she’s here to kill him, he’s basically a sitting duck.
But then she’s just reaching out and tossing him a dart that he catches more on reflex than anything else, tilting his head, curious, as she speaks.
And then she gives him the rules of engagement and he doesn’t hesitate. Maybe it’s a stupid move, and maybe he’ll end up dead because of it, but he doesn’t care. Nat leads, he follows. And he’s going to chase her down this road she’s on until he catches her and brings her back and if it takes trusting her enough not to kill him? Well, he can manage that. He’s trusted her with more.
He turns his hand over so she can see it and drags a line with the dart, digging deep into the skin so that blood wells up over the tip and it’s more than a little obvious he’s as committed to this as he can be.
"I still beat you," Natasha retorts, as always, and through all her worry, there's a smile tugging at her lips. "That's a technicality, at best. I mean, you can't claim that my intel was too good, so it doesn't count. That's just stupid."
Though she might look relaxed and completely at ease to someone who doesn't know her, there's a deep tension thrumming through her, tightening every single one of her muscles. Her shoulders are so tense, it feels as if they might snap. Like someone has been winding her up to her breaking point. When he draws a bloody line with the dart across the back of his hand -- going above and beyond what she asked for -- she simply stares at him for a moment. Like maybe he's mad.
The trust he just showed in her, without a moment of hesitation, it's more than she could do for him or anyone. The relief is a physical thing, tension bleeding out of her aching muscles and lump forming in her throat. Her shoulders don't sag, but her whole posture eases. "Y-yeah, that should-- that should do it."
Honestly? She could just hug him right now, a too tight and desperate thing, because she needs someone she knows, who knows her right now. Even though she can't trust anyone, maybe him trusting her this completely is enough. She doesn't hug him, of course, even though the urge is near-overwhelming. She settles for walking up to him and taking his hand to examine the wound. His hand is warm in hers and achingly familiar somehow. The amount of time she's spent idly admiring them doesn't account for it, and she wonders briefly if -- in the past ten years -- their relationship has advanced to the point she always thought it would.
"I'm sorry I bolted," she says with her head ducked, attention glued to his hand. She never apologizes, but she is sorry for running. "I thought--" Well, it doesn't matter what she thought, does it? She lets his hand go abruptly and backs away.
"So, what is it that SHIELD wants with me?" She's figured it out. He's there to talk to her, but it's not a social call. It's work-related. That's why his handler is there. SHIELD sent him because of their connection. They had one ten years ago, and they obviously still have one now, because he's trusting her with his life and that's-- enormous.
He half expects the dart to be the same fast acting poison she favors when she’s trying to eliminate a target quickly without much drama. It’d make sense, in a way, for her to just kill him and get him out of the way, because he is the only tangible connection to the life she doesn’t remember and eliminating him means that she can go back to what she was before. The fact that he doesn’t start frothing out the mouth is a good sign though, and he thinks, just maybe, she’s curious about what she’s lost. Maybe she’ll let him get it out after all.
There’s a tension that snaps into his body despite himself when she advances, because he knows her and knows that when she’s calm and collected and in control of a situation she’s at her most deadly, but then she’s just taking his hand and he’s trying not to let his breath hitch in his throat because dammit it’s the first time he’s touched her in months and he just-
He misses her so much in that second he thinks he might choke on it.
But she speaks before Clint can lose himself in the ache of the moment, and he lets out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head.
“Sorry I rushed you,” he corrects, but smiles and keeps his hand as still as he can, though he does give in just a little to his needs and lets his fingers wrap around hers. Because he’s figured out what she thought, and no matter how laughable the idea of him wiping ten years of her memory is, he knows why she could think it was a possibility. He remembers this Tasha, and remembers her trust issues. Remembers what it was like to claw his way through all of them until she was able to offer him the most vulnerable parts of herself in dark rooms in the middle of the night while they both were good enough to pretend like the other one wasn’t shaking.
“I just want to help you remember,” he says, softly, because it’s true, but he doesn’t want to spook her again. And he’s going to keep using I, instead of we, because she might think he’s here completely on behalf of SHIELD, but he’s here as much for himself as he is for the Avengers and SHIELD. “And, if you’ll let me, I’ve got a way that I think will help,” he continues, “but I’ll have to grab my cellphone. That alright?” He talks to her almost like he’s coaxing a skittish horse, how he might have approached the old lion they kept in the circus when he was a kid. He’s not going to chase her off this time and he’s going to do that by letting her know she’s completely in charge of this interaction. He does know how much she loves control.
Natasha doesn't feel in control of anything right now, least of all herself. Everything she once knew is gone, and she's not sure who she even is anymore. She's coming apart at the seams, spinning desperately out of control and she's looking for anything to hold onto to steady herself. Right now, Hawkeye is that something. Except, whatever precarious hold she has on him, she doesn't dare trust.
For a moment, with Hawkeye's fingers curled around hers, that slight laugh of his still ringing in her ears, and his smile warming her from the inside out, Natasha thinks that everything is going to be alright. But then she pulls away and--
He wants to help her remember. The bottom drops out of Natasha's stomach, and nausea claws at her throat. The time she spent convincing herself that she just heard him wrong, that SHIELD isn't behind her missing ten years, is wiped away in a second when he acknowledges her need to remember. This time, there's no way for her to misinterpret his words. He knows. She hasn't told a living soul, and yet somehow he knows.
Her eyes narrow in suspicion, and her arms fold protectively over her chest. Part of her wants to run again, as every inch of her screams that this is a trap. But it doesn't change anything, she needs to know who she was for the lost ten years, and he wants to tell her. So, she'll listen. Even though she can't trust his motives now. SHIELD's involved with this somehow.
"Out of the goodness of your heart, right?" she comments dryly, an edge of bitterness to her voice. You don't get something for nothing; she'll owe him for this. The world is nothing but debts balanced against each other. She makes a vague gesture towards him, giving him permission to go for his cellphone. He knows that if he kills her, he'll die slowly and painfully from the poison, so she doesn't think that he means her any harm.
Her fingers fly to the thin gold chain around her neck, and she toys with it in a nervous gesture she's picked up during these past few weeks. The motion tugs at the rings, resting safely against her skin and it steadies her. "You know my name," she points out, watching him pull out his cellphone. "But, I don't know yours." It's easier admitting to the lack of knowledge than the lack of memory, somehow.
If he knew, exactly, what was clawing at her-what was making her so nervous, he could tell her. He could tell her he knows just because he’s spent so much time with her he knows when she’s not herself. He could say that he knows because he’s spent an absurd amount of time with her in the past ten years and based on how she acts around him, he could probably place her at any time in their relationship. He doesn’t mean to spook her by knowing, but he also can’t pretend he doesn’t, because she may look like his Tasha, but she holds herself just like the Widow and so he knows how much time she’s lost-knows it by the stubborn jut of her chin, the way she carries herself like she’s waiting for someone to challenge her constantly, like she’s both completely sure of who she is and also vaguely uncomfortable in her skin.
So he can tell when she goes tense again that he’s said something wrong, but he can only hope what he has to show her will at least try to put some of it to rights. He moves when she nods, and reaches in the bag he’d left tucked against the wall to fish out his phone. It’s a newer model, the same kind Tony had given all of them when the prototype had been deemed worthwhile, and it should match the one she found in her pocket, if she’s still carrying it around.
“Clint Barton,” he offers absently as he goes through the motions of unlocking the device.
It takes him a moment of tapping through the different screens-christ, couldn’t his phone just, call people and send texts?-before he gets to the internet, and then to youtube, typing in various searches until he finds one of the more popular videos of the Chitauri incident that feature the two of them up close. It’s them, he and Natasha and Cap, shot from someone in the bus while they were pulling survivors out. The footage is choppy, obviously taken on someone’s phone, but it shows him lifting kids out of the window while Nat has his back, firing at incoming aliens, and then, jumpy as the owner of the phone is ushered off the bus, before it focuses on them again, side by side, him firing his arrows as she shoots, both of them in sync with the battle and what’s raging around them before the video goes dead, the person ushered into a building.
He turns to offer it to her and can’t help but notice she’s playing with the necklace that used to contain their rings. He’s-almost positive it still does, but he doesn’t want to assume. It feels like a punch to the gut because of course she was still wearing them even though she doesn’t know half of what they mean. He means to let it go, he really does, to just take that knowledge and let it sink in to the rest of the hurt swirling in his gut, but, he speaks before he can catch himself, even as he extends the phone for her to take.
“I have the one that matches, you know,” he says softly, not meeting her eyes, because he can’t, not really. Can’t say that and see the surprise and live through it. It’ll actually break him. “And, ah, just press play, on the screen.”
Hawkeye gives his name like it's nothing. Maybe to him it is. The first time you give someone your name, then it's something. But they've exchanged names before. To him it's just a reminder, to her it's momentous. Clint Barton. Natasha tests the name in her head, tries to apply it to the man and comes up short. It's not that it's not a good name. It is. And it's not that it doesn't fit him. But, he's been Hawkeye to her for a year now, and it's strange to think of him as anything else. What is she supposed to call him now? Clint? Barton? Hawkeye, still? What has she been calling him for the past ten years?
He looks different though. Older, of course, it's been ten years since she saw him last. But more than that. He's somehow less and more than she remembers, and she can't work out quite how that is possible. Then he's handing her the cellphone and she loses her train of thought. It looks just like the one she left behind when she ditched the car, too scared that someone might track her through it when she couldn't even work out how to access the data on it. She hasn't seen another one quite like it since.
All thoughts of them using the same unique tech and what that might mean are blown straight out of her head when he speaks. At first, there's a moment of confusion. Matches what? The cellphone? And then the realisation strikes her like a bolt of lightning followed by heavy rain beating down her, chilling her to the bone. Her fingers are still wound around the chain holding her rings. If he has the ring that matches hers...
Her eyes dart up to his face, but he isn't even looking at her, his expression far more closed off than she remembers ever seeing it before. Including the first time they met, because then at least, she could see the anger seething beneath the surface. Now, there is nothing.
Numbly, she pushes play, solely because he told her to, and she watches the choppy, low quality footage sort of distantly, her mind still reeling from the revelation and all its implications. The video seems to be of her, Clint and some guy dressed up in the American flag (for god knows what reason) fighting together and saving civilians. The slithery shapes buzzing through the air are hauntingly familiar. In the dreams the sky open and they well out, like a plague descending on the city. It was the one dream she thought for certain must be a fiction of her imagination.
"That could be anyone," she says without conviction, handing the phone back once the footage has played out. As revelatory as it is (and she means to scour the Internet once she's alone for more information and to watch them fight side by side like they were built for it again), it's nothing to his soft comment that proceeded it.
"Show me," she demands. "If you have the matching one. Show me."
Clint takes the phone back silently as she hands it over, slipping it into a pocket as he snorts. “It’s us, Natasha,” And it still feels strange, rolling off his tongue like that, her full name. He doesn’t really know what to do with it, because, well, she hasn’t been Natasha to him outside of the company of others in years. It’s Tasha, or Nat, or Tash, every now and again when he’s trying to annoy her, or kitten in Russian if he wants to get her attention and redirect it to something else-mostly how much she’s going to have to kill him if he keeps calling her kitten. Once, right before he left for the two month stint in Jakarta, he’d called her babe, and amazingly, she hadn’t killed him, but she swore it was only because there wasn’t enough time to do it properly. He still meant to try it again and see. But, well, now he supposed he’d have to wait. “Us and our teammate, Steve. Or, well, Captain America,” She might remember him from when she was a kid, he doesn’t know. They pretty much avoided talking about their childhoods and even when it did come up in the still of their rooms in the dark of the night, their childhood reading habits or movie tastes weren’t the topics of conversation. That would have been too normal. No, for them it was missions she’d taken, times her handler had let her out, people she’d had to seduce or kill and for him it had been stories of a drunken father, an absent staff in an orphanage and learning how to be a sideshow before he was fifteen.
But her attention isn’t on the footage, not really, and he turns his attention to the demand. He almost doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to have to prove himself like this, because, well, the rings mean more to him than they have any right to. He and Tasha aren’t actually married, even though that might be what it looks like with the way they both hang on to these, but what they have means a whole lot more. They’re not just wedding rings, they’re a sign of what they two of them overcame. How they got here. A bit of the history bleeding into where they are today and for two people who try to eliminate all traces of their passing in the world, hanging on to something for this long has meaning. But does he really have a choice?
Like always, Natasha asks and he answers.
His hand slips into the collar of his own shirt and picks up his dog tags, pulling them out from under the black of the SHIELD issue uniform. He wasn’t wearing his avengers gear, mostly because it wasn’t his back when he first met her and he figured she’d recognize this more, and so the chain comes up easy. He thinks for a moment that he might just leave it there, make her come look, but then he remembers this is Tasha and he’s already trusted her with his life tonight, so why not this too? His hands come up and unsnap the chain, offering the bundle to her.
The dogtags confirm his name, if she’s interested in looking, and behind them, so it’s the closest thing to his skin, hands the ring. A little wider than hers, but obviously made by the same hand and the style is a perfect match, right down to the titanium they’re made from, and the wood that lines them both.
“The engagement ring doesn’t match,” He says quietly, watching her look over them, “but that’s my fault. I didn’t realize they were supposed to, and that one looked so much like you-“ he’s going to hope she didn’t catch the way his voice cracked just then, because he doesn’t think he can explain this right now, everything she means to him. “Took five hours to pick them out, and I nearly made us miss our flight. You were pissed.”
Natasha. Her name sounds odd and foreign on his lips. Though not quite as odd 'Tasha' or 'Nat' did. It's something that she'll get used to, she's certain, but right now it makes the space between her shoulder blades crawl with discomfort. She can't remember giving him her name and him using it sends up warning flags and alarm bells that it's hard to ignore, even though she knows that she must've sometime between now and the last time she remembers meeting him.
Captain America conjures up images of old propaganda footage, a black and white film flickering on the screen of the training room and her handler's voice droning on about some kind of supersoldiers. But, that doesn't make sense, and then her attention narrows down to the flicker of silver as Hawkeye pulls out his dogtags,
Natasha takes the offered dogtags with ill-concealed eagerness, her fingers brushing his and sending a jolt of something through her. Instead of going straight for the ring, she takes her time to look over the dogtags first, running her thumb across the embossed letters. Barton, Clint. With a slowness that makes every inch of her body scream in impatience, she turns to the ring and runs her thumb along the metal, warmed by his skin. She has spent so many sleepless nights turning the two rings she wears over in her hands and puzzling over their meaning that she knows instantly that this one is the mate to hers. But still, she examines it in minute detail, like she can find a flaw with it to prove that it's all a lie.
His voice makes her heart stutter and ache in her chest -- a solid sort of pain settling around it like a steel band -- and when it breaks on a word, her eyes snap up to him, giving him a long and searching look. This is how he knew that her memory's been lost. Because they are so much more to each other now than they ever were ten years ago. There's something in his eyes that leaves her cold, even as it sends a slow sort of warmth spiralling up along her spine.
"I can imagine," she says softly, ducking her head once more. She tugs the chain and makes the rings spill forth so that she can compare his to hers. They're a perfect match. Her throat goes dry and too tight, making each breath ache in her chest.
The rings are exactly the kind of rings she'd wish for herself if she ever even entertained the thought of getting married.
She's never seen herself as the marrying kind, but a lot can happen in ten years. Maybe the Red Room sent her to seduce Hawkeye to get an inside line on SHIELD, and maybe they got engaged and married, and then the Red Room fell and she... stayed. Or maybe it was never a lie or a mission and just... her. Because if there is one man she can ever picture herself marrying, it's Hawkeye. Somehow.
Everything about the rings make sense. Right down to the materials and color. They're spies; she and Hawkeye. They wouldn't inscribe their rings or wear them on their fingers for fear of surveillance or the risk of a tan-line ruining a mission or a cover. If she got married, this is exactly how she'd wear her rings, in a chain around her throat and closest to her heart.
"They're beautiful," she says without thinking. She swallows tightly, as if she can swallow back the words and she tucks her rings away decisively before handing his back. Meeting his eyes is difficult and it takes real effort to not let her gaze skitter away. "So. You and me, huh?" And there's none of the doubt that should be in her voice. Of all the things that he's told her, this is the first thing she trusts implicitly, even though she really, really shouldn't.
He watches her as she looks at the rings and tries not to get lost in the memory of how she looked when she saw them for the first time. How she protested when he tried to make her look when he first got back from the jewelry store, already annoyed that there was a possibility they were going to miss their flight and expecting that he’d picked out the first two fake gold bands he found and a fake diamond engagement ring and that that simple process had taken him five hours.
At the time he couldn’t even justify why he’d spent so long picking them out. Mostly because it was Nat, and he wasn’t going to start their first undercover mission after Loki with something fake wrapped around his finger. Wasn’t going to start repairing their friendship with something cheap and tacky and not at all them, but now? Now he was glad he did, because they’d come to mean a hell of a lot more than just the things worn for a cover-
But watching her watch them, and he can almost imagine that they’re back in the helicarrier, and he’s making her take the time, and she’s looking up at him with that look on her face and he’s having to take a breath because well, he was slipping a fucking wedding band on her finger like it meant something. But, he’s not, and they’re not, and she’s still back where she was ten years ago, and he’s got to bring her back. Somehow. He has to.
“Glad your taste didn’t change that much,” he says in reply to her first comment, the one she looks like she wants to take back, because he can’t help but try and make her smile, try to lighten this situation a little because he feels a little like he’s drowning and can’t quite get a foothold and he doesn’t, exactly, want to see where that path leads.
“And, ah, yeah. Us.” How does he describe ten years of being half of a whole to someone who doesn’t remember that they were the opposite side? “Friends for longer than either of us expected, and, ah, recently, more” He takes his ring back, rubs a thumb over it gently and then slips it back over his neck, tucking it away under his uniform and trying not to let out the soft sigh of relief as it settles back against his skin.
A brief, pale smile flashes across Natasha's features at his comment about her taste, and her fingers play absently over the thin chain where it rests against her collarbone. It's the engagement ring she can't get over. The one with the black diamond. Which she knows is real, because she took the rings to a jeweler to have it valued, to see if maybe she was carrying the rings to sell in case of an emergency, but even though she didn't have a dime to her name at that point, she hadn't sold them. Because the engagement ring is perfect for her. Because they seemed too important to lose.
"It took us that long?" Edging the rooftop is a low sort of barrier to keep people falling off, and she leans against it, not quite outside of his reach, the wind wiping at the few strands that have escaped her French twist. She braces her hands against the cold metal edge of the mostly brick barrier, her back against the party in the building on the other side of the street.
"The last time I remember seeing you," she begins haltingly, "we were in Hong Kong for New Year's and I was really hoping to kiss you on the stroke of midnight." It hadn't quite worked out that way, of course. But, to think that it took them ten years to get from that to married is... Odd. Of course, she probably dug in her heels on the marriage thing. She can't imagine that she didn't.
If she had been there, when Clint was agonizing over which one to pick out, she might have laughed at him. The Nat he gave the ring to definitely would have. That ring, the engagement one, was what took him five hours, because he had been staring down at a sea of gaudy gold and platinum and diamonds and rubies and nothing at all seemed to fit her. And he'd even settled, because he knew he was running late and was going to be killed, on this little white gold number with a ruby in it, until the clerk had looked at him, asked him about Nat and when he'd said, far more honestly than he meant: 'she's as dangerous as she is deadly and gorgeous beyond belief. And the only person you'd trust to have your back in any situation that might come up', the man had smiled, somehow knowingly, and pulled that one from the back.
He hadn't even had to think.
So--he is rather glad she didn't sell it,because he's not entirely sure how he would have dealt with that. He wouldn't have held her responsible, of course, because selling it would probably be the smart thing to do if you were loose in the wind and had nothing to tie you to anyone and no money but a two thousand dollar ring on your finger.
"We--" he shrugs a little, and leans against his bow. He wants to sit next to her, but he's not entirely certain she won't either push him off or start running again, "We had a partnership that was more important than anything else--we weren't sure we could risk it. It took a Norse God getting in my head and fucking me up for me to crack enough to admit how I felt. Hell, might have taken that for me to realize it fully myself."
Hong Kong though--god, he remembers Hong Kong. He would have taken that kiss too, then, and maybe their lives would have gone a completely different direction. "The whole building collapsed out from under us in Hong Kong. A minute before the stroke of midnight. I was lucky enough to have my bow, and a grappling hook arrow. Got us both out of there--but then we were being swarmed by agents from another group--God, I can't even remember which group now, it's been that long. I think it might have been MI6."
Just over ten years. The words hit Natasha like a bucket of ice cold water and she honest to god flinches. The faded remains of her smile are wiped clean off, and her heart drops sharply. Sudden fear --worse than him just knowing her name when she can't remember giving it to him -- clenches at her gut and her fingers curl tightly around the railing of the balcony. She hasn't told a living soul that she can't remember the past ten years. But somehow, he seems to know.
"How do you--" Hearing his call sign on the radio had been like being thrown a lifeline. But now, she realises that it's not a lifeline at all. It's a trap.
"You did this to me," she says, and betrayal shines clear in her eyes. It's not like she trusted him to begin with, but she could've used a steady point in her life right now. "SHIELD fucked me over. I should've known." They did something to her, and somehow she got away, and now they're looking to reel her back in. It's the only thing that makes sense. Well, she's not going to let herself be caught.
So. She does the only thing she can do. She pitches herself off the balcony. It's only a matter of tipping herself backwards, over the railing, and swinging her legs up and over for momentum. She catches the railing of the balcony one floor below with a hand, shoulder wrenching painfully as her body jolts to an abrupt stop. Swinging her body in, she lets go and crashes onto the balcony below that with far less grace than normal. From there, she jumps onto a conveniently placed dumpster, and then down on the asphalt, scraping a knee and her palms in the process. It's quick as hell though, her entire descent. And soon as she hits the ground, she's flat out running, and she's willing to bet that she knows the back alleys of Novgorod far better than he does.
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But he doesn't even have time to finish the thought, because then she's vaulting over the side of the balcony and he's letting out a shout, a desperate "Nat!" that echoes empty in the alley, bouncing back and forth between buildings. He can't lose her. Not like this, not convinced that he's fucked over somehow, or that SHIELD's been playing games with her mind. He doesn't think, just follows, like he's always followed her, like he would follow her, to the ends of the earth and beyond, right into the mouth of hell if he had to. His descent is even less graceful than hers, mostly consisting of him grabbing that same balcony and grunting as he feels something twinge in his shoulders, and then letting himself drop the rest of the way. He should have gone for the dumpster though, because he rolls an ankle as he lands, but ignores the flash of pain and takes off running after her.
It's not smart, chasing her, especially not when she's backed into a corner like this and fleeing. Not when she thinks he's--well, on the opposite side and actually out for her, but he can't think of anything else to do. He's so desperately afraid he's going to lose her into the back alleys of Russia and never see her again until it's when a SHIELD agent finally brought her down and he runs as fast as he can after her---
--but it's her home turf, and she knows the place far better than he does. And he also hadn't been keeping up with his training as much as he should have in Jakarta, without her there to ride his ass about it. He comes to a stop with his hands on his thighs, panting, ankle and shoulder throbbing in time with his heart beat.
She's likely completely out of ear shot, but he has to try (always has to try) and he shouts: "I'm not here to hurt you, Widow! I just want to talk! Never hurt you before, and I think losing four missions in a year to you at least deserves an audience!" There's a lot more that deserves an audience, but--well, it's silent in the street, beyond the sound of a car passing a few blocks away, and a couple dogs barking. In the middle of a city and Clint thinks he's never felt a place be so desolate.
His comm crackles to life in his ear, and if she's still listening, she'll hear it.
"Come on back, Hawkeye. You're not getting anywhere running randomly through out Russia," It's Phil, it's always Phil, and she might recognize that voice if she thinks about it.
"She doesn't remember, Coulson," He admits as he catches his breath and turns away, fingers pressed to the comm. "Not any of it," and he's going to try and keep the hitch out of his voice, but--christ, Nat. He's going to find some way to give it back to you, he promises, because he can't entertain the idea that there might be a world where you've completely forgotten him and everything they worked so hard to have. He can't indulge the idea of a world where he only got to have you for two months before you were taken away.
"Come on home, Clint. We'll figure it out," Comes that soothing voice and he knows he wasn't entirely successful in pretending he's doing alright.
"Roger that. Barton out." He has a name at least, a place to start. He's got to find Durov and stake him out, see if that's actually a target or a decoy. Hell, could be a contact of hers from years ago. He doesn't know. He just---
--he doesn't know.
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In fact, the moment she comes back to what passes for a luxury hotel in Novgorod she's rushing to pack her things up. The rule is, you travel light if you have to. At any given moment, the things she cannot afford to leave behind, must always be light enough to carry. She grabs her backpack from under the bed, It already holds a small collection of passports, rolls of American dollars and Euros, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and a bottle of water. She stuffs her laptop, her smartphone and a collection of weapons on top of it.
Hawkeye is bright and observant and-- damn determined when he puts his mind to it. She mentioned Durov, so that mission is fucked. She'll have to beg out of it, even though it'll hurt her reputation.
She does a last sweep of the room just to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. The clothes in the closet can all be left behind. She'll get new ones when she touches down on-- Wherever she goes. Paris, maybe. Or London. Or, what the hell, why not Reykjavik? It's remote enough. Remote is good.
She checks to make sure that the black key card is still tucked away safely between the pages of her Russian passport in the bag. It's one of the few things she has that connects her to her past, she's not leaving it behind. On instinct she touches her hand over her heart to feel the familiar shapes of the rings resting there, to make sure she hasn't lost them. She was wearing them when she woke up, they must be important to her, for some reason. So she's hanging on tight to them.
Except, they might not even be hers. Someone might've placed them on her. Or they may've been for an assignment. Maybe they're important to her, maybe they're nothing. They're not inscribed, but if she got married, they wouldn't be, would they? She's too paranoid for that. Fuck, is she married? Or did she just walk out on a mission? She just doesn't know, and she's sick with not knowing.
She's out the door before it hits her. She can't leave.
The simple truth of it is that Hawkeye might well be her only link back to her past and the years she's lost. Though she keeps telling herself that it doesn't matter, the fact that she doesn't know anything she's been up to for the past ten years keeps niggling at her. It's like a sore tooth, or a bruise she can't stop poking at. Except worse.
She has nightmares like never before. In one, the sky opens and demons crawl through, descending on the city below. A great pillar of light shoots up in the sky, and she slices through it, throwing the world into darkness.
In another, a hospital crumbles around her, babies crying and sick people coughing as the ceiling catches fire. She can feel the heat of the flames licking at her face, but walking through the hospital corridors, she's untouchable, but for the way little worms of guilt eat away at her insides.
Other nightmares, she just remembers as disjointed little fragments. A strike of lightning; a man in green in a cage of glass; being chased by something unseen, the path behind her crumbling.
But they're not the worst. The worst are the dreams of places that she has never been. A little cottage atop a cliff with the sea raging below. Falling asleep to the cluck of waves in a bed under a mosquito-net, skin slick with sweat in the cloying warmth.
She can't tell what's memory and what's just her fucked up mind messing with her. (Though she assumes the demons at least are made up.)
Slowly, she walks back into the hotel room, lets her backpack drop on the bed, and then she just stares at the hideous painting on the opposite wall.
Hawkeye knows her name. He must know other things about her too.
A sudden wave of nausea hits her, and she's running for the bathroom. She barely makes it in time, the lid clattering harshly against the porcelain cistern, before she's vomiting into the bowl. It's over in seconds, but it feels like it goes on for eternity. Body trembling, she sinks to the floor, touching the back of her wrist over her mouth and swallowing thickly.
She can't trust anyone. She can't even trust herself.
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He knows her name, and that put her on edge from the first moment. But, they've known each other for ten years, and apparently, they've kept in touch. He said he was there to see her. That he wants to talk. Maybe it was just a social call. (God, he knows her name.) But why is his handler with him if he's just here to see her? It makes no sense.
Her instincts are thrumming through her body and yelling at her to run, but her mind overrules them and she stays put. Hawkeye is going to try to find her, she's pretty sure of that, and he'll do it through Durov. Because that's the only lead she's given him.
Nikolai Petrovitch Durov, an oil magnate with ties to the seedy underbelly of Moscow organized crime. His daughter -- heir to his fortune and mother of his grandson -- wants him dead. Natasha doesn't know why, she never asked.
While Hawkeye stalks Durov, Natasha stalks him. It comes as a surprise (and, okay, a bit of a relief) when she finds that he truly doesn't have a team with him. It's just him and his handler, and she's sorta impressed that it's the same guy all these years later.
There's a party at the Polish Embassy that Durov will attend. It's an excellent opportunity to take Durov out. It's in fact when Natasha planned to do it. But regardless, Hawkeye will be there. Expecting her. He'll find somewhere high up and a bit off and do his whole -- insanely hot -- sniper thing. For the best view of the Embassy, there's only one roof-top that qualifies.
"It wasn't four in a year, it was five," Natasha says behind Hawkeye. Yeah, she'd heard him yelling after her, as she climbed up the side of a building, heart pounding in her throat. "And, you shot an arrow through my shoulder. I think that qualifies as hurting. I mean, I still have the scar."
She's wearing a short black cocktail dress decorated with a complicated pattern of beads, and her too short hair is put up in a loose French twist.
"You want to talk? Let's talk." She tosses a small dart to him so that he can catch it. It's not quite as sleek or small as the one he shot out of the air all those years ago, but it's similar enough to drive home the point, and it'll do.
"The tip is infused with a slow-acting poison. It'll take at least a day for it to kill you. A couple of hours before you even feel it. It's a private blend, so I doubt SHIELD has an anti-dote on hand. I do, though. Hidden away safely -- and no, it's not in my cleavage this time, don't get your hopes up -- where only I can get to it."
If he trusts her, then maybe she can trust him. She folds her arms over her chest, and tilts her chin up defiantly in a way she hasn't since she was in her early twenties, though she doesn't know that.
"Prick yourself. Anywhere will do, long as you break the skin. And then we'll talk."
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It worked the other way for a long time too, so not all hope is lost for getting her back. They just have to find a way for her to remember that she trusts this man, and that SHIELD will do nothing to hurt her. Or at least, that Clint won’t, and he can vouch for the rest of them.
It may have been a needless precaution, but Phil is glad he came if simply to keep a leash on his asset. He knows Clint, and knows that something finally happened in Wales after the Manhattan Incident, and he knows something else happened in the Brazil after that, because there had been a steadiness to Clint that hadn’t been present before, like the man had finally found a balance on a particularly tricky perch. So, while he knew Clint came here to bring Tasha back, he also knew that if it didn’t work, and she asked Clint to join her, he likely would.
Neither of them slept well that night.
The next morning had Clint up early and hitting the streets, trying to dig up any information he could on Durov. He slipped through identities like he hadn’t in a decade, used any and all of the old tricks he’d thought he’d retired, to try and keep hidden keep his identity off the radar because the last thing he needs right now are people asking for autographs or for pictures. He knows Natasha doesn’t trust him, and if she’s tailing him-christ, if she’s even still in this town and hasn’t skipped five countries over, but Tony’s report had said she hadn’t shown up on Interpol at all, or anywhere else in the area so he’s going to hope-he knows she’ll trust him even less if she thinks he’s some sort of celebrity.
Eventually the information is gathered and the plan is set, and he’s settled into his perch and watching for her and watching for Durov because, well, the job is still a job, and there was nothing that used to draw her out faster than someone threatening her mark.
So it’s not entirely a surprise when she shows, and he tries not to let it show just how relieved he is to see her when she pulls herself up over the last little bit of the wall, looking as deadly and as beautiful as ever-he can’t help but admire the dress, and the fact she just scaled most of the side of a building in it-and if she wasn’t carrying her in a completely different way than he’s used to, he could almost think nothing was wrong. And he just-he wishes that maybe fixing her will be as easy as it was for her to knock a Norse god out of his head. They could even have matching scars.
“It was totally four,” he retorts, because, well, it was. And this is an old argument, almost familiar in the way it rolls off his tongue, “The one in Rio didn’t count because I told you about it before hand, and you had too much planning time.” He’s holding tight to his bow though, because he’s not entirely sure she doesn’t still consider him a threat and isn’t here to wipe him out. She could do it too, if she wanted, because while he hadn’t killed her before mostly because she was like nothing he’d ever seen before, he’s nearly certain he couldn’t kill her now. Knows he couldn’t. She means too much to him, and he knows he’d shoot wide every time, so, if she’s here to kill him, he’s basically a sitting duck.
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And then she gives him the rules of engagement and he doesn’t hesitate. Maybe it’s a stupid move, and maybe he’ll end up dead because of it, but he doesn’t care. Nat leads, he follows. And he’s going to chase her down this road she’s on until he catches her and brings her back and if it takes trusting her enough not to kill him? Well, he can manage that. He’s trusted her with more.
He turns his hand over so she can see it and drags a line with the dart, digging deep into the skin so that blood wells up over the tip and it’s more than a little obvious he’s as committed to this as he can be.
“Good enough?"
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Though she might look relaxed and completely at ease to someone who doesn't know her, there's a deep tension thrumming through her, tightening every single one of her muscles. Her shoulders are so tense, it feels as if they might snap. Like someone has been winding her up to her breaking point. When he draws a bloody line with the dart across the back of his hand -- going above and beyond what she asked for -- she simply stares at him for a moment. Like maybe he's mad.
The trust he just showed in her, without a moment of hesitation, it's more than she could do for him or anyone. The relief is a physical thing, tension bleeding out of her aching muscles and lump forming in her throat. Her shoulders don't sag, but her whole posture eases. "Y-yeah, that should-- that should do it."
Honestly? She could just hug him right now, a too tight and desperate thing, because she needs someone she knows, who knows her right now. Even though she can't trust anyone, maybe him trusting her this completely is enough. She doesn't hug him, of course, even though the urge is near-overwhelming. She settles for walking up to him and taking his hand to examine the wound. His hand is warm in hers and achingly familiar somehow. The amount of time she's spent idly admiring them doesn't account for it, and she wonders briefly if -- in the past ten years -- their relationship has advanced to the point she always thought it would.
"I'm sorry I bolted," she says with her head ducked, attention glued to his hand. She never apologizes, but she is sorry for running. "I thought--" Well, it doesn't matter what she thought, does it? She lets his hand go abruptly and backs away.
"So, what is it that SHIELD wants with me?" She's figured it out. He's there to talk to her, but it's not a social call. It's work-related. That's why his handler is there. SHIELD sent him because of their connection. They had one ten years ago, and they obviously still have one now, because he's trusting her with his life and that's-- enormous.
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There’s a tension that snaps into his body despite himself when she advances, because he knows her and knows that when she’s calm and collected and in control of a situation she’s at her most deadly, but then she’s just taking his hand and he’s trying not to let his breath hitch in his throat because dammit it’s the first time he’s touched her in months and he just-
He misses her so much in that second he thinks he might choke on it.
But she speaks before Clint can lose himself in the ache of the moment, and he lets out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head.
“Sorry I rushed you,” he corrects, but smiles and keeps his hand as still as he can, though he does give in just a little to his needs and lets his fingers wrap around hers. Because he’s figured out what she thought, and no matter how laughable the idea of him wiping ten years of her memory is, he knows why she could think it was a possibility. He remembers this Tasha, and remembers her trust issues. Remembers what it was like to claw his way through all of them until she was able to offer him the most vulnerable parts of herself in dark rooms in the middle of the night while they both were good enough to pretend like the other one wasn’t shaking.
“I just want to help you remember,” he says, softly, because it’s true, but he doesn’t want to spook her again. And he’s going to keep using I, instead of we, because she might think he’s here completely on behalf of SHIELD, but he’s here as much for himself as he is for the Avengers and SHIELD. “And, if you’ll let me, I’ve got a way that I think will help,” he continues, “but I’ll have to grab my cellphone. That alright?” He talks to her almost like he’s coaxing a skittish horse, how he might have approached the old lion they kept in the circus when he was a kid. He’s not going to chase her off this time and he’s going to do that by letting her know she’s completely in charge of this interaction. He does know how much she loves control.
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For a moment, with Hawkeye's fingers curled around hers, that slight laugh of his still ringing in her ears, and his smile warming her from the inside out, Natasha thinks that everything is going to be alright. But then she pulls away and--
He wants to help her remember. The bottom drops out of Natasha's stomach, and nausea claws at her throat. The time she spent convincing herself that she just heard him wrong, that SHIELD isn't behind her missing ten years, is wiped away in a second when he acknowledges her need to remember. This time, there's no way for her to misinterpret his words. He knows. She hasn't told a living soul, and yet somehow he knows.
Her eyes narrow in suspicion, and her arms fold protectively over her chest. Part of her wants to run again, as every inch of her screams that this is a trap. But it doesn't change anything, she needs to know who she was for the lost ten years, and he wants to tell her. So, she'll listen. Even though she can't trust his motives now. SHIELD's involved with this somehow.
"Out of the goodness of your heart, right?" she comments dryly, an edge of bitterness to her voice. You don't get something for nothing; she'll owe him for this. The world is nothing but debts balanced against each other. She makes a vague gesture towards him, giving him permission to go for his cellphone. He knows that if he kills her, he'll die slowly and painfully from the poison, so she doesn't think that he means her any harm.
Her fingers fly to the thin gold chain around her neck, and she toys with it in a nervous gesture she's picked up during these past few weeks. The motion tugs at the rings, resting safely against her skin and it steadies her. "You know my name," she points out, watching him pull out his cellphone. "But, I don't know yours." It's easier admitting to the lack of knowledge than the lack of memory, somehow.
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So he can tell when she goes tense again that he’s said something wrong, but he can only hope what he has to show her will at least try to put some of it to rights. He moves when she nods, and reaches in the bag he’d left tucked against the wall to fish out his phone. It’s a newer model, the same kind Tony had given all of them when the prototype had been deemed worthwhile, and it should match the one she found in her pocket, if she’s still carrying it around.
“Clint Barton,” he offers absently as he goes through the motions of unlocking the device.
It takes him a moment of tapping through the different screens-christ, couldn’t his phone just, call people and send texts?-before he gets to the internet, and then to youtube, typing in various searches until he finds one of the more popular videos of the Chitauri incident that feature the two of them up close. It’s them, he and Natasha and Cap, shot from someone in the bus while they were pulling survivors out. The footage is choppy, obviously taken on someone’s phone, but it shows him lifting kids out of the window while Nat has his back, firing at incoming aliens, and then, jumpy as the owner of the phone is ushered off the bus, before it focuses on them again, side by side, him firing his arrows as she shoots, both of them in sync with the battle and what’s raging around them before the video goes dead, the person ushered into a building.
He turns to offer it to her and can’t help but notice she’s playing with the necklace that used to contain their rings. He’s-almost positive it still does, but he doesn’t want to assume. It feels like a punch to the gut because of course she was still wearing them even though she doesn’t know half of what they mean. He means to let it go, he really does, to just take that knowledge and let it sink in to the rest of the hurt swirling in his gut, but, he speaks before he can catch himself, even as he extends the phone for her to take.
“I have the one that matches, you know,” he says softly, not meeting her eyes, because he can’t, not really. Can’t say that and see the surprise and live through it. It’ll actually break him. “And, ah, just press play, on the screen.”
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He looks different though. Older, of course, it's been ten years since she saw him last. But more than that. He's somehow less and more than she remembers, and she can't work out quite how that is possible. Then he's handing her the cellphone and she loses her train of thought. It looks just like the one she left behind when she ditched the car, too scared that someone might track her through it when she couldn't even work out how to access the data on it. She hasn't seen another one quite like it since.
All thoughts of them using the same unique tech and what that might mean are blown straight out of her head when he speaks. At first, there's a moment of confusion. Matches what? The cellphone? And then the realisation strikes her like a bolt of lightning followed by heavy rain beating down her, chilling her to the bone. Her fingers are still wound around the chain holding her rings. If he has the ring that matches hers...
Her eyes dart up to his face, but he isn't even looking at her, his expression far more closed off than she remembers ever seeing it before. Including the first time they met, because then at least, she could see the anger seething beneath the surface. Now, there is nothing.
Numbly, she pushes play, solely because he told her to, and she watches the choppy, low quality footage sort of distantly, her mind still reeling from the revelation and all its implications. The video seems to be of her, Clint and some guy dressed up in the American flag (for god knows what reason) fighting together and saving civilians. The slithery shapes buzzing through the air are hauntingly familiar. In the dreams the sky open and they well out, like a plague descending on the city. It was the one dream she thought for certain must be a fiction of her imagination.
"That could be anyone," she says without conviction, handing the phone back once the footage has played out. As revelatory as it is (and she means to scour the Internet once she's alone for more information and to watch them fight side by side like they were built for it again), it's nothing to his soft comment that proceeded it.
"Show me," she demands. "If you have the matching one. Show me."
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“Us and our teammate, Steve. Or, well, Captain America,” She might remember him from when she was a kid, he doesn’t know. They pretty much avoided talking about their childhoods and even when it did come up in the still of their rooms in the dark of the night, their childhood reading habits or movie tastes weren’t the topics of conversation. That would have been too normal. No, for them it was missions she’d taken, times her handler had let her out, people she’d had to seduce or kill and for him it had been stories of a drunken father, an absent staff in an orphanage and learning how to be a sideshow before he was fifteen.
But her attention isn’t on the footage, not really, and he turns his attention to the demand. He almost doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to have to prove himself like this, because, well, the rings mean more to him than they have any right to. He and Tasha aren’t actually married, even though that might be what it looks like with the way they both hang on to these, but what they have means a whole lot more. They’re not just wedding rings, they’re a sign of what they two of them overcame. How they got here. A bit of the history bleeding into where they are today and for two people who try to eliminate all traces of their passing in the world, hanging on to something for this long has meaning. But does he really have a choice?
Like always, Natasha asks and he answers.
His hand slips into the collar of his own shirt and picks up his dog tags, pulling them out from under the black of the SHIELD issue uniform. He wasn’t wearing his avengers gear, mostly because it wasn’t his back when he first met her and he figured she’d recognize this more, and so the chain comes up easy. He thinks for a moment that he might just leave it there, make her come look, but then he remembers this is Tasha and he’s already trusted her with his life tonight, so why not this too? His hands come up and unsnap the chain, offering the bundle to her.
The dogtags confirm his name, if she’s interested in looking, and behind them, so it’s the closest thing to his skin, hands the ring. A little wider than hers, but obviously made by the same hand and the style is a perfect match, right down to the titanium they’re made from, and the wood that lines them both.
“The engagement ring doesn’t match,” He says quietly, watching her look over them, “but that’s my fault. I didn’t realize they were supposed to, and that one looked so much like you-“ he’s going to hope she didn’t catch the way his voice cracked just then, because he doesn’t think he can explain this right now, everything she means to him. “Took five hours to pick them out, and I nearly made us miss our flight. You were pissed.”
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Captain America conjures up images of old propaganda footage, a black and white film flickering on the screen of the training room and her handler's voice droning on about some kind of supersoldiers. But, that doesn't make sense, and then her attention narrows down to the flicker of silver as Hawkeye pulls out his dogtags,
Natasha takes the offered dogtags with ill-concealed eagerness, her fingers brushing his and sending a jolt of something through her. Instead of going straight for the ring, she takes her time to look over the dogtags first, running her thumb across the embossed letters. Barton, Clint. With a slowness that makes every inch of her body scream in impatience, she turns to the ring and runs her thumb along the metal, warmed by his skin. She has spent so many sleepless nights turning the two rings she wears over in her hands and puzzling over their meaning that she knows instantly that this one is the mate to hers. But still, she examines it in minute detail, like she can find a flaw with it to prove that it's all a lie.
His voice makes her heart stutter and ache in her chest -- a solid sort of pain settling around it like a steel band -- and when it breaks on a word, her eyes snap up to him, giving him a long and searching look. This is how he knew that her memory's been lost. Because they are so much more to each other now than they ever were ten years ago. There's something in his eyes that leaves her cold, even as it sends a slow sort of warmth spiralling up along her spine.
"I can imagine," she says softly, ducking her head once more. She tugs the chain and makes the rings spill forth so that she can compare his to hers. They're a perfect match. Her throat goes dry and too tight, making each breath ache in her chest.
The rings are exactly the kind of rings she'd wish for herself if she ever even entertained the thought of getting married.
She's never seen herself as the marrying kind, but a lot can happen in ten years. Maybe the Red Room sent her to seduce Hawkeye to get an inside line on SHIELD, and maybe they got engaged and married, and then the Red Room fell and she... stayed. Or maybe it was never a lie or a mission and just... her. Because if there is one man she can ever picture herself marrying, it's Hawkeye. Somehow.
Everything about the rings make sense. Right down to the materials and color. They're spies; she and Hawkeye. They wouldn't inscribe their rings or wear them on their fingers for fear of surveillance or the risk of a tan-line ruining a mission or a cover. If she got married, this is exactly how she'd wear her rings, in a chain around her throat and closest to her heart.
"They're beautiful," she says without thinking. She swallows tightly, as if she can swallow back the words and she tucks her rings away decisively before handing his back. Meeting his eyes is difficult and it takes real effort to not let her gaze skitter away. "So. You and me, huh?" And there's none of the doubt that should be in her voice. Of all the things that he's told her, this is the first thing she trusts implicitly, even though she really, really shouldn't.
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At the time he couldn’t even justify why he’d spent so long picking them out. Mostly because it was Nat, and he wasn’t going to start their first undercover mission after Loki with something fake wrapped around his finger. Wasn’t going to start repairing their friendship with something cheap and tacky and not at all them, but now? Now he was glad he did, because they’d come to mean a hell of a lot more than just the things worn for a cover-
But watching her watch them, and he can almost imagine that they’re back in the helicarrier, and he’s making her take the time, and she’s looking up at him with that look on her face and he’s having to take a breath because well, he was slipping a fucking wedding band on her finger like it meant something. But, he’s not, and they’re not, and she’s still back where she was ten years ago, and he’s got to bring her back. Somehow. He has to.
“Glad your taste didn’t change that much,” he says in reply to her first comment, the one she looks like she wants to take back, because he can’t help but try and make her smile, try to lighten this situation a little because he feels a little like he’s drowning and can’t quite get a foothold and he doesn’t, exactly, want to see where that path leads.
“And, ah, yeah. Us.” How does he describe ten years of being half of a whole to someone who doesn’t remember that they were the opposite side? “Friends for longer than either of us expected, and, ah, recently, more” He takes his ring back, rubs a thumb over it gently and then slips it back over his neck, tucking it away under his uniform and trying not to let out the soft sigh of relief as it settles back against his skin.
"A few weeks after that video you watched."
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"It took us that long?" Edging the rooftop is a low sort of barrier to keep people falling off, and she leans against it, not quite outside of his reach, the wind wiping at the few strands that have escaped her French twist. She braces her hands against the cold metal edge of the mostly brick barrier, her back against the party in the building on the other side of the street.
"The last time I remember seeing you," she begins haltingly, "we were in Hong Kong for New Year's and I was really hoping to kiss you on the stroke of midnight." It hadn't quite worked out that way, of course. But, to think that it took them ten years to get from that to married is... Odd. Of course, she probably dug in her heels on the marriage thing. She can't imagine that she didn't.
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He hadn't even had to think.
So--he is rather glad she didn't sell it,because he's not entirely sure how he would have dealt with that. He wouldn't have held her responsible, of course, because selling it would probably be the smart thing to do if you were loose in the wind and had nothing to tie you to anyone and no money but a two thousand dollar ring on your finger.
"We--" he shrugs a little, and leans against his bow. He wants to sit next to her, but he's not entirely certain she won't either push him off or start running again, "We had a partnership that was more important than anything else--we weren't sure we could risk it. It took a Norse God getting in my head and fucking me up for me to crack enough to admit how I felt. Hell, might have taken that for me to realize it fully myself."
Hong Kong though--god, he remembers Hong Kong. He would have taken that kiss too, then, and maybe their lives would have gone a completely different direction. "The whole building collapsed out from under us in Hong Kong. A minute before the stroke of midnight. I was lucky enough to have my bow, and a grappling hook arrow. Got us both out of there--but then we were being swarmed by agents from another group--God, I can't even remember which group now, it's been that long. I think it might have been MI6."
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