Avengers (2012): "Heavy in Your Arms (4/15)" (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Heavy in Your Arms (4/15)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Coulson/The Cellist
Rating: Adult 17+
Warnings: language, violence, eventually sexual content, dub-con if you feel that mystical/destiny sorts of compulsions qualify as dubious consent (Natasha might agree with you)
Spoilers: None
Type: WIP
Word Count: 2,947
Summary: "How do you do it?" he asked.
"It?"
"Make someone believe they're bonded with you."
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for more notes.
For anuna_81, because of all the reasons. :)
ALL THE HUGS for everyone who helped with this chapter - including (but possibly not limited to - and I'm REALLY sorry if I forget anyone): anuna_81, sweetwatersong, workerbee73, ashen_key, sugar_fey,lar_laughs, SidheRa, and kadollan. Fandom (and fic) doesn't happen in a void, y'all and I love every single one of you!
Even MORE HUGS to everyone who has responded and left such awesome feedback. This chapter was... difficult. That's a good word for it. Any errors are entirely my own.
Previous Chapter
And is it worth the wait
All this killing time?
The platform was packed with midday commuters, and outside it wasn't much better. With a determined look on her face, Natasha headed up the street without really pausing to check for signs or directions. It was obvious she was familiar with the city and was headed someplace specific. Clint reached out and grabbed her arm.
"Hang on a minute." He was touching the fabric of her sweater rather than her skin but even that contact made the pull stronger. She turned to face him and frowned. "Where are we going? I don't mind you calling the shots but I need to know what's going on so I'm prepared."
Foot traffic flowed around them, but every time he looked at her he kept getting the feeling they were the only two people in the world. She closed her eyes for just a second, breaking the connection. "I have a safe deposit box here. There are funds, cover identities, paperwork. Things we'll need in order to get away from your organization."
"Ok, I can work with that. Thank you," he added, almost as an afterthought, and let her go.
They started walking again, and it was a few minutes before she added, "There's one problem, though."
"What's that?"
"I only have paperwork for me. In order to get you out of the country, we'll have to get new documents."
"Well, hell. I don't suppose you would know where to go for that sort of thing?"
"I know people who can make them, and some of them owe me favors. It's just risky."
"Riskier than running from SHIELD?"
Anyone else would probably have missed the small hitch in her gait that belied her reaction. "Possibly."
"How much riskier?"
"Right now, we're only on the run from one organization. If I tap my contacts to get new documents, my organization might very well hear about it. We'd have to fight on two fronts."
"And if we don't? We just have SHIELD to worry about? You don't think your people are starting to wonder where you are anyway?"
"They might be. I wasn't due to check in for another two days but when I don't, they'll start looking for me. This will just help them find me faster."
Damned if we do, damned if we don't, he thought to himself. "You know your people better than I do. It's up to you."
*****
There hadn't been any sign of them on the beach, and no reports of them in the city until Romanov had shown up on a security camera in a train station. Phil watched the footage three times. They'd been able to trace which tickets she'd bought with ridiculous ease - it had been easy enough that he knew she hadn't used them. He'd sent a team in that direction anyway, to cover his bases, but they wouldn't be headed to France.
Since he was alone in his quarters he allowed himself the luxury of pacing. Romanov would have fairly easy access to resources that would allow her to disappear. If they made it over one border, let alone several, their chances of disappearing for good went up exponentially. He wanted to let them. He'd been secretly thrilled when Clint pulled the stunt he had in the detention area, but Fury knew him too well, and knew what kind of leverage to use.
The path he was wearing in the floor ended with him standing in front of the small safe he kept his paperwork in. There were tickets inside, five of them, for each of her performances over the next month and a half. He'd hoped to be back in the States before her concert in Houston, but that didn't seem possible now. It had been months since he'd seen her.
Fury could do what he'd threatened. Of that, Phil had no doubt. Clint was someone he considered a close friend, but Madeline... how could he risk never seeing her again?
Over the last five years he'd contemplated getting out too many times to count. He'd more than fulfilled his initial contract with SHIELD, now he remained because he loved the work, felt called to the duty of protecting the world. He was good at his job and he saved lives. As long as he held a job this dangerous, he knew he could never approach her and tell her who he really was and what he knew they were to one another. He wasn't sure if she'd have him even if he did considering he'd been lying to her the one time they'd met, but he could chance that. He wouldn't risk her life being tied to his while he deliberately put himself into the line of fire on a daily basis.
So maybe it was time to remove himself from that fire. Maybe, when all this was over, he should hand over his badge and his gun and walk out on Fury and SHIELD and be done with all of it. Then he'd be free to seek her out, and get to know her and let her get to know the real him and find out where they could go from there. He'd never thought about doing anything else with his life, but... for her. Maybe.
But first he had to see this mission through to its end. The only way to keep Madeline would be to bring Barton and Romanov back in and betray a man he'd called friend.
*****
Natasha lied smoothly to the bank clerk who spoke to her like she was a regular customer there every week. Good customer service, to be sure, but it also implied they weren't paying that much attention to who was coming and going. It was probably one of the reasons she'd picked this place. That, and he could tell at a glance the security was shit. That was bad for most customers but excellent for her purposes because she had less chance of getting made. They were in and out in under twenty minutes with full wallet and a slim case he figured held IDs. Then it was a quick walk back to the low rent district by way of unmonitored back streets and alleys.
From the case she produced a key that let them into a small doorway that concealed a narrow staircase. At the top was a two-room apartment.
"It's temporary at best," she said as she led him inside. "I haven't been here in awhile, but there are some clothes in the bedroom and a bathroom attached so we can have hot showers."
"A shower would be good," he began but she was already headed into the bedroom and the door shut behind her. Seconds later he heard the water switch on. "Ladies first," he mumbled. He looked around the room. The kitchen was just a corner of the main room and was spartan. There wasn't a refrigerator that he could see, just a sink, a stove top and some cabinets - not even an oven. A quick glance in the cabinets showed a few dishes, a tea kettle and pot, but not food, not even canned or dry goods. The rest of the room wasn't much better; there was a table with two wooden chairs, a small bookcase with a paltry assortment of books, and a side table holding an ancient telephone. He sat gingerly on one of the chairs and picked up a battered copy of Great Expectations.
Clint was most of the way through the second chapter when she emerged with wet hair and new clothes: jeans again and a green blouse. He tried not to look too long at the way the blouse was clinging to her damp skin.
"I don't know if anything in there will fit you," she said apologetically, "but the men's clothing is in the closet on the right and the bottom drawer of the bureau."
"That's fine. How's the hot water situation?"
"Decent. You should be able to manage ten or fifteen minutes without a problem. Towels are on the middle shelf."
He nodded and stepped into the other room. The place had obviously been meant for one agent at a time, or for a two-man surveillance team at best because the bed was a single. It was tucked off to one side and there was a desk and a computer that looked incongruous with the rest of the furniture. He checked the clothes and found a shirt he could live with. None of the pants were in his size, but his new jeans would be fine for a few more days if need be.
The water was indeed still hot, a welcome relief after almost two days of being cold, and he was able to scrub the salt off his skin and out of his hair.
She was sitting when he came back out, and the contents of the case were spread across the table. She looked up and stared, realized what she was doing and looked back down quickly. He moved to stand behind her so he could see what she was reading.
He didn't realize he'd set his hand on her shoulder or that his thumb was rubbing small circles against her skin until she stiffened.
"Sorry," he said softly and dropped his hand. "I didn't... it wasn't on purpose."
The silence that descended was heavy and awkward.
"So, we're going back out?"
"Yes. I'll need to pick up a phone and make some calls about getting you identification."
"How do you do it?" he asked after another long pause.
"It?"
"Make someone believe they're bonded with you."
"Afraid that I might be playing you? Setting all this up?"
He gave her a level look, thought back to how he'd felt all day. "Whatever this is, it's not fake. I know that."
Natasha's mouth twisted in a wry expression that slid into a frown. "Well then. The first thing is to understand that most people don't know that. They have assumptions about what bonding must be like. Depending on how important the idea is to them, they may have taken available information and ready examples - fictional, real, it doesn't matter - and they've created a sense in their mind of what it would be like.
"There are some aspects that are omnipresent. A reaction to skin-on-skin contact. Discomfort when separated that may or may not include real pain. An intense sexual experience following that initial connection."
Her tone was completely dry and professional, the same one she would probably use to catalog an arms locker, but the thought of that "intense sexual experience" had him hard as a rock in a second. Unaware or uncaring, she continued her answer.
"It's relatively simple to use a lotion laced with a mild skin irritant on your hands so that when you touch your mark they feel something else. Something extra. Rings that hold a very tiny charge add another level of sensation to that initial touch. That's more than enough for someone who's inclined to believe in such things, you just have to make sure you touch them before they touch you.
"After that, it's a matter of carefully administered doses of mild hallucinogens or irritants depending on the circumstances. The mark's own mind does the rest."
"Just like that."
"Just like that," she agreed with a small nod.
"And what happens after?"
She met his eyes with a long stare and her face was expressionless. "There is no after. They die."
*****
Natasha Romanov prided herself on many things.
She took pride in her skill as an operative, first and foremost. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt that she was one of the best in the world. She considered herself and excellent shot, a deft hand with poisons, an expert in hand to hand combat, and a brilliant tactician. She was a master at her craft and the manipulation of other people.
She knew that all those skills came from rigid self-control and discipline. It was a point of pride that she could remain completely calm and unphased no matter what a mission or situation threw at her. She did not allow her own wants or needs to interfere with her job. She ignored pain, could and did work through uncomfortable conditions, and didn't let herself become distracted or confused by outside influences.
Sex had certainly never been an issue. She could count on one hand the number of people she'd had a physical relationship with outside of mission parameters, and in none of those cases had anyone been overwhelmed with emotions or physical attraction.
All he'd done was set his hand on her shoulder. Nothing about that simple touch should have scrambled her nerves and responses so thoroughly but it had. She'd wanted to reach up and hold onto him, to pin his hand in place so he would keep doing exactly what he was doing, just those maddening little circles, light and ghosting along her skin.
She didn't lose control and she didn't get confused and right now she was certainly the later and dangerously close to the former. She was hyper-aware of his presence just behind her as they left the apartment and wound their way through the crowds on the street. Staying in heavily populated areas was smart, it gave them more cover and gave anyone trying to find them that much less maneuverability, but it also meant being pushed and jostled, often right into one another, which wasn't helping.
It was making it difficult to think through her plan. She knew of two forgers in the area that could make convincing documents as quickly as they would need them. Both of them worked for lower level mafiya bratva that had contracted with the Red Room on multiple occasions. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether or not they'd hear about it. She might be able to get Clint over the border without paperwork, but there were no guarantees there either.
"Hey." His hand on her shoulder startled her out of her thoughts and she cursed inwardly for letting herself get so distracted. "You okay?"
Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up. No, she was certainly not "okay", as he put it. Instead of telling him that, she reminded him they ought to find dinner while they were out.
******
They bought bread and cheese from a market and then found an out of the way corner down a side street to stop and eat. He watched with curiosity as she spent more time systematically tearing the bread up into pieces than actually eating it and tried to figure out what was going on in her head.
"Are you one of those people?" she finally asked. She did a good job of keeping her voice neutral but he thought the fact she wouldn't look up at him indicated something more to the question.
"One of which people?"
She did look up then, and he wondered if she was good enough to read him even behind the sunglasses he'd donned.
"The type of person who fantasizes about bonding. One of the ones who wants it. Is that why you didn't shoot me?"
"Which time?"
Natasha looked confused - just for a second - by the question.
"Which time that I didn't shoot you?" he clarified. "I didn't shoot you on the rooftop, and I didn't shoot you again on the Carrier when I broke you out of hack."
"Fine then. The first time."
"Why didn't you shoot me?"
She was getting annoyed, he could tell. He was watching her closely enough to catch the tension around her eyes and mouth.
"I'm not 'one of those people'. I didn't even really believe in it, I guess. I believed that other people believed, but not - I thought it was their imagination or something." The rest of his makeshift sandwich suddenly seemed tasteless and he chucked it into a nearby bin. "Then I saw you, and I had this gut feeling, the kind you don't ignore. I didn't know what was going on, just that I needed to talk to you. Then we touched."
"And the second time? I assume you weren't - aren't ready to die?"
He shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, I wasn't really thinking about that part. There was just no way in hell I was gonna kill you."
"Completely selfless then? No sense of your own preservation?"
"That was probably the dumbest move I've ever made, trying to take people out with tear gas from that close up. That said, it wasn't selfless. Not in the least." The look he gave her was dark and significant.
She let the silence stretched just to the point of being awkward before she abruptly started walking towards the street entrance. He caught up but she didn't turn around, and when she stopped suddenly to keep from being run over by a car zipping by he ran into her and grabbed her arms to steady them both.
They wandered a bit until they found a strip of tiny shops. There was a shady looking electronics store and two doors down someone was selling what he imagined were jackets made of imitation leather, but would be warmer than what he was wearing. She'd given him a stack of money at the bank and he was tired of being cold. Tapping on her shoulder, he indicated the other store and she nodded absently without breaking off her haggling with the salesman.
He'd just finished his purchase and was shrugging his new jacket on when he heard the commotion behind him.
Chapter 5
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Coulson/The Cellist
Rating: Adult 17+
Warnings: language, violence, eventually sexual content, dub-con if you feel that mystical/destiny sorts of compulsions qualify as dubious consent (Natasha might agree with you)
Spoilers: None
Type: WIP
Word Count: 2,947
Summary: "How do you do it?" he asked.
"It?"
"Make someone believe they're bonded with you."
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for more notes.
For anuna_81, because of all the reasons. :)
ALL THE HUGS for everyone who helped with this chapter - including (but possibly not limited to - and I'm REALLY sorry if I forget anyone): anuna_81, sweetwatersong, workerbee73, ashen_key, sugar_fey,lar_laughs, SidheRa, and kadollan. Fandom (and fic) doesn't happen in a void, y'all and I love every single one of you!
Even MORE HUGS to everyone who has responded and left such awesome feedback. This chapter was... difficult. That's a good word for it. Any errors are entirely my own.
Previous Chapter
And is it worth the wait
All this killing time?
The platform was packed with midday commuters, and outside it wasn't much better. With a determined look on her face, Natasha headed up the street without really pausing to check for signs or directions. It was obvious she was familiar with the city and was headed someplace specific. Clint reached out and grabbed her arm.
"Hang on a minute." He was touching the fabric of her sweater rather than her skin but even that contact made the pull stronger. She turned to face him and frowned. "Where are we going? I don't mind you calling the shots but I need to know what's going on so I'm prepared."
Foot traffic flowed around them, but every time he looked at her he kept getting the feeling they were the only two people in the world. She closed her eyes for just a second, breaking the connection. "I have a safe deposit box here. There are funds, cover identities, paperwork. Things we'll need in order to get away from your organization."
"Ok, I can work with that. Thank you," he added, almost as an afterthought, and let her go.
They started walking again, and it was a few minutes before she added, "There's one problem, though."
"What's that?"
"I only have paperwork for me. In order to get you out of the country, we'll have to get new documents."
"Well, hell. I don't suppose you would know where to go for that sort of thing?"
"I know people who can make them, and some of them owe me favors. It's just risky."
"Riskier than running from SHIELD?"
Anyone else would probably have missed the small hitch in her gait that belied her reaction. "Possibly."
"How much riskier?"
"Right now, we're only on the run from one organization. If I tap my contacts to get new documents, my organization might very well hear about it. We'd have to fight on two fronts."
"And if we don't? We just have SHIELD to worry about? You don't think your people are starting to wonder where you are anyway?"
"They might be. I wasn't due to check in for another two days but when I don't, they'll start looking for me. This will just help them find me faster."
Damned if we do, damned if we don't, he thought to himself. "You know your people better than I do. It's up to you."
*****
There hadn't been any sign of them on the beach, and no reports of them in the city until Romanov had shown up on a security camera in a train station. Phil watched the footage three times. They'd been able to trace which tickets she'd bought with ridiculous ease - it had been easy enough that he knew she hadn't used them. He'd sent a team in that direction anyway, to cover his bases, but they wouldn't be headed to France.
Since he was alone in his quarters he allowed himself the luxury of pacing. Romanov would have fairly easy access to resources that would allow her to disappear. If they made it over one border, let alone several, their chances of disappearing for good went up exponentially. He wanted to let them. He'd been secretly thrilled when Clint pulled the stunt he had in the detention area, but Fury knew him too well, and knew what kind of leverage to use.
The path he was wearing in the floor ended with him standing in front of the small safe he kept his paperwork in. There were tickets inside, five of them, for each of her performances over the next month and a half. He'd hoped to be back in the States before her concert in Houston, but that didn't seem possible now. It had been months since he'd seen her.
Fury could do what he'd threatened. Of that, Phil had no doubt. Clint was someone he considered a close friend, but Madeline... how could he risk never seeing her again?
Over the last five years he'd contemplated getting out too many times to count. He'd more than fulfilled his initial contract with SHIELD, now he remained because he loved the work, felt called to the duty of protecting the world. He was good at his job and he saved lives. As long as he held a job this dangerous, he knew he could never approach her and tell her who he really was and what he knew they were to one another. He wasn't sure if she'd have him even if he did considering he'd been lying to her the one time they'd met, but he could chance that. He wouldn't risk her life being tied to his while he deliberately put himself into the line of fire on a daily basis.
So maybe it was time to remove himself from that fire. Maybe, when all this was over, he should hand over his badge and his gun and walk out on Fury and SHIELD and be done with all of it. Then he'd be free to seek her out, and get to know her and let her get to know the real him and find out where they could go from there. He'd never thought about doing anything else with his life, but... for her. Maybe.
But first he had to see this mission through to its end. The only way to keep Madeline would be to bring Barton and Romanov back in and betray a man he'd called friend.
*****
Natasha lied smoothly to the bank clerk who spoke to her like she was a regular customer there every week. Good customer service, to be sure, but it also implied they weren't paying that much attention to who was coming and going. It was probably one of the reasons she'd picked this place. That, and he could tell at a glance the security was shit. That was bad for most customers but excellent for her purposes because she had less chance of getting made. They were in and out in under twenty minutes with full wallet and a slim case he figured held IDs. Then it was a quick walk back to the low rent district by way of unmonitored back streets and alleys.
From the case she produced a key that let them into a small doorway that concealed a narrow staircase. At the top was a two-room apartment.
"It's temporary at best," she said as she led him inside. "I haven't been here in awhile, but there are some clothes in the bedroom and a bathroom attached so we can have hot showers."
"A shower would be good," he began but she was already headed into the bedroom and the door shut behind her. Seconds later he heard the water switch on. "Ladies first," he mumbled. He looked around the room. The kitchen was just a corner of the main room and was spartan. There wasn't a refrigerator that he could see, just a sink, a stove top and some cabinets - not even an oven. A quick glance in the cabinets showed a few dishes, a tea kettle and pot, but not food, not even canned or dry goods. The rest of the room wasn't much better; there was a table with two wooden chairs, a small bookcase with a paltry assortment of books, and a side table holding an ancient telephone. He sat gingerly on one of the chairs and picked up a battered copy of Great Expectations.
Clint was most of the way through the second chapter when she emerged with wet hair and new clothes: jeans again and a green blouse. He tried not to look too long at the way the blouse was clinging to her damp skin.
"I don't know if anything in there will fit you," she said apologetically, "but the men's clothing is in the closet on the right and the bottom drawer of the bureau."
"That's fine. How's the hot water situation?"
"Decent. You should be able to manage ten or fifteen minutes without a problem. Towels are on the middle shelf."
He nodded and stepped into the other room. The place had obviously been meant for one agent at a time, or for a two-man surveillance team at best because the bed was a single. It was tucked off to one side and there was a desk and a computer that looked incongruous with the rest of the furniture. He checked the clothes and found a shirt he could live with. None of the pants were in his size, but his new jeans would be fine for a few more days if need be.
The water was indeed still hot, a welcome relief after almost two days of being cold, and he was able to scrub the salt off his skin and out of his hair.
She was sitting when he came back out, and the contents of the case were spread across the table. She looked up and stared, realized what she was doing and looked back down quickly. He moved to stand behind her so he could see what she was reading.
He didn't realize he'd set his hand on her shoulder or that his thumb was rubbing small circles against her skin until she stiffened.
"Sorry," he said softly and dropped his hand. "I didn't... it wasn't on purpose."
The silence that descended was heavy and awkward.
"So, we're going back out?"
"Yes. I'll need to pick up a phone and make some calls about getting you identification."
"How do you do it?" he asked after another long pause.
"It?"
"Make someone believe they're bonded with you."
"Afraid that I might be playing you? Setting all this up?"
He gave her a level look, thought back to how he'd felt all day. "Whatever this is, it's not fake. I know that."
Natasha's mouth twisted in a wry expression that slid into a frown. "Well then. The first thing is to understand that most people don't know that. They have assumptions about what bonding must be like. Depending on how important the idea is to them, they may have taken available information and ready examples - fictional, real, it doesn't matter - and they've created a sense in their mind of what it would be like.
"There are some aspects that are omnipresent. A reaction to skin-on-skin contact. Discomfort when separated that may or may not include real pain. An intense sexual experience following that initial connection."
Her tone was completely dry and professional, the same one she would probably use to catalog an arms locker, but the thought of that "intense sexual experience" had him hard as a rock in a second. Unaware or uncaring, she continued her answer.
"It's relatively simple to use a lotion laced with a mild skin irritant on your hands so that when you touch your mark they feel something else. Something extra. Rings that hold a very tiny charge add another level of sensation to that initial touch. That's more than enough for someone who's inclined to believe in such things, you just have to make sure you touch them before they touch you.
"After that, it's a matter of carefully administered doses of mild hallucinogens or irritants depending on the circumstances. The mark's own mind does the rest."
"Just like that."
"Just like that," she agreed with a small nod.
"And what happens after?"
She met his eyes with a long stare and her face was expressionless. "There is no after. They die."
*****
Natasha Romanov prided herself on many things.
She took pride in her skill as an operative, first and foremost. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt that she was one of the best in the world. She considered herself and excellent shot, a deft hand with poisons, an expert in hand to hand combat, and a brilliant tactician. She was a master at her craft and the manipulation of other people.
She knew that all those skills came from rigid self-control and discipline. It was a point of pride that she could remain completely calm and unphased no matter what a mission or situation threw at her. She did not allow her own wants or needs to interfere with her job. She ignored pain, could and did work through uncomfortable conditions, and didn't let herself become distracted or confused by outside influences.
Sex had certainly never been an issue. She could count on one hand the number of people she'd had a physical relationship with outside of mission parameters, and in none of those cases had anyone been overwhelmed with emotions or physical attraction.
All he'd done was set his hand on her shoulder. Nothing about that simple touch should have scrambled her nerves and responses so thoroughly but it had. She'd wanted to reach up and hold onto him, to pin his hand in place so he would keep doing exactly what he was doing, just those maddening little circles, light and ghosting along her skin.
She didn't lose control and she didn't get confused and right now she was certainly the later and dangerously close to the former. She was hyper-aware of his presence just behind her as they left the apartment and wound their way through the crowds on the street. Staying in heavily populated areas was smart, it gave them more cover and gave anyone trying to find them that much less maneuverability, but it also meant being pushed and jostled, often right into one another, which wasn't helping.
It was making it difficult to think through her plan. She knew of two forgers in the area that could make convincing documents as quickly as they would need them. Both of them worked for lower level mafiya bratva that had contracted with the Red Room on multiple occasions. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether or not they'd hear about it. She might be able to get Clint over the border without paperwork, but there were no guarantees there either.
"Hey." His hand on her shoulder startled her out of her thoughts and she cursed inwardly for letting herself get so distracted. "You okay?"
Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up. No, she was certainly not "okay", as he put it. Instead of telling him that, she reminded him they ought to find dinner while they were out.
******
They bought bread and cheese from a market and then found an out of the way corner down a side street to stop and eat. He watched with curiosity as she spent more time systematically tearing the bread up into pieces than actually eating it and tried to figure out what was going on in her head.
"Are you one of those people?" she finally asked. She did a good job of keeping her voice neutral but he thought the fact she wouldn't look up at him indicated something more to the question.
"One of which people?"
She did look up then, and he wondered if she was good enough to read him even behind the sunglasses he'd donned.
"The type of person who fantasizes about bonding. One of the ones who wants it. Is that why you didn't shoot me?"
"Which time?"
Natasha looked confused - just for a second - by the question.
"Which time that I didn't shoot you?" he clarified. "I didn't shoot you on the rooftop, and I didn't shoot you again on the Carrier when I broke you out of hack."
"Fine then. The first time."
"Why didn't you shoot me?"
She was getting annoyed, he could tell. He was watching her closely enough to catch the tension around her eyes and mouth.
"I'm not 'one of those people'. I didn't even really believe in it, I guess. I believed that other people believed, but not - I thought it was their imagination or something." The rest of his makeshift sandwich suddenly seemed tasteless and he chucked it into a nearby bin. "Then I saw you, and I had this gut feeling, the kind you don't ignore. I didn't know what was going on, just that I needed to talk to you. Then we touched."
"And the second time? I assume you weren't - aren't ready to die?"
He shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, I wasn't really thinking about that part. There was just no way in hell I was gonna kill you."
"Completely selfless then? No sense of your own preservation?"
"That was probably the dumbest move I've ever made, trying to take people out with tear gas from that close up. That said, it wasn't selfless. Not in the least." The look he gave her was dark and significant.
She let the silence stretched just to the point of being awkward before she abruptly started walking towards the street entrance. He caught up but she didn't turn around, and when she stopped suddenly to keep from being run over by a car zipping by he ran into her and grabbed her arms to steady them both.
They wandered a bit until they found a strip of tiny shops. There was a shady looking electronics store and two doors down someone was selling what he imagined were jackets made of imitation leather, but would be warmer than what he was wearing. She'd given him a stack of money at the bank and he was tired of being cold. Tapping on her shoulder, he indicated the other store and she nodded absently without breaking off her haggling with the salesman.
He'd just finished his purchase and was shrugging his new jacket on when he heard the commotion behind him.
Chapter 5