Avengers: Movement and Distance
Title: Movement and Distance
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Het
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~8,900 words
Spoilers: Slight for the movie.
Warnings: Passing mention of canon character death.
Synopsis: Sometimes separating yourself from a situation isn't enough. Sometimes you need to move to see where you've been.
Author's Notes: Written for the "mutation" square for hc_bingo. Also, HUGE thanks go out to threnodyjones for the beta. She is awesome, hear her roar.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Now also posted to Archive of Our Own.
His back was a mass of pain. It wasn't like the rest of him was exactly in pleasant ecstasy, really, but it was his back that bothered him the most. Bothered because he couldn't see it. Bothered because he couldn't reach it. Bothered because he knew they did something to it but fuck if he knew what.
He tried to stretch again, knowing before he even did so that the attempt would be futile. The leather and metal cuffs held him soundly to the table with his arms spread outward, his feet nearly chained together, and his neck pinned down in a way that allowed him only the barest minimal movement. He couldn't even turn to rest his other cheek against the smooth metal surface, save for the time one idiot left the collar and other bindings too loose and he nearly escaped.
That was three days ago by his count, and they had not made the same mistake twice. Roughly sixteen hours a day, every day, tied in place while they poked and prodded at him, tested what they had done and repeated and refined their work. Quite frankly, he wanted to escape as much to be free as to take a piss in peace again.
By his admittedly faulty calculations, he had about another four hours to go. Four hours of needles and knives and the occasional poke and prod of other devices before he could return to his tiny little cell of a room and either pass out or try to see what they did to him this time. Lately it had been to pass out, too tired and too drugged to mess with what he could not control, flipping onto his back, pressing fresh wounds against clean linen just for the change of pace. Plus, some schmuck had to clean those things, and he rather liked making his captors lives difficult at this point.
Something was off though.
The morning started just like any other, but the scientists assigned to him were a bit shiftier this afternoon. That, and they had not come back after their latest break, which should have ended roughly a half hour ago if they were to keep with the established pattern. His muscles were locking up, arms throbbing and legs stiffening even more than usual, without the repeated tense and release from the sharp objects that were shoved at him with little to no regard, and there was a dull ache in his ribs from his own weight pressing down on him with nothing save for a hard metal table to absorb it for so long. It was annoying, and different than what he had far too quickly become accustomed to.
He hated when the bad guys changed their patterns, it made it that much more difficult to plan an escape.
It turned out that he didn't need to plan anything at all. He felt the explosions before he heard them, and lay there pityingly until Natasha burst through the door. Her hair was a mess and her lip split and freely dripping blood onto both her uniform and the neat white floor of the lab. He would have smiled had he not been worried she'd kick his ass for it. It was nice to know the people who held him were good enough to ruffle even her a little bit; it made him feel better about being dumb enough to be caught in the first place.
"What did they do to you?" she demanded before she even reached for the cuffs.
"I really don't know," he answered honestly.
She must have seen the truth to his words as, after only a slight hesitation, she flipped open the series of buckles. "Don't make me regret this, Barton," she warned, even as she helped him sit up.
He stretched, truly stretched, for the first time in what felt like ages, and then immediately wished he hadn't. Pain raced up and down his spine, across his shoulders, and yet somehow deeper. He knew he didn't hide his wince quickly enough when Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, but also knew his own innate stupidity had probably helped convince her that he was really him, that, despite whatever else they had done to him, he was still Clint Barton on the inside.
She pushed at his shoulder and he refrained from yelping like a little girl or possibly a kicked puppy as he knew better than to judge a female of any age with a certain someone around. His back was bare and on full display to her, and he fought for every once of control as she regarded it, regarded him, and announced, "You're a giant bruise, all black and blue. There's needle marks and shallow slices everywhere - what did they do to you?"
He silently thanked her for her report and for telling him what he'd been dying to know for days. Aloud, he said, "They pumped me full of something and have been running tests ever since; I don't think they liked what they found."
She nodded and keyed her earpiece, meeting his gaze evenly as she reported, "Found him. Possible medical containment will be needed for transport."
"Damn it, Nat," he groaned, knowing it was coming but still hurt that it came from her.
She simply shrugged like his bitching was further proof of who he truly was and asked, "Can you stand, or do you need a stretcher?"
He sighed. "Standing is fine, walking is doable, a shirt would be great though," he replied. He'd also like something a bit more than the flimsy pajama bottoms he was wearing, but would take what he could get for now.
She helped him to his feet and steadied him as he shuffled towards the door, not once making a comment about his lack of balance along the way. Just outside the lab was a decontamination area, and she grabbed a lab coat and tossed it over his shoulders, the soft cloth like barbed wire against his sensitive skin. Shoes were too much to hope for, and so he picked his way through the debris and fallen bodies, earning a vanguard of Steve, Thor, and a handful of heavily armed SHIELD agents along the way.
Tony met them at the entrance, his first breath of fresh air singed with the smell of ozone from the suit's repulsors. The ever-imposing Iron Man flipped up the mask and gave Clint the once over before announcing, "You look like shit."
"Love you too, Tony," he said as he flipped him off. Tony just laughed and led the way to the transport that wasn't going to bring him home, but was going to bring him to the closest thing to it.
He spent two days in medical before he was able to give them the slip. Someone from his team was with him the entire time, either happy to have him back or playing guard dog in case he flipped out. It was Bruce who was with him when he finally left. The fact Natasha had taken a break told him that his test results proved who he was enough to give him the out. Only two people had ever been able to keep him in the infirmary, and she was one of them. He hoped Bruce wouldn't take it personally, and had even left a note of apology on the sleeping scientist's laptop before he snuck out.
He had needed to get out. He had needed to escape. He had needed to be somewhere that was not all stark and white and sterile and full of drugs and machines and monitors watching his every move. He had needed a chance to deal with everything that had happened to him on his own terms before he had to deal with it publicly, before he had to deal with it in the presence of his teammates and friends. He needed a chance to be himself again, to see if that was even possible, and he sure as hell couldn't do that with someone or something watching his every move, waiting for him to slip, waiting for something to give so that they could sweep in and knock him out or put him down before he even had a chance to discover just what the hell had happened during his little sojourn as a guinea pig.
He hacked his file before he left, needing to know what they knew, needing to convince himself that they thought that he was still him, at least at some level. The USB was a comfort in his pocket as he traveled, even though he had only been able to give its contents a cursory glance before his escape.
Two days had him at a safe house just outside Tomah. An hour more had him suitably drunk enough to finally have a freakout. Forty minutes more had him contemplating his supplies and just how long he planned to stay in one place, as well as the fact that it was damn hard to concentrate enough to inventory with that much whisky in him and maybe he should have thought of that before opening the bottle.
He persevered, and slept off the worst of it, only to wake to a pounding headache and even more evidence that he truly was not alright. It was him that was the lucky schmuck that got to wash the blood out of his own sheets in the morning, bumping off of walls and doorways and he attempted to regain some semblance of balance. He waited until the load was drying to dig out the USB and examine everything SHIELD had found.
He settled down with something decidedly non-alcoholic and the heated contents of a can of soup chosen at random from the shelves. The laptop he had was not up to the usual Stark Industries standard, but was good enough for his needs and had the added benefit of being less likely to be traced. He did not bother looking up his previous injuries and findings, not needing to see the name of who signed off on them and allowed him back into the field against better judgement. He had most of them memorized anyway, and did not need to focus on the past when there was so much more that was worrisome in the present.
The findings were, all in all, pretty damn bland. A listing of each injection site, whether a slice should or should not be sutured, and a note about mild anemia - these were all listed, but the true damage, the damage he knew to be there, was nowhere to be found.
He leaned back against the futon and pondered that for a bit. Either his captors had given him some seriously powerful hallucinogens - which was entirely possible - or SHIELD medical had not managed to find what he had tried so hard to hide. He thought back to the tests they had run though, and how they did the quick and dirty physical assessment based upon years of past experience with him and his prowess for ditching out sooner rather than later and Natasha's silent warning for them to hurry the fuck up because he had been a lab rat quite enough recently. No x-rays save for his left wrist, which had borne the brunt of the bruising from his bonds. Nothing of his back or his ribs or even his neck. He had given them no reason to think he was injured beyond the obvious there, and they had felt no need to delve deeper with an over-protective team hovering near by.
Which meant SHIELD had missed something. SHIELD had missed something major.
Either that or he was back to the delusions again.
Figuring there was one way to check, he set his now empty bowl and cup aside and stood. He rotated left, and then he rotated right, and then he stretched as far as he could, farther than he had dared since his rescue and release. To say the pain was intense would be an understatement, but he managed to prove his suspicions correct as he eyed the blurry reflection in his television screen: SHIELD was wrong, and he was oh so very screwed.
He spent the next week figuring out just what to make of what was likely to be his new life. He worked out and ran and sweat and tried desperately not to scratch at wounds that itched far too much for his liking. The burn phone he kept at the safe house rung once, but he was smart enough not to answer when he saw Natasha's familiar number pop up on the screen. He was not ready to deal with her yet. To be fair, there were a lot of things he was not ready to deal with and she was just one of them, but she was pretty damn high on the list.
He practiced with a spare bow in the basement until he felt he was being ridiculous and more than a little cooped up. Besides, it was easy to sight a wall only a few yards away, the difficulty came with both movement and distance.
He was far enough away from civilization to feel comfortable traveling just a bit further to try with some real targets. He shot a quiverful into innocent trees and the random log, but stopped when he winged a red tail, the damage to his namesake a bit too close for comfort.
Three days into his new routine, he returned to his newfound home to find something amiss. Everything was exactly where he left it, door locked and shades drawn, but it was the faint scent of garlic and marinara that told him he had a visitor.
"Hello, Nat," he said as he closed the door, knowing her well enough to bet she would at least be close enough to hear him.
She dropped down near silently behind him, and he was not surprised to turn to find her with a gun in her hand, the barrel lazily aimed in his direction. "I figured you'd appreciate something more than MREs and canned food for a change," she told him, acknowledging what had given her away.
"I'd appreciate it more if I could be left alone," he grumbled. He stored his obvious weapon and watched as she did the same.
"Not going to happen," she shrugged.
He sighed, expecting as much. They had spent too many years as partners, too many years of pushing and shoving their way into each other's lives when they both needed it most for him to truly think she would just let him run away from this of all things, that she would let him get lost in himself without her being there to offer a beacon and a way back out. She had given him a chance to deal with it on his own, and had given him a chance to ask for assistance. He hadn't done either and so now she was here to force the issue just like he had done for her so many times before.
He knew she was watching him, waiting for his reaction and waiting for a tell that he had gone too far. He also knew better than to give her one, at least not yet. "Smells great though," he told her and wandered further into his former safe-haven.
"Better than you," she said with a wrinkle of her nose. "Seriously Barton, when's the last time you bathed?"
He'd claim that smelling like his prey aided in the hunt, but the truth was that he was still not comfortable enough with the pound of water against sensitive flesh. He moved towards the styrofoam containers of food, but found his hand slapped away.
"Bathe first, eat second," Natasha ordered. She raised her eyebrows in challenge and he had a feeling it would be easier to give in than fight her on this. Plus, he really did smell. His skin itched with dirt and tiny scratches and dried sweat and possibly other unmentionable things. He doubted that a bit of soap and water would make things miraculously better, but it would at least be a start.
He nodded and trudged to the bathroom, leaving muddy footprints on smudged linoleum that he may or may not mop up later. He closed the door behind him and leaned up against the fake veneer with a sigh. He banged his head once, then twice, then figured she would make comments about brain damage and the need to save the little he had left if he hit it a third time. He had hoped to put everything off until later. Well, later was now here and he still wasn't ready.
His shirt and jeans were dropped atop his boots and socks, a cloud dust and debris puffing up before adhering to the drying mud. His boxers joined the pile and he cranked the water to its hottest setting. He glanced in the mirror while he waited for the water to heat and almost did not recognize himself: the dark shadows under his eyes blended in with the streaks of gunk and the start of a full beard that was well underway. He looked away before he could contemplate just how much not himself he currently was, and stepped under the scalding water instead.
He winced at the sting, but knew it was for the best. The heat would relax tired muscles, and the pain would serve as a physical reminder to not let his mind wander too far and to hurry the fuck up before Natasha got curious and broke in to try to glimpse at everything she knew he was hiding from her. So he soaped and he shampooed and he watched the porcelain white of the bottom of the tub turn a brownish red, only to be washed away by the cascade of bubbles that followed.
He kind of wished all his messes were as easy to clean up after.
He turned off the water and stepped out, grabbed a towel and ran it through his rat's nest of hair, patted the worst of himself dry and wrapped the damp bit of terry cloth around his waist before he streaked a hand across the fog of the mirror to see if somehow, miraculously, everything had returned to the way it should be, the way he wanted it to be.
He didn't jump to see Nat's reflection behind his own, but it was a near thing. Her eyes traced the lines of his back before they rose to meet his own in the glass. "They haven't healed yet," she commented blandly, but he knew her well enough to hear the taint of concern to her words. He knew why the wounds had not healed, why the thin lines were still there, but that was his story to tell and he was not ready to tell it yet. Instead, he nodded when, after a pause, she said, "Let me shave you."
She had not commented on his shaking hands, but he figured she did not need to. She also did not comment on the sign of trust he had just given her. He trusted a master assassin with a blade ever so close to his carotid; it was himself that he did not trust to tell her why.
He sat patiently on the closed lid of the toilet while she carefully and methodically scraped away his latest costume, his latest disguise from even himself. There were no nicks, just the gentle pull of steel against short little bristles, and he was almost disappointed when she tossed him the hand towel and announced that she was finished. He made a show of swiping it across his face and examining himself in the mirror again, but all he found was smooth skin and shadows.
"You still look like shit," she told him blithely, and opened the door to the rest of the small house, letting the cooler air chill his drying skin. She returned with a bundle of cloth and he dutifully pulled on the clean boxers, t-shirt, and sweatpants before he padded barefoot behind her towards the kitchen.
The food was no longer steaming, but was warm enough when she dished it out onto plates, making certain that he saw she was eating from the same source as if to prove her offering was not contaminated. She then pried open a bottle of wine and poured equal measures into glasses that she took from his own cupboard. She offered him a choice of which one he wanted, another sign that she was not pulling one over on him, but he could not help the little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him of all the poisons they had both ingested over the years and how he could no longer remember who had the greatest tolerance to what. It was a game of trust though, and he trusted her with his life, trusted her not to dope him and hand him back over to SHIELD without at least telling him what was on her mind first. Besides, there were so many other ways she could take him down that didn't involve a good meal and a decent merlot first.
He took a bite of his pasta and was pleasantly surprised by the flavors. He was also pleasantly surprised he wasn't so far gone as to not appreciate a decent homemade sauce when given one. "Where did you find an Italian place out in this neck of the woods?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"It's a secret - I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you," Natasha replied without missing a beat.
"So you aren't here to take me in or take me out?" he asked. He took a deep drought of wine to fortify himself against he reply.
She shook her head, red curls coming dangerously close to the forkful of marinara she held to her lips. She took her bite and dabbed at her lips with a little paper napkin before she continued. "Strictly a SHIELD-free op," she promised. "Fury thinks you're off sulking about getting caught, and no one else has the balls to try to go after you when you get like this." There was a pause and then an almost inaudible, "Not anymore."
"So you're here..." he prompted.
"You could say its out of the goodness of my heart but, basically, I want to check up on you, to know that you're alright," she shrugged.
"You could have called for that," he pointed out.
"You didn't answer," she reminded him. She stretched out her feet to rest atop the empty chair at his side, and it was the first time her really took in her appearance as something other than an intruder. She was wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, her favorite jacket draped over the back of her chair and her non-standard issue hiking boots left by the door. She had made a point of showing him that she was not SHIELD right now, but that did not mean she did not come under the guise of the Avengers.
"And the others?" he asked, torn between food growing cold and his own innate curiosity.
She lifted her tumbler of wine and let her thumbs trace the designs etched into the side of the glass. "Steve is concerned, but Tony is keeping him in check. Seems Stark understands the need to sort out your thoughts after captivity, though he prefers his lab and not the woods in the middle of nowhere. We could probably shout and have Thor here in under a minute, possibly two if he is distracted by Janesville along the way."
"And Bruce?" He felt bad about leaving him in the lurch like that, but hoped the note was at least a step towards possible forgiveness.
Natasha set down her tumbler and looked him in the eye, which in itself was worrisome, but not so much as the words that she next spoke: "Banner stole a sample of your blood and has been analyzing it pretty much since you bolted."
Clint swallowed hard and tried desperately not to hurl the meal she had so thoughtfully provided. "And?" he managed to choke out. He knew he had given too much away with his reaction, even as he knew she has suspected as much all along.
"And he is more concerned about you leaving for Xavier's team than causing us any harm," she replied. Her voice was calm, but cautious, as if preparing herself for his response.
Clint leaned back in his chair and did not bother to suppress his wince. "So it's real then?" he asked.
She nodded. "Barely detectable and not a SHIELD standard test," she confirmed. "Let me add that Banner did the full analysis on his own, outside of the official labs, and fully shutting JARVIS out of his findings. The only people who know for certain are him, me, and the two scientists that mysteriously did not survive their interrogation."
He knew what she was giving him and yet he tried not to panic, tried not to hyperventilate at the knowledge that, not only were his nightmares real, two of his best friends now knew about them.
"You ready to show me what you've got?" she asked. She folded her hands before her, waiting patiently for an answer. She was the essence of calm, irrationally the polar opposite of everything that he was feeling inside.
He scrubbed a hand across his face and muttered, "You mean other than the Professor mentally pinging me damn near daily to check if I'm certain?" Louder now, he replied, "I can't, not yet, not... just not yet." If he couldn't accept this, he sure as hell could not expect her to.
But she did, once again managing to surprise him. "Let me know when you're ready, if you ever are."
And that was apparently as simple as that. They cleaned their dishes and split the remainder of the wine while watching some random outdated DVD that neither paid full attention to. When it came time to sleep, she ignored the obvious futon and followed him into the tiny bedroom. He shucked his sweats and she shucked her jeans and bra and crawled in next to him in just her tee and underwear. He lay on his back despite the discomfort, and she curled up next to him, hand resting gently on his chest beneath the blankets. It was warm, it was familiar, and it was the best sleep he had managed since the whole debacle had began.
He drove her into Tomah the next morning to pick up her rental and belongings from some hole in the wall motel that asked no questions if you paid cash up front. They ate breakfast at a nearby diner, and she didn't even comment on his food choices as she matched him cup for cup of coffee. She picked up groceries of the non-canned variety, and didn't stop him from buying a new bottle of whisky so long as he got her a bottle of vodka to match.
They headed back to his current home away from home and, after both did a bit of recon to make certain the place had not been compromised in their absence, she insisted he do something more than mope and they had a pretty decent spar.
"Either you're getting sloppy, or you're not giving it your all," she commented as swiped at a bead of sweat on her lip.
"Can't give it my all, not yet," he panted in reply, and it was the truth. He was afraid of what would happen if he let it out, let it all out, in front if her. He did not have enough practice, and he sure as hell did not have enough control. If he hurt her, really hurt her, because things got beyond what he could handle, he would never forgive himself.
It turned out, as always, not to matter. Two days later saw Natasha bounding ahead of him on terrain that was not much more than loose clumps of mud, rock, and shale. He dutifully followed behind her, but slid forward when she cut a hard right and he lost his footing on what he would later recall as a really fucking shear drop on the other side. He knew it eventually evened out, just as he knew there was a much greater drop beyond the mini plateau. If he missed the branch that was too rapidly approaching, he was screwed.
Of course he missed it.
He heard Natasha shout his name with more than a hint of panic to her tone and he acted purely on instinct. He stretched outward, reaching with everything he had. He heard the thin fabric of his shirt tearing and the whoosh of wind across his face, the sting of all the tiny little branches against his skin lost in the roar and the faintest memory of Natasha commenting, "Well, fuck."
He landed less than gracefully, catching himself as he lunged forward, shards of bark tearing against his hands. He brushed off the worst of it and turned to find his once and apparently still current partner carefully picking her way down the slope. He was shaking by the time she reached him, bracing bloodied hands on filthy jeans as he tried to draw in deep breaths. She eyed the undeniable and gently tugged at the near flesh colored wings, a feather coming loose in her hand. She twirled the object not in wonder, but in contemplation, before she met his terrified gaze and said, "You really need to work on your landings."
He laughed, high and hysterical, because he didn't know what else to do. He slowly straightened and nervously swiped a hand across his face, smearing blood and muck in its wake. The crest of his right wing brushed against a branch and he flinched at the contact, the appendage still too new and too raw for his liking. With a concentrated effort, he shrunk his mutations back in on themselves, folding them close and letting them merge back near seamlessly against his back, knowing the thin lines that Natasha would now recognize at the edge of his feathers would remain, appearing as nothing more than a series of long scratches across too pale skin.
She stepped behind him and he let her look at the spectacle he had become. He felt more than saw her reach out and he winced in anticipation of the contact. She barely touched the skin though, instead she grabbed at the shreds of fabric that was once his t-shirt and yanked, exposing his back but coming forward with what he now recognized as makeshift bandages for his wounds. "I've got a full kit back at the house," she explained. "We should clean these sooner rather than later."
She wrapped the soft fabric around his hands and he could not help but comment, "Too bad I didn't get some awesome healing ability, huh?"
"You would definitely make more use of it than most," she agreed with raised eyebrows. "You get anything else of use? Retractable claws? Extra teeth?"
He shook his head and tried not to think of the way his fingers had wrapped around the tree, sinking deep and spraying more shards to cut into his tender flesh.
She left him alone after that, silent as she helped him back up the rise and walked beside him all the way to the safe house. Only once did he catch her eying his back, no doubt analyzing the benefits and detriments and just how she was going to report his current predicament and whether or not there were other changes he was still trying to hide from her that she had yet to see.
At the house, she sent him to shower and then it was just like when she shaved him as he sat on the toilet wrapped in a towel, only now she wielded a pair of tweezers and a bottle of betadine instead of a razor. He waited patiently while she tsked over tiny slivers, and wished for more cover than his simple bit of white provided.
She bathed after him, and he took the opportunity to get dressed and tried to figure out how far he could run before she'd catch him or call Thor or one of the others to help. She appeared in the doorway, hair still dripping, and told him, "You'd make it about a mile, maybe two, and it doesn't matter anyway because I'm not going to turn you in, you idiot." She offered out a hand and asked, "Want to get drunk?"
He could not help the smile that formed across his face. She knew him well, perhaps too well, after all the missions and all the years. He answered with an enthusiastic, "Hell yes!"
She grabbed two tumblers and both bottles and he turned on some really bad animated thing that was probably intended for children but seemed appropriate for two deadly assassins about to get shitfaced. Mind numbing and simple and precisely what they needed.
The cartoons had turned into news and the glasses were left by the wayside when she nudged him with her toe and asked, "You really thought you could hide this from us?"
He took a pull from his bottle and shook his head. "No, I really thought I could hide me from you, at least until I either got this under control or found a way to change back."
She pushed him with her foot again and muttered an affectionate, "Dumbass." She gestured towards the television where yet another world disaster was playing out. "Like we wouldn't hunt you down to help with this? Like we'd let you have some delusional vacation while we dealt with all the world's problems? If I've got to be shot at, blown up, or challenged by inter-dimensional beings, I'd rather do it with you at my side."
He snorted. "Great sales pitch, Nat," he commented. He set down the bottle and turned to look at her, to really look at her, knowing she would understand the importance of what he was about to ask. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," she answered without pause.
"Even now?" he pressed.
"Yes," she answered.
"Why?" he asked, needing to know that more than anything else.
"Because you are Clint Barton, the same Clint Barton that chose to save me all those years ago, and the same Clint Barton that has saved me far too often since," she replied. Her own bottle was cast aside now as she leaned in close, tips of her fingers against the curve of his jaw. "You might not be sure of who you are right now, but I am. Trust me enough to know who you are for the both of us."
And the it was so easy, so familiar, to lean in and kiss her. It felt like it had been ages even as it felt like it had been yesterday. Her lips were soft and pliant and her hands warm and sure against his skin. She was certain, she was real, and he could trust in that, even when he wasn't sure if he could trust in anything else in this world.
He pulled away reluctantly, and she let him, no doubt knowing there was far more still on his mind. He wanted to lean in, to maintain the closeness, maintain the knowledge she was there for him, even as he knew he needed separation, both physically and mentally, to be able to ask his next question. "And the others? You can't speak for them, Nat. They each have their own allegiances, their own thoughts on me to start with. Every one of them was given my file; they know my past and know what I am capable of. For them to trust I won't go back, that I won't change when I've so obviously have..."
She leaned back against the futon for a moment, and he could see her formulate her thoughts, put into words what she wanted him to hear. He also knew she wouldn't sugar coat it for him, not now and not ever. She would phrase it in the way she thought he would take it best, but would offer him no more allowances than that. "Steve is a company man, but he's also a friend. He will want you to fess up to SHIELD, but will defend you and protect you to the end if need be. Stark -"
He cut her off. "Stark will probably want to run every test possible just so he can personally see the results," he told her. He'd also probably vote for the pending Mutant Registration Act just to piss him off, especially since the rest of the team already had waivers signed by Fury himself.
"Maybe," she agreed easily enough. "But he will also personally design armor for your wings, and a new quiver so it won't get in the way should you need to take flight during a mission."
He wasn't sure if he wanted to concede those points, though they did ping as likely in his mind. Tony had strong thoughts about mutants and Xavier's team, but most were centered around the Professor's love of secrecy and denial of full disclosure. The fact that Tony had accepted Bruce so readily was a good sign but, then again, Bruce fully admitted to turning into a gigantic rage monster - not that he could exactly hide it - so maybe that played a role as well.
As if following his thoughts, she continued, "Banner has already taken a side. Say the word and he'll destroy his findings; he's more worried about your safety and well being than anything else and you know he'll understand your battle to stay you."
"And Thor?" he prompted, assuming she had an opinion on the final member of their group since she had been so beautifully blunt about the others.
She quirked a smile at that. "Thor will think it's awesome to have another person to fly with other than Stark. He probably wouldn't care if you became a unicorn, so long as you were a well-armored and loyal unicorn."
He huffed a laugh, but knew they were both avoiding the largest of obstacles that stood in the way of him rejoining the team. "What about Fury and Hill? How will they take having another mutant under their command?"
"Fury will want complete psych testing but, after an hour of you driving the therapist insane, he'll realize that you are still you. Hill will fall in line with Fury," she shrugged. "As for the mutation thing, they will just have to get over the fact that they now have one completely augmented team."
Clint knew he was drunk, but he didn't think he would have followed that even if he were sober. He said as much and she looked at him like he was stupid, and he kind of appreciated the familiarity of that as well.
She began slowly, counting off on her fingers as if explaining to a small child. "Stark has his arc reactor. Bruce has The Other Guy. Thor is an alien god or something damn close to it. Rogers is only the way he is because of the serum. And me?"
"You'll be the only normal one of us," he ventured, surprised when she shook her head.
"How long have you known me, Barton?" she asked, suddenly far more serious than he thought capable given the amount of vodka she had put away.
"Too long," he hedged with a grin.
"In all the years that you've known me, how much have I aged? Hair has grown and been cut, new styles have come along, but think beneath that, down to just me. Why do I heal so quickly? Why can I do half the things I can that others cannot?" She paused to give him a chance to answer but, seeing none forthcoming, put the pieces together for him. "I am the result of the Red Room, you know this. You know they trained me and, at some level you know that they made me who I am today. That person, those reflexes and that healing factor and everything else, is not chance. It is science, based off a stolen sample of incomplete serum far too many years ago to count. So you see, you are not the only special little snowflake in our little troupe, but simply the last one to join the cause." She stared at him now, steady and sure, and waited for him to put it together enough to believe her.
He blinked rapidly, mind filled with memory. Memories of her being shot, memories of her carrying a man twice her size and still winning the firefight, memories of her quick reflexes saving the day, and memories of her being there for him every damn time he needed her to be. There was training, there was luck, and there was always something more. Now it looked like he had a glimpse of just what that more could be. "Fury knows?" he guessed.
"Pretty sure he's known since he had you bring me in, but I don't think anyone beneath him does," she shrugged. A smirk slid across her face, eyes shining a bit too bright with pure and utter glee as she added, "And if Tony tries to make you, Steve, or I sign some little form stating we're abnormal, I will personally make certain he knows the full extent of each of our abilities."
"Aw, I knew there was a reason why I loved you," he cooed in the most over the top manner her could manage. He could feel the smile split across his face, real and true and so foreign and new after so many long weeks of faking it.
She threw herself forward so that his lap was full of deadly augmented assassin. "Really?" she purred, continuing the game.
"Really," he confirmed. He tugged at her gently and she closed the distance and, this time when their lips met, he did not pull away.
He could taste the vodka on her lips, smell the soap she had borrowed on her skin, things both familiar and different and yet so very much the Natasha he knew so well.
She shifted, fingers that cradled his head now sliding down slowly, ghosting across his neck, his shoulders, down the front of his t-shirt, the rough edges of her nails catching on the fabric. Her weight settled on him just so and he groaned into her mouth as her body pressed against his erection through far too many layers of fabric.
They continued to kiss - lips, jaws, the little crook at the juncture where neck became shoulder - and he decided he needed to play a much more active role, to give as much as he got. He let his hands drift down the strong curve of her back and circle around to her front, cupping and squeezing her breasts ever so slightly, thumbs tracing her nipples through the soft cotton and gauze that served as a barrier to their touch. She bucked into him and he bit his lower lip against the sensation.
More. He wanted more. He tugged at the bottom of her shirt and she readily removed it, pulling his own up and off and tossing both to the side and then it was only the ticklish lace of her bra and the heat of her skin pressed tightly against his, fingers still trailing, lips still tracing, and hips still moving of their own accord.
He found the clasp of her bra with practiced ease and soon the lace and satin slid down her skin to join the growing pile of fabric on the floor. She was still straddling him and so it was easy enough to lean just right and to take a nipple into his mouth the lavish it with attention. Her fingers scraped against his too-sensitive back to card upwards through the hair at the nape of his neck and then to hold him in place while he treated her second breast to the same detailed attention he had given the first.
She panted in his ear and it sounded like his name and a plea rolled together into a single breath. It was the only warning he received before she used her not so slight strength to push him to the side so he was now laying all askew across the cushion of the couch. She lifted up just enough to shimmy out of her jeans and either she wore no underwear or had removed those too because when he reached for her again all he felt was warm skin and the curve of her ass beneath the bandages of his hands.
Her hands were still moving though, still busy as they made short work of his fly and he kissed and bit her shoulder while her hand ghosted over his boxers and then just as quickly yanked downwards and he was free, erection straining between them as he tried to kick the last of the tangled and restraining fabric off and then finally, finally, there was nothing between them save for heat and sweat and the delicious feel of skin on skin from head to toe.
He flipped them over and she let him, and he slid down her curves, pausing to mouth at her breasts, lick at her belly button, and kiss each inner thigh before he settled between her outstretched legs and set to work to bring her to completion. He licked at her folds, tasting and smelling her musk, dipping down deep into her center and tracing upwards lightly to the little bundle of nerves. He licked and he sucked and she bucked and she moaned and he cupped his hands beneath her and she wrapped her legs over his shoulders and shivered and shook as she came apart for him.
He kept at it, pressing himself against the rough fabric of the futon to ground himself, to keep himself from flying apart while she came again and again, her juices flowing from her, streaming across his tongue and dripping down his chin. He knew exactly when she had enough, when she wanted something different, something more. She pushed against him with feet and fists and knocked him backwards and away. He barely had enough time to wipe the back of his hand across his lips before she was on him again, tasting him, tasting herself in his kisses.
She reached between them and wrapped a hand around his cock, thumb smearing the precome across the head. She let go of him and raised her hand to her lips, sucking the liquid off her digit while calmly meeting his gaze, one perfect eyebrow raised, and he fought for a control that he feared was beyond him. He was still watching her, still silently cursing, when her other hand stroked him, wet with what could only be her own release. He swore and arched into her and it was apparently the sign she had been waiting for as she shifted forward, raised herself up ever so slightly, and sank down onto him.
He was wrapped in heat, slick and warm and soft and moving as she rose up only to sink down again, riding him, controlling him, setting a pace far too slow and far too steady for his liking. He surged up, hips canted, and thrust just so, just enough to throw off her rhythm, to set one of his own. She laughed, outright and open, and he thrust again because he could, and her hands gripped his shoulders and her forehead sank to rest beside one, chanting encouragement and profanity in turns.
The angle wasn't quite right though, not for what he wanted, not for what he needed, and so he pressed forward, pushing her back against the futon and finally feeling not fabric but air against his skin. He continued to thrust and he continued to get lost in the movement, in the rhythm, in the way Natasha rose to meet him and clutched tightly around him. There was a scrape of pain and then a rush of air and he realized what he thought were her nails were actually his wings breaking free and he could see them reflected in the green of her eyes, the quirk of her grin, as she surged upward one last time and sighed, "There you are..."
And then he was gone, well and truly gone, lost in his release, lost in sensation, lost in the feeling of being complete and whole like never before. When he came to again, they were wrapped in a cocoon of feathers, the flickering light of the television filtering in through the shafts. Natasha carded steady fingers though the damp strands of his hair and held him close as though afraid he would run away. "Stay," she said, and it was not a question any more than it was an order. He curled up around her in response, knowing she would understand his answer.
He woke up the next morning with a horrible crick in his neck and to the scent and sound of sausages sizzling in a pan. He blinked to sort himself out and found that he was still on the futon from the night before, a blanket tucked around him, and horrifically hung over. He stood to stretch and decided he might as well go all the way since the only person he could see or sense in the immediate vicinity was Nat, and she could now truly say she had seen it all before.
He was thankful his shirt was already off as he did not believe he was with it enough to remove it and it'd be nice to have at least one still in one piece, and reached upwards and outwards as far as he could, feeling his wings separate and unfurl, the faint breeze of the action sending a chill down his sleep-warmed spine. He turned left, and then right, and then cursed when it was Natasha's reflexes that caught the nearly toppled bottle of vodka and not his own.
She took a swig, patted it almost protectively, and then set it safely off to the side before she sauntered back towards the small kitchenette wearing his supposedly saved shirt and apparently nothing else. "Eggs are burnt, sausage is almost ready, and if you tell anyone that I cooked for you, those wings of yours will be the least of your worries," she announced over her shoulder.
He stifled a snort knowing she may well kick his ass for just that, and busied himself tugging on his boxers for some semblance of cover, and then gathering plates, utensils, and painkillers for his headache instead. "Dare I ask what the special occasion is?" he said as he finally sat down again.
She handed him a plate with scrambled eggs that were more black than yellow and the promised sausages, and then handed him the bottle of hot sauce to cover up the worst of the damage. "Figured you should have something more than cereal to start out with," she shrugged, just a little too casual for his liking.
"And why is that?" he asked with a wince. He popped a piece of egg-textured hot sauce into his mouth and waited for her response.
She was, of course, deliberately vague. "Busy day and all that," she blinked with the same false innocence.
He sighed and shook his head. "I am totally not going to like this, am I?" Her answering smile should have warned him for what was to come.
"If you are coming back to the tower, which you are, you're going to have to work on those landings of yours," she told him, fork pointed in his general direction. "Cap and the others will want to see what you're made of and, really, how can you show them if you don't know for yourself?"
"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" he asked with a wince.
"Probably," she nodded readily enough. "But you need it."
She was right and they both knew it. He wasn't in top form sans wings and, quite frankly, he had avoided doing much with them at all. If he was going to rejoin the team, if he was going to prove to everyone he was capable of doing so, he needed to show them what he had, no holds barred, no coddling and no hiding.
Which is how he found himself an hour later in a slightly altered version of his usual gear, protective gloves atop his bandages, next to a fully armed Natasha, eying a rather steep drop above a ravine with trepidation. She pushed his bow into his hands and grinned, "Come on, Barton, let's see if a spider can teach a hawk how to fly."
It was a long way down, but at least he was going to have one hell of a view along the way.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/405609.html. Current comments
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Het
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~8,900 words
Spoilers: Slight for the movie.
Warnings: Passing mention of canon character death.
Synopsis: Sometimes separating yourself from a situation isn't enough. Sometimes you need to move to see where you've been.
Author's Notes: Written for the "mutation" square for hc_bingo. Also, HUGE thanks go out to threnodyjones for the beta. She is awesome, hear her roar.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Now also posted to Archive of Our Own.
His back was a mass of pain. It wasn't like the rest of him was exactly in pleasant ecstasy, really, but it was his back that bothered him the most. Bothered because he couldn't see it. Bothered because he couldn't reach it. Bothered because he knew they did something to it but fuck if he knew what.
He tried to stretch again, knowing before he even did so that the attempt would be futile. The leather and metal cuffs held him soundly to the table with his arms spread outward, his feet nearly chained together, and his neck pinned down in a way that allowed him only the barest minimal movement. He couldn't even turn to rest his other cheek against the smooth metal surface, save for the time one idiot left the collar and other bindings too loose and he nearly escaped.
That was three days ago by his count, and they had not made the same mistake twice. Roughly sixteen hours a day, every day, tied in place while they poked and prodded at him, tested what they had done and repeated and refined their work. Quite frankly, he wanted to escape as much to be free as to take a piss in peace again.
By his admittedly faulty calculations, he had about another four hours to go. Four hours of needles and knives and the occasional poke and prod of other devices before he could return to his tiny little cell of a room and either pass out or try to see what they did to him this time. Lately it had been to pass out, too tired and too drugged to mess with what he could not control, flipping onto his back, pressing fresh wounds against clean linen just for the change of pace. Plus, some schmuck had to clean those things, and he rather liked making his captors lives difficult at this point.
Something was off though.
The morning started just like any other, but the scientists assigned to him were a bit shiftier this afternoon. That, and they had not come back after their latest break, which should have ended roughly a half hour ago if they were to keep with the established pattern. His muscles were locking up, arms throbbing and legs stiffening even more than usual, without the repeated tense and release from the sharp objects that were shoved at him with little to no regard, and there was a dull ache in his ribs from his own weight pressing down on him with nothing save for a hard metal table to absorb it for so long. It was annoying, and different than what he had far too quickly become accustomed to.
He hated when the bad guys changed their patterns, it made it that much more difficult to plan an escape.
It turned out that he didn't need to plan anything at all. He felt the explosions before he heard them, and lay there pityingly until Natasha burst through the door. Her hair was a mess and her lip split and freely dripping blood onto both her uniform and the neat white floor of the lab. He would have smiled had he not been worried she'd kick his ass for it. It was nice to know the people who held him were good enough to ruffle even her a little bit; it made him feel better about being dumb enough to be caught in the first place.
"What did they do to you?" she demanded before she even reached for the cuffs.
"I really don't know," he answered honestly.
She must have seen the truth to his words as, after only a slight hesitation, she flipped open the series of buckles. "Don't make me regret this, Barton," she warned, even as she helped him sit up.
He stretched, truly stretched, for the first time in what felt like ages, and then immediately wished he hadn't. Pain raced up and down his spine, across his shoulders, and yet somehow deeper. He knew he didn't hide his wince quickly enough when Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, but also knew his own innate stupidity had probably helped convince her that he was really him, that, despite whatever else they had done to him, he was still Clint Barton on the inside.
She pushed at his shoulder and he refrained from yelping like a little girl or possibly a kicked puppy as he knew better than to judge a female of any age with a certain someone around. His back was bare and on full display to her, and he fought for every once of control as she regarded it, regarded him, and announced, "You're a giant bruise, all black and blue. There's needle marks and shallow slices everywhere - what did they do to you?"
He silently thanked her for her report and for telling him what he'd been dying to know for days. Aloud, he said, "They pumped me full of something and have been running tests ever since; I don't think they liked what they found."
She nodded and keyed her earpiece, meeting his gaze evenly as she reported, "Found him. Possible medical containment will be needed for transport."
"Damn it, Nat," he groaned, knowing it was coming but still hurt that it came from her.
She simply shrugged like his bitching was further proof of who he truly was and asked, "Can you stand, or do you need a stretcher?"
He sighed. "Standing is fine, walking is doable, a shirt would be great though," he replied. He'd also like something a bit more than the flimsy pajama bottoms he was wearing, but would take what he could get for now.
She helped him to his feet and steadied him as he shuffled towards the door, not once making a comment about his lack of balance along the way. Just outside the lab was a decontamination area, and she grabbed a lab coat and tossed it over his shoulders, the soft cloth like barbed wire against his sensitive skin. Shoes were too much to hope for, and so he picked his way through the debris and fallen bodies, earning a vanguard of Steve, Thor, and a handful of heavily armed SHIELD agents along the way.
Tony met them at the entrance, his first breath of fresh air singed with the smell of ozone from the suit's repulsors. The ever-imposing Iron Man flipped up the mask and gave Clint the once over before announcing, "You look like shit."
"Love you too, Tony," he said as he flipped him off. Tony just laughed and led the way to the transport that wasn't going to bring him home, but was going to bring him to the closest thing to it.
He spent two days in medical before he was able to give them the slip. Someone from his team was with him the entire time, either happy to have him back or playing guard dog in case he flipped out. It was Bruce who was with him when he finally left. The fact Natasha had taken a break told him that his test results proved who he was enough to give him the out. Only two people had ever been able to keep him in the infirmary, and she was one of them. He hoped Bruce wouldn't take it personally, and had even left a note of apology on the sleeping scientist's laptop before he snuck out.
He had needed to get out. He had needed to escape. He had needed to be somewhere that was not all stark and white and sterile and full of drugs and machines and monitors watching his every move. He had needed a chance to deal with everything that had happened to him on his own terms before he had to deal with it publicly, before he had to deal with it in the presence of his teammates and friends. He needed a chance to be himself again, to see if that was even possible, and he sure as hell couldn't do that with someone or something watching his every move, waiting for him to slip, waiting for something to give so that they could sweep in and knock him out or put him down before he even had a chance to discover just what the hell had happened during his little sojourn as a guinea pig.
He hacked his file before he left, needing to know what they knew, needing to convince himself that they thought that he was still him, at least at some level. The USB was a comfort in his pocket as he traveled, even though he had only been able to give its contents a cursory glance before his escape.
Two days had him at a safe house just outside Tomah. An hour more had him suitably drunk enough to finally have a freakout. Forty minutes more had him contemplating his supplies and just how long he planned to stay in one place, as well as the fact that it was damn hard to concentrate enough to inventory with that much whisky in him and maybe he should have thought of that before opening the bottle.
He persevered, and slept off the worst of it, only to wake to a pounding headache and even more evidence that he truly was not alright. It was him that was the lucky schmuck that got to wash the blood out of his own sheets in the morning, bumping off of walls and doorways and he attempted to regain some semblance of balance. He waited until the load was drying to dig out the USB and examine everything SHIELD had found.
He settled down with something decidedly non-alcoholic and the heated contents of a can of soup chosen at random from the shelves. The laptop he had was not up to the usual Stark Industries standard, but was good enough for his needs and had the added benefit of being less likely to be traced. He did not bother looking up his previous injuries and findings, not needing to see the name of who signed off on them and allowed him back into the field against better judgement. He had most of them memorized anyway, and did not need to focus on the past when there was so much more that was worrisome in the present.
The findings were, all in all, pretty damn bland. A listing of each injection site, whether a slice should or should not be sutured, and a note about mild anemia - these were all listed, but the true damage, the damage he knew to be there, was nowhere to be found.
He leaned back against the futon and pondered that for a bit. Either his captors had given him some seriously powerful hallucinogens - which was entirely possible - or SHIELD medical had not managed to find what he had tried so hard to hide. He thought back to the tests they had run though, and how they did the quick and dirty physical assessment based upon years of past experience with him and his prowess for ditching out sooner rather than later and Natasha's silent warning for them to hurry the fuck up because he had been a lab rat quite enough recently. No x-rays save for his left wrist, which had borne the brunt of the bruising from his bonds. Nothing of his back or his ribs or even his neck. He had given them no reason to think he was injured beyond the obvious there, and they had felt no need to delve deeper with an over-protective team hovering near by.
Which meant SHIELD had missed something. SHIELD had missed something major.
Either that or he was back to the delusions again.
Figuring there was one way to check, he set his now empty bowl and cup aside and stood. He rotated left, and then he rotated right, and then he stretched as far as he could, farther than he had dared since his rescue and release. To say the pain was intense would be an understatement, but he managed to prove his suspicions correct as he eyed the blurry reflection in his television screen: SHIELD was wrong, and he was oh so very screwed.
He spent the next week figuring out just what to make of what was likely to be his new life. He worked out and ran and sweat and tried desperately not to scratch at wounds that itched far too much for his liking. The burn phone he kept at the safe house rung once, but he was smart enough not to answer when he saw Natasha's familiar number pop up on the screen. He was not ready to deal with her yet. To be fair, there were a lot of things he was not ready to deal with and she was just one of them, but she was pretty damn high on the list.
He practiced with a spare bow in the basement until he felt he was being ridiculous and more than a little cooped up. Besides, it was easy to sight a wall only a few yards away, the difficulty came with both movement and distance.
He was far enough away from civilization to feel comfortable traveling just a bit further to try with some real targets. He shot a quiverful into innocent trees and the random log, but stopped when he winged a red tail, the damage to his namesake a bit too close for comfort.
Three days into his new routine, he returned to his newfound home to find something amiss. Everything was exactly where he left it, door locked and shades drawn, but it was the faint scent of garlic and marinara that told him he had a visitor.
"Hello, Nat," he said as he closed the door, knowing her well enough to bet she would at least be close enough to hear him.
She dropped down near silently behind him, and he was not surprised to turn to find her with a gun in her hand, the barrel lazily aimed in his direction. "I figured you'd appreciate something more than MREs and canned food for a change," she told him, acknowledging what had given her away.
"I'd appreciate it more if I could be left alone," he grumbled. He stored his obvious weapon and watched as she did the same.
"Not going to happen," she shrugged.
He sighed, expecting as much. They had spent too many years as partners, too many years of pushing and shoving their way into each other's lives when they both needed it most for him to truly think she would just let him run away from this of all things, that she would let him get lost in himself without her being there to offer a beacon and a way back out. She had given him a chance to deal with it on his own, and had given him a chance to ask for assistance. He hadn't done either and so now she was here to force the issue just like he had done for her so many times before.
He knew she was watching him, waiting for his reaction and waiting for a tell that he had gone too far. He also knew better than to give her one, at least not yet. "Smells great though," he told her and wandered further into his former safe-haven.
"Better than you," she said with a wrinkle of her nose. "Seriously Barton, when's the last time you bathed?"
He'd claim that smelling like his prey aided in the hunt, but the truth was that he was still not comfortable enough with the pound of water against sensitive flesh. He moved towards the styrofoam containers of food, but found his hand slapped away.
"Bathe first, eat second," Natasha ordered. She raised her eyebrows in challenge and he had a feeling it would be easier to give in than fight her on this. Plus, he really did smell. His skin itched with dirt and tiny scratches and dried sweat and possibly other unmentionable things. He doubted that a bit of soap and water would make things miraculously better, but it would at least be a start.
He nodded and trudged to the bathroom, leaving muddy footprints on smudged linoleum that he may or may not mop up later. He closed the door behind him and leaned up against the fake veneer with a sigh. He banged his head once, then twice, then figured she would make comments about brain damage and the need to save the little he had left if he hit it a third time. He had hoped to put everything off until later. Well, later was now here and he still wasn't ready.
His shirt and jeans were dropped atop his boots and socks, a cloud dust and debris puffing up before adhering to the drying mud. His boxers joined the pile and he cranked the water to its hottest setting. He glanced in the mirror while he waited for the water to heat and almost did not recognize himself: the dark shadows under his eyes blended in with the streaks of gunk and the start of a full beard that was well underway. He looked away before he could contemplate just how much not himself he currently was, and stepped under the scalding water instead.
He winced at the sting, but knew it was for the best. The heat would relax tired muscles, and the pain would serve as a physical reminder to not let his mind wander too far and to hurry the fuck up before Natasha got curious and broke in to try to glimpse at everything she knew he was hiding from her. So he soaped and he shampooed and he watched the porcelain white of the bottom of the tub turn a brownish red, only to be washed away by the cascade of bubbles that followed.
He kind of wished all his messes were as easy to clean up after.
He turned off the water and stepped out, grabbed a towel and ran it through his rat's nest of hair, patted the worst of himself dry and wrapped the damp bit of terry cloth around his waist before he streaked a hand across the fog of the mirror to see if somehow, miraculously, everything had returned to the way it should be, the way he wanted it to be.
He didn't jump to see Nat's reflection behind his own, but it was a near thing. Her eyes traced the lines of his back before they rose to meet his own in the glass. "They haven't healed yet," she commented blandly, but he knew her well enough to hear the taint of concern to her words. He knew why the wounds had not healed, why the thin lines were still there, but that was his story to tell and he was not ready to tell it yet. Instead, he nodded when, after a pause, she said, "Let me shave you."
She had not commented on his shaking hands, but he figured she did not need to. She also did not comment on the sign of trust he had just given her. He trusted a master assassin with a blade ever so close to his carotid; it was himself that he did not trust to tell her why.
He sat patiently on the closed lid of the toilet while she carefully and methodically scraped away his latest costume, his latest disguise from even himself. There were no nicks, just the gentle pull of steel against short little bristles, and he was almost disappointed when she tossed him the hand towel and announced that she was finished. He made a show of swiping it across his face and examining himself in the mirror again, but all he found was smooth skin and shadows.
"You still look like shit," she told him blithely, and opened the door to the rest of the small house, letting the cooler air chill his drying skin. She returned with a bundle of cloth and he dutifully pulled on the clean boxers, t-shirt, and sweatpants before he padded barefoot behind her towards the kitchen.
The food was no longer steaming, but was warm enough when she dished it out onto plates, making certain that he saw she was eating from the same source as if to prove her offering was not contaminated. She then pried open a bottle of wine and poured equal measures into glasses that she took from his own cupboard. She offered him a choice of which one he wanted, another sign that she was not pulling one over on him, but he could not help the little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him of all the poisons they had both ingested over the years and how he could no longer remember who had the greatest tolerance to what. It was a game of trust though, and he trusted her with his life, trusted her not to dope him and hand him back over to SHIELD without at least telling him what was on her mind first. Besides, there were so many other ways she could take him down that didn't involve a good meal and a decent merlot first.
He took a bite of his pasta and was pleasantly surprised by the flavors. He was also pleasantly surprised he wasn't so far gone as to not appreciate a decent homemade sauce when given one. "Where did you find an Italian place out in this neck of the woods?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"It's a secret - I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you," Natasha replied without missing a beat.
"So you aren't here to take me in or take me out?" he asked. He took a deep drought of wine to fortify himself against he reply.
She shook her head, red curls coming dangerously close to the forkful of marinara she held to her lips. She took her bite and dabbed at her lips with a little paper napkin before she continued. "Strictly a SHIELD-free op," she promised. "Fury thinks you're off sulking about getting caught, and no one else has the balls to try to go after you when you get like this." There was a pause and then an almost inaudible, "Not anymore."
"So you're here..." he prompted.
"You could say its out of the goodness of my heart but, basically, I want to check up on you, to know that you're alright," she shrugged.
"You could have called for that," he pointed out.
"You didn't answer," she reminded him. She stretched out her feet to rest atop the empty chair at his side, and it was the first time her really took in her appearance as something other than an intruder. She was wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, her favorite jacket draped over the back of her chair and her non-standard issue hiking boots left by the door. She had made a point of showing him that she was not SHIELD right now, but that did not mean she did not come under the guise of the Avengers.
"And the others?" he asked, torn between food growing cold and his own innate curiosity.
She lifted her tumbler of wine and let her thumbs trace the designs etched into the side of the glass. "Steve is concerned, but Tony is keeping him in check. Seems Stark understands the need to sort out your thoughts after captivity, though he prefers his lab and not the woods in the middle of nowhere. We could probably shout and have Thor here in under a minute, possibly two if he is distracted by Janesville along the way."
"And Bruce?" He felt bad about leaving him in the lurch like that, but hoped the note was at least a step towards possible forgiveness.
Natasha set down her tumbler and looked him in the eye, which in itself was worrisome, but not so much as the words that she next spoke: "Banner stole a sample of your blood and has been analyzing it pretty much since you bolted."
Clint swallowed hard and tried desperately not to hurl the meal she had so thoughtfully provided. "And?" he managed to choke out. He knew he had given too much away with his reaction, even as he knew she has suspected as much all along.
"And he is more concerned about you leaving for Xavier's team than causing us any harm," she replied. Her voice was calm, but cautious, as if preparing herself for his response.
Clint leaned back in his chair and did not bother to suppress his wince. "So it's real then?" he asked.
She nodded. "Barely detectable and not a SHIELD standard test," she confirmed. "Let me add that Banner did the full analysis on his own, outside of the official labs, and fully shutting JARVIS out of his findings. The only people who know for certain are him, me, and the two scientists that mysteriously did not survive their interrogation."
He knew what she was giving him and yet he tried not to panic, tried not to hyperventilate at the knowledge that, not only were his nightmares real, two of his best friends now knew about them.
"You ready to show me what you've got?" she asked. She folded her hands before her, waiting patiently for an answer. She was the essence of calm, irrationally the polar opposite of everything that he was feeling inside.
He scrubbed a hand across his face and muttered, "You mean other than the Professor mentally pinging me damn near daily to check if I'm certain?" Louder now, he replied, "I can't, not yet, not... just not yet." If he couldn't accept this, he sure as hell could not expect her to.
But she did, once again managing to surprise him. "Let me know when you're ready, if you ever are."
And that was apparently as simple as that. They cleaned their dishes and split the remainder of the wine while watching some random outdated DVD that neither paid full attention to. When it came time to sleep, she ignored the obvious futon and followed him into the tiny bedroom. He shucked his sweats and she shucked her jeans and bra and crawled in next to him in just her tee and underwear. He lay on his back despite the discomfort, and she curled up next to him, hand resting gently on his chest beneath the blankets. It was warm, it was familiar, and it was the best sleep he had managed since the whole debacle had began.
He drove her into Tomah the next morning to pick up her rental and belongings from some hole in the wall motel that asked no questions if you paid cash up front. They ate breakfast at a nearby diner, and she didn't even comment on his food choices as she matched him cup for cup of coffee. She picked up groceries of the non-canned variety, and didn't stop him from buying a new bottle of whisky so long as he got her a bottle of vodka to match.
They headed back to his current home away from home and, after both did a bit of recon to make certain the place had not been compromised in their absence, she insisted he do something more than mope and they had a pretty decent spar.
"Either you're getting sloppy, or you're not giving it your all," she commented as swiped at a bead of sweat on her lip.
"Can't give it my all, not yet," he panted in reply, and it was the truth. He was afraid of what would happen if he let it out, let it all out, in front if her. He did not have enough practice, and he sure as hell did not have enough control. If he hurt her, really hurt her, because things got beyond what he could handle, he would never forgive himself.
It turned out, as always, not to matter. Two days later saw Natasha bounding ahead of him on terrain that was not much more than loose clumps of mud, rock, and shale. He dutifully followed behind her, but slid forward when she cut a hard right and he lost his footing on what he would later recall as a really fucking shear drop on the other side. He knew it eventually evened out, just as he knew there was a much greater drop beyond the mini plateau. If he missed the branch that was too rapidly approaching, he was screwed.
Of course he missed it.
He heard Natasha shout his name with more than a hint of panic to her tone and he acted purely on instinct. He stretched outward, reaching with everything he had. He heard the thin fabric of his shirt tearing and the whoosh of wind across his face, the sting of all the tiny little branches against his skin lost in the roar and the faintest memory of Natasha commenting, "Well, fuck."
He landed less than gracefully, catching himself as he lunged forward, shards of bark tearing against his hands. He brushed off the worst of it and turned to find his once and apparently still current partner carefully picking her way down the slope. He was shaking by the time she reached him, bracing bloodied hands on filthy jeans as he tried to draw in deep breaths. She eyed the undeniable and gently tugged at the near flesh colored wings, a feather coming loose in her hand. She twirled the object not in wonder, but in contemplation, before she met his terrified gaze and said, "You really need to work on your landings."
He laughed, high and hysterical, because he didn't know what else to do. He slowly straightened and nervously swiped a hand across his face, smearing blood and muck in its wake. The crest of his right wing brushed against a branch and he flinched at the contact, the appendage still too new and too raw for his liking. With a concentrated effort, he shrunk his mutations back in on themselves, folding them close and letting them merge back near seamlessly against his back, knowing the thin lines that Natasha would now recognize at the edge of his feathers would remain, appearing as nothing more than a series of long scratches across too pale skin.
She stepped behind him and he let her look at the spectacle he had become. He felt more than saw her reach out and he winced in anticipation of the contact. She barely touched the skin though, instead she grabbed at the shreds of fabric that was once his t-shirt and yanked, exposing his back but coming forward with what he now recognized as makeshift bandages for his wounds. "I've got a full kit back at the house," she explained. "We should clean these sooner rather than later."
She wrapped the soft fabric around his hands and he could not help but comment, "Too bad I didn't get some awesome healing ability, huh?"
"You would definitely make more use of it than most," she agreed with raised eyebrows. "You get anything else of use? Retractable claws? Extra teeth?"
He shook his head and tried not to think of the way his fingers had wrapped around the tree, sinking deep and spraying more shards to cut into his tender flesh.
She left him alone after that, silent as she helped him back up the rise and walked beside him all the way to the safe house. Only once did he catch her eying his back, no doubt analyzing the benefits and detriments and just how she was going to report his current predicament and whether or not there were other changes he was still trying to hide from her that she had yet to see.
At the house, she sent him to shower and then it was just like when she shaved him as he sat on the toilet wrapped in a towel, only now she wielded a pair of tweezers and a bottle of betadine instead of a razor. He waited patiently while she tsked over tiny slivers, and wished for more cover than his simple bit of white provided.
She bathed after him, and he took the opportunity to get dressed and tried to figure out how far he could run before she'd catch him or call Thor or one of the others to help. She appeared in the doorway, hair still dripping, and told him, "You'd make it about a mile, maybe two, and it doesn't matter anyway because I'm not going to turn you in, you idiot." She offered out a hand and asked, "Want to get drunk?"
He could not help the smile that formed across his face. She knew him well, perhaps too well, after all the missions and all the years. He answered with an enthusiastic, "Hell yes!"
She grabbed two tumblers and both bottles and he turned on some really bad animated thing that was probably intended for children but seemed appropriate for two deadly assassins about to get shitfaced. Mind numbing and simple and precisely what they needed.
The cartoons had turned into news and the glasses were left by the wayside when she nudged him with her toe and asked, "You really thought you could hide this from us?"
He took a pull from his bottle and shook his head. "No, I really thought I could hide me from you, at least until I either got this under control or found a way to change back."
She pushed him with her foot again and muttered an affectionate, "Dumbass." She gestured towards the television where yet another world disaster was playing out. "Like we wouldn't hunt you down to help with this? Like we'd let you have some delusional vacation while we dealt with all the world's problems? If I've got to be shot at, blown up, or challenged by inter-dimensional beings, I'd rather do it with you at my side."
He snorted. "Great sales pitch, Nat," he commented. He set down the bottle and turned to look at her, to really look at her, knowing she would understand the importance of what he was about to ask. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," she answered without pause.
"Even now?" he pressed.
"Yes," she answered.
"Why?" he asked, needing to know that more than anything else.
"Because you are Clint Barton, the same Clint Barton that chose to save me all those years ago, and the same Clint Barton that has saved me far too often since," she replied. Her own bottle was cast aside now as she leaned in close, tips of her fingers against the curve of his jaw. "You might not be sure of who you are right now, but I am. Trust me enough to know who you are for the both of us."
And the it was so easy, so familiar, to lean in and kiss her. It felt like it had been ages even as it felt like it had been yesterday. Her lips were soft and pliant and her hands warm and sure against his skin. She was certain, she was real, and he could trust in that, even when he wasn't sure if he could trust in anything else in this world.
He pulled away reluctantly, and she let him, no doubt knowing there was far more still on his mind. He wanted to lean in, to maintain the closeness, maintain the knowledge she was there for him, even as he knew he needed separation, both physically and mentally, to be able to ask his next question. "And the others? You can't speak for them, Nat. They each have their own allegiances, their own thoughts on me to start with. Every one of them was given my file; they know my past and know what I am capable of. For them to trust I won't go back, that I won't change when I've so obviously have..."
She leaned back against the futon for a moment, and he could see her formulate her thoughts, put into words what she wanted him to hear. He also knew she wouldn't sugar coat it for him, not now and not ever. She would phrase it in the way she thought he would take it best, but would offer him no more allowances than that. "Steve is a company man, but he's also a friend. He will want you to fess up to SHIELD, but will defend you and protect you to the end if need be. Stark -"
He cut her off. "Stark will probably want to run every test possible just so he can personally see the results," he told her. He'd also probably vote for the pending Mutant Registration Act just to piss him off, especially since the rest of the team already had waivers signed by Fury himself.
"Maybe," she agreed easily enough. "But he will also personally design armor for your wings, and a new quiver so it won't get in the way should you need to take flight during a mission."
He wasn't sure if he wanted to concede those points, though they did ping as likely in his mind. Tony had strong thoughts about mutants and Xavier's team, but most were centered around the Professor's love of secrecy and denial of full disclosure. The fact that Tony had accepted Bruce so readily was a good sign but, then again, Bruce fully admitted to turning into a gigantic rage monster - not that he could exactly hide it - so maybe that played a role as well.
As if following his thoughts, she continued, "Banner has already taken a side. Say the word and he'll destroy his findings; he's more worried about your safety and well being than anything else and you know he'll understand your battle to stay you."
"And Thor?" he prompted, assuming she had an opinion on the final member of their group since she had been so beautifully blunt about the others.
She quirked a smile at that. "Thor will think it's awesome to have another person to fly with other than Stark. He probably wouldn't care if you became a unicorn, so long as you were a well-armored and loyal unicorn."
He huffed a laugh, but knew they were both avoiding the largest of obstacles that stood in the way of him rejoining the team. "What about Fury and Hill? How will they take having another mutant under their command?"
"Fury will want complete psych testing but, after an hour of you driving the therapist insane, he'll realize that you are still you. Hill will fall in line with Fury," she shrugged. "As for the mutation thing, they will just have to get over the fact that they now have one completely augmented team."
Clint knew he was drunk, but he didn't think he would have followed that even if he were sober. He said as much and she looked at him like he was stupid, and he kind of appreciated the familiarity of that as well.
She began slowly, counting off on her fingers as if explaining to a small child. "Stark has his arc reactor. Bruce has The Other Guy. Thor is an alien god or something damn close to it. Rogers is only the way he is because of the serum. And me?"
"You'll be the only normal one of us," he ventured, surprised when she shook her head.
"How long have you known me, Barton?" she asked, suddenly far more serious than he thought capable given the amount of vodka she had put away.
"Too long," he hedged with a grin.
"In all the years that you've known me, how much have I aged? Hair has grown and been cut, new styles have come along, but think beneath that, down to just me. Why do I heal so quickly? Why can I do half the things I can that others cannot?" She paused to give him a chance to answer but, seeing none forthcoming, put the pieces together for him. "I am the result of the Red Room, you know this. You know they trained me and, at some level you know that they made me who I am today. That person, those reflexes and that healing factor and everything else, is not chance. It is science, based off a stolen sample of incomplete serum far too many years ago to count. So you see, you are not the only special little snowflake in our little troupe, but simply the last one to join the cause." She stared at him now, steady and sure, and waited for him to put it together enough to believe her.
He blinked rapidly, mind filled with memory. Memories of her being shot, memories of her carrying a man twice her size and still winning the firefight, memories of her quick reflexes saving the day, and memories of her being there for him every damn time he needed her to be. There was training, there was luck, and there was always something more. Now it looked like he had a glimpse of just what that more could be. "Fury knows?" he guessed.
"Pretty sure he's known since he had you bring me in, but I don't think anyone beneath him does," she shrugged. A smirk slid across her face, eyes shining a bit too bright with pure and utter glee as she added, "And if Tony tries to make you, Steve, or I sign some little form stating we're abnormal, I will personally make certain he knows the full extent of each of our abilities."
"Aw, I knew there was a reason why I loved you," he cooed in the most over the top manner her could manage. He could feel the smile split across his face, real and true and so foreign and new after so many long weeks of faking it.
She threw herself forward so that his lap was full of deadly augmented assassin. "Really?" she purred, continuing the game.
"Really," he confirmed. He tugged at her gently and she closed the distance and, this time when their lips met, he did not pull away.
He could taste the vodka on her lips, smell the soap she had borrowed on her skin, things both familiar and different and yet so very much the Natasha he knew so well.
She shifted, fingers that cradled his head now sliding down slowly, ghosting across his neck, his shoulders, down the front of his t-shirt, the rough edges of her nails catching on the fabric. Her weight settled on him just so and he groaned into her mouth as her body pressed against his erection through far too many layers of fabric.
They continued to kiss - lips, jaws, the little crook at the juncture where neck became shoulder - and he decided he needed to play a much more active role, to give as much as he got. He let his hands drift down the strong curve of her back and circle around to her front, cupping and squeezing her breasts ever so slightly, thumbs tracing her nipples through the soft cotton and gauze that served as a barrier to their touch. She bucked into him and he bit his lower lip against the sensation.
More. He wanted more. He tugged at the bottom of her shirt and she readily removed it, pulling his own up and off and tossing both to the side and then it was only the ticklish lace of her bra and the heat of her skin pressed tightly against his, fingers still trailing, lips still tracing, and hips still moving of their own accord.
He found the clasp of her bra with practiced ease and soon the lace and satin slid down her skin to join the growing pile of fabric on the floor. She was still straddling him and so it was easy enough to lean just right and to take a nipple into his mouth the lavish it with attention. Her fingers scraped against his too-sensitive back to card upwards through the hair at the nape of his neck and then to hold him in place while he treated her second breast to the same detailed attention he had given the first.
She panted in his ear and it sounded like his name and a plea rolled together into a single breath. It was the only warning he received before she used her not so slight strength to push him to the side so he was now laying all askew across the cushion of the couch. She lifted up just enough to shimmy out of her jeans and either she wore no underwear or had removed those too because when he reached for her again all he felt was warm skin and the curve of her ass beneath the bandages of his hands.
Her hands were still moving though, still busy as they made short work of his fly and he kissed and bit her shoulder while her hand ghosted over his boxers and then just as quickly yanked downwards and he was free, erection straining between them as he tried to kick the last of the tangled and restraining fabric off and then finally, finally, there was nothing between them save for heat and sweat and the delicious feel of skin on skin from head to toe.
He flipped them over and she let him, and he slid down her curves, pausing to mouth at her breasts, lick at her belly button, and kiss each inner thigh before he settled between her outstretched legs and set to work to bring her to completion. He licked at her folds, tasting and smelling her musk, dipping down deep into her center and tracing upwards lightly to the little bundle of nerves. He licked and he sucked and she bucked and she moaned and he cupped his hands beneath her and she wrapped her legs over his shoulders and shivered and shook as she came apart for him.
He kept at it, pressing himself against the rough fabric of the futon to ground himself, to keep himself from flying apart while she came again and again, her juices flowing from her, streaming across his tongue and dripping down his chin. He knew exactly when she had enough, when she wanted something different, something more. She pushed against him with feet and fists and knocked him backwards and away. He barely had enough time to wipe the back of his hand across his lips before she was on him again, tasting him, tasting herself in his kisses.
She reached between them and wrapped a hand around his cock, thumb smearing the precome across the head. She let go of him and raised her hand to her lips, sucking the liquid off her digit while calmly meeting his gaze, one perfect eyebrow raised, and he fought for a control that he feared was beyond him. He was still watching her, still silently cursing, when her other hand stroked him, wet with what could only be her own release. He swore and arched into her and it was apparently the sign she had been waiting for as she shifted forward, raised herself up ever so slightly, and sank down onto him.
He was wrapped in heat, slick and warm and soft and moving as she rose up only to sink down again, riding him, controlling him, setting a pace far too slow and far too steady for his liking. He surged up, hips canted, and thrust just so, just enough to throw off her rhythm, to set one of his own. She laughed, outright and open, and he thrust again because he could, and her hands gripped his shoulders and her forehead sank to rest beside one, chanting encouragement and profanity in turns.
The angle wasn't quite right though, not for what he wanted, not for what he needed, and so he pressed forward, pushing her back against the futon and finally feeling not fabric but air against his skin. He continued to thrust and he continued to get lost in the movement, in the rhythm, in the way Natasha rose to meet him and clutched tightly around him. There was a scrape of pain and then a rush of air and he realized what he thought were her nails were actually his wings breaking free and he could see them reflected in the green of her eyes, the quirk of her grin, as she surged upward one last time and sighed, "There you are..."
And then he was gone, well and truly gone, lost in his release, lost in sensation, lost in the feeling of being complete and whole like never before. When he came to again, they were wrapped in a cocoon of feathers, the flickering light of the television filtering in through the shafts. Natasha carded steady fingers though the damp strands of his hair and held him close as though afraid he would run away. "Stay," she said, and it was not a question any more than it was an order. He curled up around her in response, knowing she would understand his answer.
He woke up the next morning with a horrible crick in his neck and to the scent and sound of sausages sizzling in a pan. He blinked to sort himself out and found that he was still on the futon from the night before, a blanket tucked around him, and horrifically hung over. He stood to stretch and decided he might as well go all the way since the only person he could see or sense in the immediate vicinity was Nat, and she could now truly say she had seen it all before.
He was thankful his shirt was already off as he did not believe he was with it enough to remove it and it'd be nice to have at least one still in one piece, and reached upwards and outwards as far as he could, feeling his wings separate and unfurl, the faint breeze of the action sending a chill down his sleep-warmed spine. He turned left, and then right, and then cursed when it was Natasha's reflexes that caught the nearly toppled bottle of vodka and not his own.
She took a swig, patted it almost protectively, and then set it safely off to the side before she sauntered back towards the small kitchenette wearing his supposedly saved shirt and apparently nothing else. "Eggs are burnt, sausage is almost ready, and if you tell anyone that I cooked for you, those wings of yours will be the least of your worries," she announced over her shoulder.
He stifled a snort knowing she may well kick his ass for just that, and busied himself tugging on his boxers for some semblance of cover, and then gathering plates, utensils, and painkillers for his headache instead. "Dare I ask what the special occasion is?" he said as he finally sat down again.
She handed him a plate with scrambled eggs that were more black than yellow and the promised sausages, and then handed him the bottle of hot sauce to cover up the worst of the damage. "Figured you should have something more than cereal to start out with," she shrugged, just a little too casual for his liking.
"And why is that?" he asked with a wince. He popped a piece of egg-textured hot sauce into his mouth and waited for her response.
She was, of course, deliberately vague. "Busy day and all that," she blinked with the same false innocence.
He sighed and shook his head. "I am totally not going to like this, am I?" Her answering smile should have warned him for what was to come.
"If you are coming back to the tower, which you are, you're going to have to work on those landings of yours," she told him, fork pointed in his general direction. "Cap and the others will want to see what you're made of and, really, how can you show them if you don't know for yourself?"
"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" he asked with a wince.
"Probably," she nodded readily enough. "But you need it."
She was right and they both knew it. He wasn't in top form sans wings and, quite frankly, he had avoided doing much with them at all. If he was going to rejoin the team, if he was going to prove to everyone he was capable of doing so, he needed to show them what he had, no holds barred, no coddling and no hiding.
Which is how he found himself an hour later in a slightly altered version of his usual gear, protective gloves atop his bandages, next to a fully armed Natasha, eying a rather steep drop above a ravine with trepidation. She pushed his bow into his hands and grinned, "Come on, Barton, let's see if a spider can teach a hawk how to fly."
It was a long way down, but at least he was going to have one hell of a view along the way.
End.
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