Fic: Make me chaste, but not just yet (7/?)
Title: Make me chaste, but not just yet (7/?)
Fandom: The Avengers (2012), Marvel comics
Pairing: Clint/Natasha; past Clint/Bobbi
Rating: M
Characters: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Phil Coulson, Nick Fury, kate Bishop, mention of original characters
Warnings: NSFW and language for entire work. Some physical roughness in this chapter; nothing worse than we've seen either in movies or comics.
Summary: after leaving the Red Room, but before SHIELD started showing interest in her, Natasha felt free to explore and have fun between missions on her own terms. All she wanted was a perfectly pleasing one night stand. And she got it. She didn't expect to meet the guy ever again.
In this chapter Natasha is getting used to SHIELD, and SHIELD is getting used to her. That goes as good as one might expect. Clint is stuck on a boring mission and wishes for something more fun. Be careful what you wish for, Clint, because you just might get it. We also meet Kate Bishop.
Author's notes: a huge huge thank you goes to shenshen77, my writing buddy and my beta reader. Thank you kindly, you awesome lady. I apologize to all my Italian readers. I meant no disrespect, you guys.
*
Natasha was staring at her half eaten piece of baklava, attempting to come up with some kind of revenge against it. It had been a good baklava, but too sweet and ultimately more than she could eat at the moment, which was not how her body usually worked. She had lost weight since she came here, but the time spent in the gym sometimes felt like the most productive activity she could engage in. Trying to fix her bodyshape change with calories obviously wasn’t going to work.
Several people sitting three tables away from her suddenly started making more noise than before. She looked up and saw wrapped packages and a cupcake with a candle stuck into it. Agent Gallard apparently had a birthday. Natasha wondered idly what kind of face Gallard would pull if she got up from her baklava and went over to express her well wishes. Maybe she’d check if her cupcake was suddenly poisoned - not that Natasha couldn’t pull off something like that, but she still didn’t master the skill of poisoning people by casting her shadow over them.
Natasha felt rather indifferent towards people working here, but they seemed to think she was after them and posed a threat. Which was understandable, all things considered. In the long run it would be impractical. Just when she was about to get up from her seat - testing a hypothesis was always fun and she was bored - a tall, dark skinned man entered the cafeteria. He’d attract attention solely with the way he looked, towering over everyone, dressed in black and wearing an eyepatch, but that wasn’t all.
There was a shift all around her when he showed up, and then again when his eyes settled on her. Deliberatly. He went to get himself a piece of the same baklava she was eating. She could feel apprehension spreading around in circles. The tall man walked up to her table and - she noted - didn’t ask if he was allowed to sit.
“Miss Romanoff,” he greeted. His voice was deep, his tone bordering on stern, and his relaxed posture was absolutely fake. Had he needed a gun in the next second, she was pretty damn sure he’d just produce one out of his boot.
“I haven’t met you yet, Agent -?”
He smiled, not unkindly. “It’s Director Nicholas Fury, actually.”
“Director,” she corrected herself in a perfectly respectful manner.
“How’s the baklava?” his tone was casual and conversational. While Natasha doubted he came here to hear her thoughts on the cake, she indulged his curiosity.
“Quite good,” she said.
“Why are you not eating it, then?”
“It seems I have eaten too much for lunch,” she said. “Which is why I can’t pay the baklava its due respect.”
“We have baklava on every first Tuesday of the month,” Fury said.
“That’s a good thing to remember,” Natasha noted.
“I’m sure you won’t have a problem remembering,” Fury put down his fork and folded his fingers in a manner of someone who could have been a history professor. Natasha inclined her head awaiting his real question. He smirked.
“I have a good memory” Natasha prompted. She wasn’t interrogated for days for nothing, and considering her situation, she’d been giving a lot of intel. People who talked to her were polite and professional. Her chance to play fairly was on the table, and she guessed she wouldn’t get another if she blew it up.
“Then you probably remember a man who likes to call himself Titus,” Fury didn’t move, and his expression was just mildly intrigued.
Natasha knew every inch of the body. She knew how to move to look in a certain way, how to create an impression in other people. The name hit her square in the chest and she wanted to physically hold something, but there was nothing at hand. Not if she wanted her gesture to remain unseen. She remained completely calm, raised her eyebrows like she knew she should. Fury regarded her for a moment and then turned his attention to the cake in front of him.
“I gather you’re not surprised,” he said.
“You’re the head of a secret agency. I suppose you’ve heard about the man heading a large trafficking ring,” Natasha said. Fury shifted in his seat, looking at her with a certain amusement that seemed somehow personal, and… softer than she’d expect. It was only a flicker, though, and his face turned serious the next moment.
“SHIELD agents are very resourceful, Miss Romanoff. We hire the best,” he wasn’t making mere small talk. “We know things. We know you were tracking Titus for at least three years.”
He made a pause. Holding his gaze was hard, but Natasha did it nevertheless. She thought of Bratislava, of Bogota and Dublin, deserted small houses along uneven roads in Bosnia, and all the girls and women she didn’t couldn't help all by herself. Fury’s voice was heavy and filled with sympathy that could have been honest or calculated. It didn’t really matter.
“A one man army, no matter how formidable, cannot fight against someone like him,” he said.
This was the real job offer, not the practical one she got from Coulson, or the carefully arranged understanding on Barton's features. It wasn't the illusion of the normal life she could have, along with documents and an adress of residency anyone would consider real.
Every sinner longs for redemption after all, but it was somewhat like making a good baklava. Too sweet would ruin it. Getting the right taste is what mattered at the end.
“Why would an organization like yours deal with Titus?” she said, because she wasn’t going to say yes just like that. “He isn’t an arms dealer and he focuses on… one certain kind of trade.”
“We’re the good guys, Miss Romanoff,” Fury said simply.
“Is that so?” she asked. It seemed he didn’t mind her being forward or provocative. Besides, Natasha preferred to know how large or dangerous the dragon she was walking past was. Poking it and getting away with it was how she earned her living.
“That is so,” Fury said. Bravado dropped, he gave her a serious look. “We don’t have enough intel on him, but I assume you can provide us with plenty of useful information. In return you can watch the hunt go down.”
She was about to bite her lip, but she didn’t. Natasha knew how the game was played, and didn’t expect she would be allowed near field missions any time soon. She knew how to recognize a generous offer when she saw one.
“I think that can be arranged,” she said.
Fury finished his baklava slowly, and she found she got her appetite back after all.
*
“Tell me Coulson, is Romanoff not playing nicely with the other kids?” Clint asked as he crossed the packed street to reach his parked car. The office had secured him an old Fiat for the current op, and he sincerely hoped there would be no car chases in his near future. A freelancing reporter had to look broke, which was fine, but the car inspired a growing distaste for almost any Italian product in Clint. Except pizza and shoes, perhaps. Just because you’re a sharpshooter, doesn’t mean you can’t do some footwork. Especially when it’s the eyes that count, was what Coulson told him. Clint could speak the language well, and pass for an American who had lived in the Naples area for years, which was fine, but when it came to this mission, he felt like a more or less crude spy tool.
“No, she’s playing along very well. Some think too well,” Coulson said from across the globe. He sounded like he still had too much paperwork to go through before he’d be able to hit the bed. Clint unlocked the car, threw his jacket and camera inside and shut the door rather loudly. “What was that?”
“The sound of awesomeness of my current car,” Clint said as he sat inside. Another resolute thump later, he held the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he pulled at the seatbelt.
“I thought you liked oldtimers,” Coulson said.
“Those that don’t threaten to fall apart while you drive them, yes I do. Which is why I’m glad this stinky op will be done soon.”
“That’s good to hear,” Coulson’s tone was diplomatic, but Clint could read something akin to relief in there.
“I get to drive Lola for a week,” Clint said, and the car died just as he started the engine. He wished he could punch it really really hard.
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do, for whichever favor you were going to ask me. And for this piece of Italian fabricated trash.”
“Hey, the car won’t appreciate if you keep insulting it.”
“We can be mutually insulted then,” Clint said. “I’m gonna remind you that this call is gonna be paid from the agency’s wallet -“ Clint said as he slowly made his way through the impossible Rome traffic.
“You’ll get details when you get here.”
“Geez, Phillip, you can be a cruel man sometimes.”
“Comes with my resume,” Coulson said amusedly. “Let us know when to book the plane tickets.”
“You can do it now,” Clint said. “Two more days and I’ll have everything we need.”
“Well done,” Coulson said. “I’ll see you in three days, then.”
“See you,” Clint said and hung up. The morning traffic jam was reaching its peak and it would be maddening for someone who wasn’t used to driving through New York at any time of the day or through any sort of weather. He could do without the rain that was about to start, though. Clint sank back into his seat and decided that there was at least one good thing about the car. It was unexpectedly cozy.
He turned on the radio and the chatter of local news filled the car. He already checked everything that was important to him before he left the apartment, so he allowed his mind to tune out and recall the things he heard from Coulson. Apparently, Natasha had trouble fitting in. He didn’t expect it would run smoothly, but Coulson wasn’t calling him for nothing.
Whatever Coulson had in mind, it was going to be fun, Clint thought. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to play a photographer any time soon.
*
“You brought it home, Barton, you fix it,” Kate said as she marched in front of Clint towards the gym. “That’s the general attitude regarding the Black Widow.”
“She has a name, you know,” Clint replied, and he most certainly wasn’t being defensive.
Kate threw a glance at him over her shoulder. “You asked about the situation, not about politically correct speech. I’m telling you what people call her.”
“Fair,” he said when they walked inside.
“People either don’t trust her or are afraid of her,” Kate continued as they made their way to the weights bench. Clint wasn’t a fan of weights, but he was feeling lazy, and stretched himself out on the bench after adjusting the weight on both sides - much less than he could lift, because he just spent three weeks running after could-be-bad-guys, taking lots of photographs and eating pizza for dinner. “Wow, Barton. You said you don’t feel like working out but that is a low goal even for you.”
Clint slanted a mock glare in Kate’s direction. “That is no way of talking to your mentor, young lady.”
Kate started to lift her free weights as she stood next to his bench. If there was a dramatic eyeroll award, she should get one, Clint thought fondly. “I am no lady and you’re, thankfully, not my mentor any more. Besides I can order a beer in a bar, so -”
“Well, Junior Agent Bishop,” Clint said dramatically, “I am still jetlagged. Get off my case and let me lift my weights. It was you who dragged me here when I could be sleeping.”
“Nuh - huh,” Kate said. “I bet you were living on pasta and fast food. I bet I’d find fat if I poked your middle,” Kate moved her arms in a methodic, quick paced rhythm. “I’m doing you a favor.”
“Suuuuure you are,” Clint said. “I beg you to stay away from my middle, though.” He wouldn’t mind sleeping a few hours more, but he could always catch up on that - he had two days off. Catching up with Kate was much higher on his priorities list, and considering that Coulson wasn’t around due to some kind of emergency he wasn’t going to ask about later, when he eventually went to the office. “Why don’t you tell me more about what’s going on while I work on my incredibly low goals?”
Kate took a decisive, deep breath and seemed to grip her set of weights more tightly. “Your ladyfriend,” she paused to give Clint another eyeroll when he muttered not my ladyfriend; “isn’t the most social creature I have seen,” Kate said. “I suppose suspicion will wear off after some time when people finally get it into their heads that she willingly chose to defect and join SHIELD? But she’s not doing herself a favor when she beats up people during sparring.”
“She - what?” Clint asked, setting his weights away.
“What I said,” this time Kate’s sigh is exasperated. “Okay, she says if you practice to fight against an enemy, you have to expect anything. Including a dirty fight. But Goldberg has a sprained ankle now, Van Der Pelt was lucky to walk away with bruises only and she almost broke Santiago’s arm.”
This time Clint sighed.
“My opinion?” Kate set one of the weights away to wipe away the sweat from her forehead. “Someone needs to teach her people skills, and Coulson isn’t really successful in his search for volunteers.”
*
You don’t just fix a person, Clint thought as he made his way to the gym later in the afternoon. He was pretty damn sure Natasha’s people skills were just fine. The way she used them though was probably more of a problem. He grabbed the boxing gloves from his quarters as he was in the mood for punching - he might just visualize that goddamn car. The sight that awaited him in the gym was certainly interesting.
Agent Petrov was the second tallest guy in the agency, and built like a wall of bricks. He was standing on the edge of the sparring mat - and a whole bunch of people were surrounding him and someone else. Natasha. She looked ridiculously small standing opposite Petrov, and without her usual high heels, she was actually tiny. Both were barefoot, both were wearing the standard workout gear. As far as sparring matches went, even the most interesting ones, Clint decided there were way too many people gathered to observe.
Clint spotted Fury in the crowd then. Well, that explained some things.
Maybe.
Clint looked at Natasha and noticed frustration flashing over her features now and then. Petrov, on the other hand, looked exactly like a man who wasn’t doing this of his own choice. Clash of the Russians someone commented lowly behind his back. What an irony, Clint thought.
Next thing he knew, Natasha attacked. The fight was shorter one would expect, very unfair and straight to the point. Even if Petrov got out of it without visible injuries, his pride was certainly bruised.
Natasha stood up from the ground after she released her victim from the thigh-grip, looking around partly like a caged tiger, and partly in anticipation of disappointment.
“Any volunteers?” Fury asked, as if he was tempting the crowd to remain silent.
Before Natasha could groan and Fury pick someone unwilling out of the crowd, Clint’s brain slipped into some kind of semi-automatic mode. Like when he’d wait for the shot, clearing out as much of his mental space as he could - he’d be able to see clearly as he focused on one thing and allowed everything else to blur. That, and he probably had a moment of insanity.
Natasha raised an eyebrow when he walked into the circle, dropped his boxing gloves and started to take off his sneakers. There was murmuring all around him. He could see Fury crossing his arms contentedly and smirked, wondering if he got pulled into one of Coulson’s schemes.
“Volunteering,” Clint said a bit cockier than he felt.
“Agent Barton,” Natasha’s tone was falsely pleasant, and different than she sounded when she called him Frank. Which was something he shouldn’t be thinking about or comparing.
“Miss Romanoff,” Clint answered calmly, trying to determine just how much trouble he was in.
A lot, probably.
But there, on the opposite side of the mat was a frustrated, angry, unhappy woman. Clint knew it was probably ridiculous and uncalled for to feel almost like someone who caught a pretty beast and brought it into a cage that was too small. Natasha had a choice, he was merely a mediator in the process, but he still felt bad. The trouble lay in the fact that he remembered. Ten years ago he was young, angry and mentally not very far from where she was now.
He’d look at Fury if he could, but looking away from her now, when she started to pace around, would be a fucking stupid thing to do. But he remembered clearly how he paced around a ten years younger Nick Fury, who was already a director. Clint had his ass handed to him, but what mattered was the thing he saw on Fury’s face back then. He could take it. No matter how horrible everything in Clint’s head was, here was someone who could take it, and most importantly, someone who was willing to do it.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Clint said, plain as day and loud enough for everyone else to hear.
“Good,” something feral and satisfied flashed through Natasha’s eyes just before she launched herself at him.
Clint had already seen Natasha fight, but never fought against her before. It turned out that Kate was right - Natasha wasn’t going to cut him any slack, and he found himself face down on the mat a lot earlier than he expected to. Above him Natasha growled, using her body like a trap. He was no match for her speed, or the way she could use any surface or just about anything to her advantage, but he was bigger and heavier. Still, it took effort to throw her off his back, even more to catch her unguarded on the floor. They wrestled for a while, and it was messy and artless until she bit his forearm.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned and found himself trapped again. This time he rolled them over, caged her under him and used his bigger weight to force her to let him go, and then flung himself as far away from her as he could.
Natasha was breathing heavily, her red hair a complete mess, her cheeks were flushed and Clint remembered the night when she looked hust as messy and flushed and he wanted to be as close to her as possible.
What a fucking irony.
With that thought he attacked her.
*
Clint was aware that he looked like he just walked off of a battlefield, but to his credit, Natasha didn't look much better. He got two stitches above his right eye, and her cut lip wasn’t bleeding any more, but it looked spectacular. Better yet, she looked pleased, almost like she was glad someone was willing to try to beat her up. Like it was the thing she was longing for for ages. Clint had more marks to remind him of his noble deed - a bruise on his cheek and another one blooming over his left bicep, just in case anyone wondered who actually won the fight. (Natasha could hit. Not that he had any doubts. She won, but barely, and Clint consoled himself with how bravely he fought.) Natasha’s face was unbruised, but it still looked slightly flushed, and they were both still wearing their training gear.
Most of the people who were in the gym to observe the Barton - Romanoff showdown were now in the cafeteria and still observing them like some kind of stellar phenomenon. The interest was quieter now and Clint was aware that they were being watched. He insisted they’d come here and while she waited at the table he got them food and tea.
“Pie?” she asked in a flat, disbelieving tone as he set a plate in front of her.
“Cherry and apple pie,” he said contentedly as he sat down. “And you’re not allowed to mock it.”
“Is your name secretly Winchester?” she asked as he started to eat, and fuck it, even chewing hurt.
“You’re not allowed to mock the Winchesters either,” he deadpanned, even though he didn’t care all that much about the show. (Sitwell and Van Der Pelt would then say he either needed to be converted or surrounded with salt.) Clint was slightly surprised at the reference, but reminded himself he shouldn’t be. “You kicked my butt, I can at least have that.”
There was a tiny, almost invisible smirk there on Natasha’s face. Just for a moment. He pretended he didn’t see it and voiced his approval of the pie instead. “This is heaven. This has to be what heaven feels like,” he insisted. Natasha ate in a more polite manner and studied him with distant and guarded amusement. He did almost all the talking, aware that he was feeding the hand that beat him, and even though Natasha remained guarded, she seemed more relaxed. It went on for fifteen or maybe twenty minutes until Kate arrived with a full tray and headed straight to their table.
“Barton, did you really,” she started and then got a good look at both him and Natasha. “Christ on a bike. Are you both insane?”
Natasha didn’t say anything but there was a short and pleasant flash inside her eyes. Clint grinned brightly and Kate shook her head.
“As if we needed someone who’d inspire even more crazy in you,” she said to Clint and then looked at Natasha.
“You need to inspire his crazy?” Natasha asked dryly and Kate laughed.
“My God, it’s really true what I just heard -,” Kate pretended she was scandalized when she looked between the two of them. “Perfectly matched, aren’t you two? God help us all.”
Fandom: The Avengers (2012), Marvel comics
Pairing: Clint/Natasha; past Clint/Bobbi
Rating: M
Characters: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Phil Coulson, Nick Fury, kate Bishop, mention of original characters
Warnings: NSFW and language for entire work. Some physical roughness in this chapter; nothing worse than we've seen either in movies or comics.
Summary: after leaving the Red Room, but before SHIELD started showing interest in her, Natasha felt free to explore and have fun between missions on her own terms. All she wanted was a perfectly pleasing one night stand. And she got it. She didn't expect to meet the guy ever again.
In this chapter Natasha is getting used to SHIELD, and SHIELD is getting used to her. That goes as good as one might expect. Clint is stuck on a boring mission and wishes for something more fun. Be careful what you wish for, Clint, because you just might get it. We also meet Kate Bishop.
Author's notes: a huge huge thank you goes to shenshen77, my writing buddy and my beta reader. Thank you kindly, you awesome lady. I apologize to all my Italian readers. I meant no disrespect, you guys.
*
Natasha was staring at her half eaten piece of baklava, attempting to come up with some kind of revenge against it. It had been a good baklava, but too sweet and ultimately more than she could eat at the moment, which was not how her body usually worked. She had lost weight since she came here, but the time spent in the gym sometimes felt like the most productive activity she could engage in. Trying to fix her bodyshape change with calories obviously wasn’t going to work.
Several people sitting three tables away from her suddenly started making more noise than before. She looked up and saw wrapped packages and a cupcake with a candle stuck into it. Agent Gallard apparently had a birthday. Natasha wondered idly what kind of face Gallard would pull if she got up from her baklava and went over to express her well wishes. Maybe she’d check if her cupcake was suddenly poisoned - not that Natasha couldn’t pull off something like that, but she still didn’t master the skill of poisoning people by casting her shadow over them.
Natasha felt rather indifferent towards people working here, but they seemed to think she was after them and posed a threat. Which was understandable, all things considered. In the long run it would be impractical. Just when she was about to get up from her seat - testing a hypothesis was always fun and she was bored - a tall, dark skinned man entered the cafeteria. He’d attract attention solely with the way he looked, towering over everyone, dressed in black and wearing an eyepatch, but that wasn’t all.
There was a shift all around her when he showed up, and then again when his eyes settled on her. Deliberatly. He went to get himself a piece of the same baklava she was eating. She could feel apprehension spreading around in circles. The tall man walked up to her table and - she noted - didn’t ask if he was allowed to sit.
“Miss Romanoff,” he greeted. His voice was deep, his tone bordering on stern, and his relaxed posture was absolutely fake. Had he needed a gun in the next second, she was pretty damn sure he’d just produce one out of his boot.
“I haven’t met you yet, Agent -?”
He smiled, not unkindly. “It’s Director Nicholas Fury, actually.”
“Director,” she corrected herself in a perfectly respectful manner.
“How’s the baklava?” his tone was casual and conversational. While Natasha doubted he came here to hear her thoughts on the cake, she indulged his curiosity.
“Quite good,” she said.
“Why are you not eating it, then?”
“It seems I have eaten too much for lunch,” she said. “Which is why I can’t pay the baklava its due respect.”
“We have baklava on every first Tuesday of the month,” Fury said.
“That’s a good thing to remember,” Natasha noted.
“I’m sure you won’t have a problem remembering,” Fury put down his fork and folded his fingers in a manner of someone who could have been a history professor. Natasha inclined her head awaiting his real question. He smirked.
“I have a good memory” Natasha prompted. She wasn’t interrogated for days for nothing, and considering her situation, she’d been giving a lot of intel. People who talked to her were polite and professional. Her chance to play fairly was on the table, and she guessed she wouldn’t get another if she blew it up.
“Then you probably remember a man who likes to call himself Titus,” Fury didn’t move, and his expression was just mildly intrigued.
Natasha knew every inch of the body. She knew how to move to look in a certain way, how to create an impression in other people. The name hit her square in the chest and she wanted to physically hold something, but there was nothing at hand. Not if she wanted her gesture to remain unseen. She remained completely calm, raised her eyebrows like she knew she should. Fury regarded her for a moment and then turned his attention to the cake in front of him.
“I gather you’re not surprised,” he said.
“You’re the head of a secret agency. I suppose you’ve heard about the man heading a large trafficking ring,” Natasha said. Fury shifted in his seat, looking at her with a certain amusement that seemed somehow personal, and… softer than she’d expect. It was only a flicker, though, and his face turned serious the next moment.
“SHIELD agents are very resourceful, Miss Romanoff. We hire the best,” he wasn’t making mere small talk. “We know things. We know you were tracking Titus for at least three years.”
He made a pause. Holding his gaze was hard, but Natasha did it nevertheless. She thought of Bratislava, of Bogota and Dublin, deserted small houses along uneven roads in Bosnia, and all the girls and women she didn’t couldn't help all by herself. Fury’s voice was heavy and filled with sympathy that could have been honest or calculated. It didn’t really matter.
“A one man army, no matter how formidable, cannot fight against someone like him,” he said.
This was the real job offer, not the practical one she got from Coulson, or the carefully arranged understanding on Barton's features. It wasn't the illusion of the normal life she could have, along with documents and an adress of residency anyone would consider real.
Every sinner longs for redemption after all, but it was somewhat like making a good baklava. Too sweet would ruin it. Getting the right taste is what mattered at the end.
“Why would an organization like yours deal with Titus?” she said, because she wasn’t going to say yes just like that. “He isn’t an arms dealer and he focuses on… one certain kind of trade.”
“We’re the good guys, Miss Romanoff,” Fury said simply.
“Is that so?” she asked. It seemed he didn’t mind her being forward or provocative. Besides, Natasha preferred to know how large or dangerous the dragon she was walking past was. Poking it and getting away with it was how she earned her living.
“That is so,” Fury said. Bravado dropped, he gave her a serious look. “We don’t have enough intel on him, but I assume you can provide us with plenty of useful information. In return you can watch the hunt go down.”
She was about to bite her lip, but she didn’t. Natasha knew how the game was played, and didn’t expect she would be allowed near field missions any time soon. She knew how to recognize a generous offer when she saw one.
“I think that can be arranged,” she said.
Fury finished his baklava slowly, and she found she got her appetite back after all.
*
“Tell me Coulson, is Romanoff not playing nicely with the other kids?” Clint asked as he crossed the packed street to reach his parked car. The office had secured him an old Fiat for the current op, and he sincerely hoped there would be no car chases in his near future. A freelancing reporter had to look broke, which was fine, but the car inspired a growing distaste for almost any Italian product in Clint. Except pizza and shoes, perhaps. Just because you’re a sharpshooter, doesn’t mean you can’t do some footwork. Especially when it’s the eyes that count, was what Coulson told him. Clint could speak the language well, and pass for an American who had lived in the Naples area for years, which was fine, but when it came to this mission, he felt like a more or less crude spy tool.
“No, she’s playing along very well. Some think too well,” Coulson said from across the globe. He sounded like he still had too much paperwork to go through before he’d be able to hit the bed. Clint unlocked the car, threw his jacket and camera inside and shut the door rather loudly. “What was that?”
“The sound of awesomeness of my current car,” Clint said as he sat inside. Another resolute thump later, he held the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he pulled at the seatbelt.
“I thought you liked oldtimers,” Coulson said.
“Those that don’t threaten to fall apart while you drive them, yes I do. Which is why I’m glad this stinky op will be done soon.”
“That’s good to hear,” Coulson’s tone was diplomatic, but Clint could read something akin to relief in there.
“I get to drive Lola for a week,” Clint said, and the car died just as he started the engine. He wished he could punch it really really hard.
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do, for whichever favor you were going to ask me. And for this piece of Italian fabricated trash.”
“Hey, the car won’t appreciate if you keep insulting it.”
“We can be mutually insulted then,” Clint said. “I’m gonna remind you that this call is gonna be paid from the agency’s wallet -“ Clint said as he slowly made his way through the impossible Rome traffic.
“You’ll get details when you get here.”
“Geez, Phillip, you can be a cruel man sometimes.”
“Comes with my resume,” Coulson said amusedly. “Let us know when to book the plane tickets.”
“You can do it now,” Clint said. “Two more days and I’ll have everything we need.”
“Well done,” Coulson said. “I’ll see you in three days, then.”
“See you,” Clint said and hung up. The morning traffic jam was reaching its peak and it would be maddening for someone who wasn’t used to driving through New York at any time of the day or through any sort of weather. He could do without the rain that was about to start, though. Clint sank back into his seat and decided that there was at least one good thing about the car. It was unexpectedly cozy.
He turned on the radio and the chatter of local news filled the car. He already checked everything that was important to him before he left the apartment, so he allowed his mind to tune out and recall the things he heard from Coulson. Apparently, Natasha had trouble fitting in. He didn’t expect it would run smoothly, but Coulson wasn’t calling him for nothing.
Whatever Coulson had in mind, it was going to be fun, Clint thought. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to play a photographer any time soon.
*
“You brought it home, Barton, you fix it,” Kate said as she marched in front of Clint towards the gym. “That’s the general attitude regarding the Black Widow.”
“She has a name, you know,” Clint replied, and he most certainly wasn’t being defensive.
Kate threw a glance at him over her shoulder. “You asked about the situation, not about politically correct speech. I’m telling you what people call her.”
“Fair,” he said when they walked inside.
“People either don’t trust her or are afraid of her,” Kate continued as they made their way to the weights bench. Clint wasn’t a fan of weights, but he was feeling lazy, and stretched himself out on the bench after adjusting the weight on both sides - much less than he could lift, because he just spent three weeks running after could-be-bad-guys, taking lots of photographs and eating pizza for dinner. “Wow, Barton. You said you don’t feel like working out but that is a low goal even for you.”
Clint slanted a mock glare in Kate’s direction. “That is no way of talking to your mentor, young lady.”
Kate started to lift her free weights as she stood next to his bench. If there was a dramatic eyeroll award, she should get one, Clint thought fondly. “I am no lady and you’re, thankfully, not my mentor any more. Besides I can order a beer in a bar, so -”
“Well, Junior Agent Bishop,” Clint said dramatically, “I am still jetlagged. Get off my case and let me lift my weights. It was you who dragged me here when I could be sleeping.”
“Nuh - huh,” Kate said. “I bet you were living on pasta and fast food. I bet I’d find fat if I poked your middle,” Kate moved her arms in a methodic, quick paced rhythm. “I’m doing you a favor.”
“Suuuuure you are,” Clint said. “I beg you to stay away from my middle, though.” He wouldn’t mind sleeping a few hours more, but he could always catch up on that - he had two days off. Catching up with Kate was much higher on his priorities list, and considering that Coulson wasn’t around due to some kind of emergency he wasn’t going to ask about later, when he eventually went to the office. “Why don’t you tell me more about what’s going on while I work on my incredibly low goals?”
Kate took a decisive, deep breath and seemed to grip her set of weights more tightly. “Your ladyfriend,” she paused to give Clint another eyeroll when he muttered not my ladyfriend; “isn’t the most social creature I have seen,” Kate said. “I suppose suspicion will wear off after some time when people finally get it into their heads that she willingly chose to defect and join SHIELD? But she’s not doing herself a favor when she beats up people during sparring.”
“She - what?” Clint asked, setting his weights away.
“What I said,” this time Kate’s sigh is exasperated. “Okay, she says if you practice to fight against an enemy, you have to expect anything. Including a dirty fight. But Goldberg has a sprained ankle now, Van Der Pelt was lucky to walk away with bruises only and she almost broke Santiago’s arm.”
This time Clint sighed.
“My opinion?” Kate set one of the weights away to wipe away the sweat from her forehead. “Someone needs to teach her people skills, and Coulson isn’t really successful in his search for volunteers.”
*
You don’t just fix a person, Clint thought as he made his way to the gym later in the afternoon. He was pretty damn sure Natasha’s people skills were just fine. The way she used them though was probably more of a problem. He grabbed the boxing gloves from his quarters as he was in the mood for punching - he might just visualize that goddamn car. The sight that awaited him in the gym was certainly interesting.
Agent Petrov was the second tallest guy in the agency, and built like a wall of bricks. He was standing on the edge of the sparring mat - and a whole bunch of people were surrounding him and someone else. Natasha. She looked ridiculously small standing opposite Petrov, and without her usual high heels, she was actually tiny. Both were barefoot, both were wearing the standard workout gear. As far as sparring matches went, even the most interesting ones, Clint decided there were way too many people gathered to observe.
Clint spotted Fury in the crowd then. Well, that explained some things.
Maybe.
Clint looked at Natasha and noticed frustration flashing over her features now and then. Petrov, on the other hand, looked exactly like a man who wasn’t doing this of his own choice. Clash of the Russians someone commented lowly behind his back. What an irony, Clint thought.
Next thing he knew, Natasha attacked. The fight was shorter one would expect, very unfair and straight to the point. Even if Petrov got out of it without visible injuries, his pride was certainly bruised.
Natasha stood up from the ground after she released her victim from the thigh-grip, looking around partly like a caged tiger, and partly in anticipation of disappointment.
“Any volunteers?” Fury asked, as if he was tempting the crowd to remain silent.
Before Natasha could groan and Fury pick someone unwilling out of the crowd, Clint’s brain slipped into some kind of semi-automatic mode. Like when he’d wait for the shot, clearing out as much of his mental space as he could - he’d be able to see clearly as he focused on one thing and allowed everything else to blur. That, and he probably had a moment of insanity.
Natasha raised an eyebrow when he walked into the circle, dropped his boxing gloves and started to take off his sneakers. There was murmuring all around him. He could see Fury crossing his arms contentedly and smirked, wondering if he got pulled into one of Coulson’s schemes.
“Volunteering,” Clint said a bit cockier than he felt.
“Agent Barton,” Natasha’s tone was falsely pleasant, and different than she sounded when she called him Frank. Which was something he shouldn’t be thinking about or comparing.
“Miss Romanoff,” Clint answered calmly, trying to determine just how much trouble he was in.
A lot, probably.
But there, on the opposite side of the mat was a frustrated, angry, unhappy woman. Clint knew it was probably ridiculous and uncalled for to feel almost like someone who caught a pretty beast and brought it into a cage that was too small. Natasha had a choice, he was merely a mediator in the process, but he still felt bad. The trouble lay in the fact that he remembered. Ten years ago he was young, angry and mentally not very far from where she was now.
He’d look at Fury if he could, but looking away from her now, when she started to pace around, would be a fucking stupid thing to do. But he remembered clearly how he paced around a ten years younger Nick Fury, who was already a director. Clint had his ass handed to him, but what mattered was the thing he saw on Fury’s face back then. He could take it. No matter how horrible everything in Clint’s head was, here was someone who could take it, and most importantly, someone who was willing to do it.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Clint said, plain as day and loud enough for everyone else to hear.
“Good,” something feral and satisfied flashed through Natasha’s eyes just before she launched herself at him.
Clint had already seen Natasha fight, but never fought against her before. It turned out that Kate was right - Natasha wasn’t going to cut him any slack, and he found himself face down on the mat a lot earlier than he expected to. Above him Natasha growled, using her body like a trap. He was no match for her speed, or the way she could use any surface or just about anything to her advantage, but he was bigger and heavier. Still, it took effort to throw her off his back, even more to catch her unguarded on the floor. They wrestled for a while, and it was messy and artless until she bit his forearm.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned and found himself trapped again. This time he rolled them over, caged her under him and used his bigger weight to force her to let him go, and then flung himself as far away from her as he could.
Natasha was breathing heavily, her red hair a complete mess, her cheeks were flushed and Clint remembered the night when she looked hust as messy and flushed and he wanted to be as close to her as possible.
What a fucking irony.
With that thought he attacked her.
*
Clint was aware that he looked like he just walked off of a battlefield, but to his credit, Natasha didn't look much better. He got two stitches above his right eye, and her cut lip wasn’t bleeding any more, but it looked spectacular. Better yet, she looked pleased, almost like she was glad someone was willing to try to beat her up. Like it was the thing she was longing for for ages. Clint had more marks to remind him of his noble deed - a bruise on his cheek and another one blooming over his left bicep, just in case anyone wondered who actually won the fight. (Natasha could hit. Not that he had any doubts. She won, but barely, and Clint consoled himself with how bravely he fought.) Natasha’s face was unbruised, but it still looked slightly flushed, and they were both still wearing their training gear.
Most of the people who were in the gym to observe the Barton - Romanoff showdown were now in the cafeteria and still observing them like some kind of stellar phenomenon. The interest was quieter now and Clint was aware that they were being watched. He insisted they’d come here and while she waited at the table he got them food and tea.
“Pie?” she asked in a flat, disbelieving tone as he set a plate in front of her.
“Cherry and apple pie,” he said contentedly as he sat down. “And you’re not allowed to mock it.”
“Is your name secretly Winchester?” she asked as he started to eat, and fuck it, even chewing hurt.
“You’re not allowed to mock the Winchesters either,” he deadpanned, even though he didn’t care all that much about the show. (Sitwell and Van Der Pelt would then say he either needed to be converted or surrounded with salt.) Clint was slightly surprised at the reference, but reminded himself he shouldn’t be. “You kicked my butt, I can at least have that.”
There was a tiny, almost invisible smirk there on Natasha’s face. Just for a moment. He pretended he didn’t see it and voiced his approval of the pie instead. “This is heaven. This has to be what heaven feels like,” he insisted. Natasha ate in a more polite manner and studied him with distant and guarded amusement. He did almost all the talking, aware that he was feeding the hand that beat him, and even though Natasha remained guarded, she seemed more relaxed. It went on for fifteen or maybe twenty minutes until Kate arrived with a full tray and headed straight to their table.
“Barton, did you really,” she started and then got a good look at both him and Natasha. “Christ on a bike. Are you both insane?”
Natasha didn’t say anything but there was a short and pleasant flash inside her eyes. Clint grinned brightly and Kate shook her head.
“As if we needed someone who’d inspire even more crazy in you,” she said to Clint and then looked at Natasha.
“You need to inspire his crazy?” Natasha asked dryly and Kate laughed.
“My God, it’s really true what I just heard -,” Kate pretended she was scandalized when she looked between the two of them. “Perfectly matched, aren’t you two? God help us all.”