Clint&Natasha: Love Kills
"Let go of me!" she shrieks as her body fights desperately for escape, her black combat boots swinging back into the shins of the officers who have apprehended her. Her politely phrased request is ignored and she unleashes a long string of curses in every language she knows. Reporters flock about them, flashing their lightning bright camera bulbs at her and making blue blotches appear in front of her eyes. Tabloid journalists, if you can even call them that, are nearly throwing their tape recorders at her wiry face. The questions are flying at her in a way that makes her head spin but one just sticks out most of all "Why did you do it, Natasha?" She thrashes again, sharp and bony elbows jutting out uncomfortably before the officers force her into the back of a cop car. She bangs her handcuffed fists on the windows until the cruiser starts to move. She slips down then, hiding in her mess of red hair.
This is Natasha Romanoff. Not her real name, but the stage name she uses when she's screaming at the crowd and her voice sounds like broken glass. She was born Natalia Romanova, but she picks Romanoff because she's the kind of nasty little punk that always gets told to Fuck Off. She figures she might as well tell people that first now. Her legs are covered by a pair of tight leather pants, held together by safety pins. The boots she wears are well abused in a way that can only infer affection. Under her white tank top she's got a rather obvious black bra covering two of her most popular assets. Around her neck is a metal padlock and don't forget, there are blood stains covering the top of that snowy white shirt.
She's a scrawny mess and it's only made more obvious when they take her mug shot. She memorizes her number to the point that it's meaningless. She uses her sharps nails to draw it into her skin with white lines that soon darken to red. They force her to change out of her clothing, leaving it as evidence now and she changes into the baggy outfit provided. Everything looks baggy on Natasha if it isn't skin tight.
Eventually, she's brought into an interrogation room where a prick with a receding hair line looks at her out of almost sympathetic eyes. Her wrists feel rubbed raw by the metal cuffs but she doesn't' complain, won't give these buggers the satisfaction of her pain. Natasha sits down in this barren room that seems to be all dull edges and bores her eyes directly into that off the man sitting across from her. She knows the effect she has on men, whether the ones who sleep in the streets or those that live menial lives with Stepford smilers. But this man doesn't fall for her act, doesn't seem fazed. But he smiles all the same and offers her his hand to shake. She ignores it but his smile doesn't fall.
"Phil Coulson" he introduces. She doesn't care and rolls her eyes. "Now Natasha, is it alright if I call you that, I know you've been through a lot so far today, but I want you to help me understand what went on at the Chelsea. I'm trying to help you." A snort exits her critical mouth.
"Can you tell me about it?" he asks, and she doesn't answer.
"Alright then, Natasha" he says after a moment, "How about we start at the beginning? Tell me about the day you first met Clint Barton".
There's a phantom weight over Natasha's chest where her padlock would be.