So I had this idea to write something a bit on the serious side, and I'm actually kind of liking the way it's turning out. So please review and tell me what you think!
Trigger Warning-(spoiler-ish) this is a clintasha fic with a married Clint. Any other words, if you don't like it, don't read it. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, thanks for making me say it aloud.
One knock. Two knocks. Three knocks…
"Romanoff I know you're in there. Just open the door," Clint whines. He hears audible thumping around the room, none of which indicates any attempt to unlock the door and let him in. "Natasha…" Something heavy slams against the opposite end of the door. "Okay, okay I get it you need space. I'll leave your breakfast here for you." He gently places a tray of now lukewarm breakfast and coffee made just to her liking, black.
Clint leaves heading down the hall ignoring any side glances by anyone that witnessed his encounter, or lack of, with his partner. He made his way to the handler of both himself and his partner. Without knocking, as he's expected to do, he saunters in. Clearly, Coulson has been anxiously awaiting his report.
"Where is she, Barton?" The older man opts to skip greetings.
"Time, sir. Just a bit of a time." Clint sighs heaving himself into the chair across from Coulson, "Show a bit more mercy, please."
"Unfortunately, that's not my call Clint," his voice has lost its professionalism to make way for sympathy, "you disregarded orders six months ago and-"
"And… she's been an exceptional agent. Her missions are completed cleanly and I work well with her. A tad cold but nothing I couldn't handle."
"It's not her abilities as a spy or an assassin that I doubt. It's this. Her locking herself away days at a time in her room, refusing to attend any meetings or in general have human contact. Things like this make the others worry on her mental stability or even a question of her true loyalties," Clint pushes his chair up back and gets up angrily pacing at these accusations, "all I'm saying is that if she continues to act like a flight risk, the Council will treat her like one and place her back into deconditioning before deciding if her skills are worth her attitude to SHIELD."
Clint's head snaps back to his handler at his words. Natasha hated deconditioning. Therapies, interrogations, and all things that cause unnoticeable anxiety attacks in the young redhead. "Would they really-?"
"Arrangements are already being formed. Clint, as her friend, you need to get her out of that room, desperately." Coulson, before he was Clint's handler, he was a friend; a best friend even. Clint's nods, appreciatively before leaving briskly.
Natasha is miserable. Miserably alone and ignorant to any of her emotions, leaving her severely unhappy. In her room she reorganizes everything, constantly, to past the time. She scrubs the floors, walls, and everything encased in between them. Her SHIELD-issued dormitory eventually adapts an unscented all-purpose cleaner stench.
She isn't satisfied. She lives routinely. Waking at six in the morning, making her bed, stretching, bathing, dressing plainly, then indulging in her self-rationed breakfast. Then she cleans and tidies for hours. Finally she breaks to eat another minimal meal. Then changes clothing before tucking herself into bed never forgetting to delicately chain her wrist to the bedpost.
The entire ordeal doesn't bring comfort or satisfaction in fact it pains her to keep strict adherence. However, Natasha can't seem to pass this second nature outline, bore into her personality by no other than the Red Room.
The guilt is even more debilitating. She should be training, attending the mandatory functions she's been assigned to, or spending time with her partner like Coulson encouraged.
She wakes every morning, negotiating with herself how she should leave her room and take care of her responsibilities. Then glances down at the imprint the restraints left on her wrist and questions her place here and opts to exclude herself for another day. Routines, some just aren't meant to be broken.
She imagines how other must view her outside this room. Ungrateful, given the opportunity to start fresh, and squanders it. And, oh, her partner. How does he feel? He had a heart so open it was as if he chose the wrong career, and now did he regret fighting for her? He must, she certainly isn't making herself worth it.
Natasha Romanoff daydreams on occasion. She's immersed herself in all the ways her new employer will eventually attempt to terminate her as she continues this behavior. She imagines her escape and returning to a life on the run, again. She feels sick by the thought. Her stomach then flips suddenly when she hears clattering outside her door. She finds a knife instinctively being twirled around her fingers in expectation as the clattering continues for a few more brief moments.
A distinct click indicates someone has successfully picked her lock. Her eyes dart around the room, in search of anything that may cause her to be punished. The door is inched open and a husky voice is breaks the silence.
"Romanoff? I'm going to come in now, alright?" Barton obviously, the only one that probably still cared enough. The Russian doesn't respond, she stared blankly ahead wondering what was to happen next.
The door opens fully revealing the stone but somehow still calming face of Clint Barton. To his credit, he avoids gaping at the eerie sterilized, hospital-ish feel of the quarters. He eyes Natasha, carefully distinguishing any foul marks on her.
No one speaks for a moment. They just stare at each with nonjudgmental glances until Barton steps forward, "I need to ask you for a very important favor, please."
Natasha doesn't fail to notice the strained plea in the voice. She raises a single eyebrow in acknowledgement, Clint's heart leaps, this subtle gesture speaks volumes of progress she needs.
"I need a sparring partner."
"And you ask me?" Her voice waivers from inactivity.
"Well," he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, "I just- 'cause you know were partners and they tell us we should, you know… train umm together."
Did she make him nervous or did she really carry a homicidal-contemplating appearance, as her reputation rumored?
Natasha took a quick glance around the room, sighting the cleaning supplies she had just gathered. Routine was an enemy and still the choice seemed impossible when offered an out. Mistakenly she focused back to the desperately pleading eyes of her partner. The same eyes that softly bore into her soul when he geared an arrow in her direction before giving up and making a different call. "Okay."
Okay short chapter to get us started, the first few will be quick but they'll get progressively longer. Please Review they're very much appreciated!