PG for mild language, a wee bit of innuendo, and mentions of child abuse.
Prompted by Inkvoices in be_compromised 2015 promptathon: Actress Natasha Romanoff recently shot to fame thanks to her last film. Men happily fling themselves at her feet, but with the world her oyster Natasha doesn't have time for them - she's too busy working on her next film and planning her career (possibly becoming a film director eventually?) Falling for [make-up artist or stuntman] Clint Barton was in no way part of said plan.
There are a few nods to real life actors and films in this fic but the characters of Clint and Natasha (and all the rest) are in no way supposed to mirror living actors. Purely fiction, purely fun. Hope you enjoy! :)
diegesis
Scene 1. Take 3. Action.
Young Romanoff gives a gravitas and poise to her character that convinces the audience of a skill belonging to a much more experienced actress.
Romanoff is evocative and mysterious.
Newcomer Romanoff's husky voice is sure to one we will hear quite often from now on.
Complicated, is an unexpected success, more so because of the unexpected triumph of Natasha Romanoff's performance.
Natasha stared unhappily at her figure in the mirror hanging on the inside of her wardrobe door. On the wall behind her were taped and pinned the many magazine and newspaper articles that told of her dazzling performance and astonishing rise to fame in sparkling reviews (Five out of four stars, most definitely).
Love More Complicated – a tale of a young woman alone in a big city who falls for an older man. Natasha had starred alongside a big-time dramatic actor and she figured the crowds had been more drawn for him rather than her but, oh well, her paycheck hadn't known the difference.
Natasha had never thought she'd be one of those horrid celebrities that kept scrapbooks on their own rise to fame, but when the moment had struck she had been almost powerless not to take a pair of scissors to the articles and start her own collection. Praise was like a drug, her agent had told her, intoxicating since the very first taste, impossible to get enough of it once addicted. He hadn't been wrong.
Natasha twirled experimentally in the fifties-style red dress, low cut, full skirt, open back, all very sexy and retro, perfectly scandalous had she actually been wearing it in the 1950s. Score Stark a minus one for historical accuracy, then.
Natasha struggled to adjust the straps on her dress, hoping to hide a bit more cleavage. Not that Natasha had any particular qualms about showing skin. She was an attractive woman and everyone knew it already, no point in hiding it now. There had been a fully-clothed bed scene in Complicated. Natasha had admired the director's focus on emotional rather than physical love. Clearly Stark lacked such artistic subtlety.
Natasha was just about to sigh and give it up as a lost cause when there was a light tap on her door. Wondering who it could be she padded across the carpeted floor of her dressing room trailer – plush and pink. Everywhere she looked was pink. Pink seat cushions, pink pillows, pink curtains, pink floral wallpaper, pink frills, pink ribbons, and pink bows. Pink. She hated pink. She wondered if she was going to become one of those insufferable divas who threw a fit whenever they didn't get what they wanted.
She opened the pink door and a wave of dry New Mexico heat hit her solidly in the face. She immediately remembered to be grateful for the pink air-conditioner stuck in a back window of the trailer.
Her eyes fell on a man standing on the pavement, at the base of the metal staircase. He was tall, his head almost level with her shoulder despite her high perch. Natasha was small. She liked to wear heels.
The man had a rugged, suntanned face – which was not to say it wasn't good looking – and was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers, chrysanthemums, lilacs, and roses. All pink.
"Package for a Ms. Romanoff?" The man said, an almost cheeky lilt to his voice. His grayish blue eyes were gleaming over the top of the flowers with mischievous good-intent.
Natasha groaned, "Oh no." They had followed her even here, in the middle of the New Mexico dessert whose location Stark had assured her – assured her – was entirely secret. Ever since her sudden rise to fame she had been assaulted by all manner of fan mail, gushing admirers, three stalkers that had had to be dealt with by the police, and marriage proposals so numerous she had lost count. Her apartment back in California was so chock-full of bouquets of flowers that the maid had complained on its resemblance to a tropical jungle. Natasha had begun to give them away for charity – to use in funerals or weddings.
"Yeah, they are pretty horrible," said the man, grin partially obstructed by the mountain of green stems and pink petals. "Where did you want them?"
"Oh, I don't know," Natasha snapped unhappily, "Just put them on a chair or something." She gestured rather hopelessly into the interior of her trailer and stepped aside to let the man in.
He heaved the flowers up the stairs and deposited them on the pink settee. He straightened out and surveyed the rest of her trailer with a rather blank look on his face. He hooked his fingers in his belt. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans scuffed with grass and dirt on the knees. Natasha assumed he was some kind of workman or delivery boy. Finally he whistled, long and low.
"So…is pink like a theme with you?"
Natasha did not deign to answer. She cocked an eyebrow, are you going to leave or shall I show you the way out?
Natasha's message seemed lost on the man. He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on the ample cleavage revealed by her historically inaccurate dress. She met his gaze stonily, refusing to adjust her bustier.
"There's a note. Want me to read it?"
Natasha raised her other eyebrow so it met her first. Fine.
"Flowers for Ms. Natasha Romanoff. May her performance bloom just as beautifully. A.E. Stark."
Oh.
Anthony Stark, known as Tony in everything but his signature on large checks, was a self-proclaimed billionaire-playboy-philanthropist who also claimed to be an artistic genius, or was at least rich enough that he could pay someone else to be the genius for him. He was independently wealthy and ran a film production company (Stark Films, second only to Time Warner) when he was bored. He was also currently the holder of Natasha's most recent film contract.
"You can tell Mr. Stark they're lovely," she said, picking out a rose at random and twirling it in her fingers, putting it up to her nose to sniff. Disgusting. Smelled sprayed on. She'd never get the stench out of her trailer now.
The man was looking at her with a strange glint in his eye, as if he saw right through her act. It made her feel uncomfortable.
"Alright, well, thank you for dropping them off." She said, rather forcefully. She hoped he'd get the message.
"No problem. Want to start right up?"
Natasha blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No one told you I was coming over?"
Natasha wracked her brain for something to say. Nothing about this rough-looking, muscular man bearing flowers rang a bell. His shoulders were broad and biceps bulging under the sleeves of his shirt. She could see his muscles rippling with every casual move of his arms. She knew he wasn't one of her costars – although he might have been. He looked like he might have just stepped out of a superhero film.
Then she recalled, hazily from a phone call late last night, in-between I'll-be-down-tomorrow and don't-worry-about-the-pink-trailer-Nat-I'll-fix-it, that Coulson had mentioned something about a run through with the stunt coordinator.
Nonchalant. Natasha could do nonchalant. "Let me guess, you're the stuntman?"
The man smiled in a faintly self-depreciating but strangely endearing, long-suffering way, "Makeup, actually."
Oh. It was only after the man's amused cock of an eyebrow that Natasha realized she had actually said the Oh out loud. Damn. She never let herself slip like that.
"Yeah, I know," he flexed his muscles, "not exactly the right build for it."
Natasha didn't know what to say so she ended up stupidly muttering, "Er – no – I mean, that wasn't what I –"
The man laughed, a hearty, silvery thing that made Natasha want to smile. "No problem. I get it all the time. Fingers, you know –" he wriggled the said digits in front of Natasha's face. "Good for small work."
"Oh."
"Barton, by the way," he said unexpected, sticking out his hand. "Clint. Pleased to meet you Ms. Romanoff. I truly enjoy your work."
Natasha somehow couldn't picture this man – Barton – Clint – going to see a romantic dramedy like Complicated had been. Momentarily she wondered if maybe his girlfriend dragged him to it. That was, of course, assuming he had a girlfriend. That was silly, good looking man like him. Of course he had a girlfriend. Natasha remembered she was supposed to shake his hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Clint Barton," she said, and smiled wryly, to make sure he realized she wasn't a complete bimbo.
Barton met her smile. "Shall we begin, then?"
Natasha led him to the vanity at the end of the trailer, perching on top of the frilly pink stool, and allowed him to get to work.
"Just a touchup here and there," he explained as he riffled through her many brushes and makeup packets – stowed in the trailer before Natasha had got there – "Nothing heavy duty yet. Just read-throughs today, maybe a little set direction, get a feel for the other cast members."
Natasha hummed an affirmative but didn't want to talk because Barton was holding her chin in his large hands that – despite their size – really were quite nimble. He was staring into her face and she didn't know where to look. His eyes were intense, a mixture of greens, blues, and grays, and, now that she looked closer, little flecks of gold. They looked like storm tossed ocean, or maybe the dark rumbling clouds of a thunderstorm with peaks of lighting striking through and – this was really not a beneficial train of thought.
"Have you met them yet?"
"I'm sorry – who?"
"Your costars. Have you met them yet?"
"Oh, no," Natasha said, glad when Barton went on to inspecting her hair, running his strong fingers through the roots, looking at the tips for split ends. "I mean – just their pictures."
Barton kept up a running commentary as he worked so that Natasha hardly realized the brushes, pens, vials, bottles, and swabs that he was at times simultaneously attacking her face with.
"Steve Rogers – I swear, right out of a comic book. Old-fashioned manners too. Don't know how a kid like him keeps his innocence in a business like this for so long. Thornton Odinson – what a name – almost as bad as Benadryl Cabbage-Patch. But the ladies like his accent. I'd kill for his hair. Struck solid gold on this one, Ms. Romanoff."
"You can – er – please, call me Natasha."
"Sure," Barton grinned in the mirror at her. "Call me Clint." He stepped away from her hair and waved at the mirror, indicating he was done. "There you go. Fifty's beauty queen. Work of art if I do say so myself. Although, granted, not all my doing. God blessed you with that face. And that hair. Natural. I can always tell."
"Thank you," She smiled, bringing a hand to caress the bottom of her red hair, twisted into an intricate bun.
"My pleasure, Natasha. By the way, your bra is showing."
Scene 2. Take 14. Action.
Natasha bypassed the tray of donuts with a sigh and grabbed a sesame bagel instead, no cream cheese, and a cup of steaming coffee.
"Nervous?" said Phil Coulson, dressed in his characteristic gray suit, tie, and bland expression.
"I haven't been nervous since I was in diapers," Natasha said, ripping off a piece of bagel with her teeth and chewing it with a vengeance. She washed it down with a sip of coffee. Bitter and flavorless. Disgusting.
"You'll smear your lipstick," said Coulson, matter-of-factly, like he was telling her the sun was still floating in the sky this morning. Coulson had been her agent since she was twelve-years-old, when he saw her in the memorable girl-number-two-on-the-red-bike roll. He had appreciated her adlibbed flipping of the bird at the bank robber in the foreground of the camera. Her scene, regrettably, hadn't made the final cut. "You met your proprietor yet?" he asked, nodded to the back of Tony Stark, sitting with his legs cross on a tall folding chair.
Natasha could see Stark was wearing sunglasses. A black umbrella shaded him from the harsh sun hanging blankly in the sky. He was surrounded by about a dozen anxiously buzzing cameramen, assistants holding clipboards, and other members of the crew babbling about set pieces and lighting.
Wires slithered over dry, sandy ground, connecting to poles holding spotlights, cameras, and mics. Bulky black boxes littered the compound. People yelled directions urgently across the set. Shoes kicked up dust. Crewmembers dashed about looking dazed and vaguely annoyed.
"Where's his special pet?" Natasha asked, staring at the back of Stark's head and taking another bite of her bagel. "Potts? Stark's personal sex slave, or whatever she is."
"Personal Assistant," a clipped but perfectly civil voice came from behind them. Pepper Potts navigated her way around the table, somehow juggling two coffees, a plate with a chocolate glazed donut, her clipboard and several pens all in her two hands – and looking perfectly immaculate as she did so, not a strawberry blond hair out of place.
Something in Coulson's raised eyebrows told Natasha he was near laughter. She smothered her desire to whack him on the arm.
"Phil, Ms. Romanoff," said Potts with her cranberry red lips spread in a gracious smile, nodding her head in welcome. "How are you this morning? I trust everything is alright with your trailer?"
Natasha wanted to say something about it being too pink, but didn't want to press her luck.
"Oh no," Potts said, perhaps reading something in Natasha's face. "He didn't do everything in pink again, did he?"
"Er – now that you mention it…."
Potts looked to the blue, cloudless sky as if begging some deity for help. "I tell him time and time again to leave the decorating to me but does he listen? Of course he doesn't." Virginia Potts was beautiful girl, willowy and fit, once a bathing suit model before she was picked up by Stark's wandering eye, rumored to be only the human being Stark would listen to, the only female who had ever kept his attention for more than two months, and more in charge of Stark Films (and Industries) than Stark was himself. "Come on, I'll introduce you."
She led them over to Stark's chair, heels snapping professional on the hard ground. She looked perfectly calm and composed, even in the blistering heat, wearing a flowing white blouse and a tight pencil skirt.
"Darling," she said, and Stark's head swiveled on his neck to look at her, "your main attraction has arrived."
Natasha cocked an eyebrow at the word-use but stuck out her hand for Stark to take. His eyes were hidden behind his dark glasses but there was no doubt in her mind that he was looking at every curve and contour of her body beneath her dress. She wondered if he was in charge of costumes.
"Natasha!" said Stark, as though he had known her all his life. He took her hand in his own although he didn't stand from his chair to greet her. "How wonderful to finally meet you."
"Thank you, Mr. Stark, and may I say how wonderful it is to meet you as well."
"Of course you may. Everyone wants to meet me, don't they?" Stark flashed her a rakish grin. "You look even more stunning in real life than you did on the silver screen."
"Thank you," said Natasha, taking her hand back. "I'm sorry I can't say the same thing."
Stark wagged his finger at Natasha, and said to Potts, "I like her."
"And I'm Ms. Romanoff's agent," said Coulson, stepping forward and sticking his hand out for Stark to shake it. "We've talked on the phone."
Stark stared at Coulson's hand for a moment before tentatively extending the tips of his fingers to touch Coulson's palm. "Oh, yes. Hello, Agent." He sounded not nearly as enthusiastic as he had when greeting Natasha.
Coulson smiled, the stiff and humorless one Natasha was well aware meant he was seizing you up, trying to figure out the best places to stick a knife…theoretically, of course.
"Please, call me Phil, Mr. Stark."
Stark flipped his sunglasses onto the top of his head. His eyes were dark and bleary. His face looked haggard, almost sickly. Probably from the alcohol. Stark was supposed to be an alcoholic. He was famous for incessantly throwing wild Hollywood parties with ball pits and free marijuana. Natasha wandered if he was hungover now. Or drunk. He was probably drunk.
He stood up suddenly from his chair, too close to Natasha and she took a step backward. He snapped his fingers and a smartly dressed assistant with a Bluetooth hurried forward and snatched his umbrella. Stark lazily flipped his wrist in a walk-with-me gesture and Natasha fell into step beside him, the head of a small procession – Coulson, Potts, and the assistant carrying the umbrella.
"So…" Stark began, voice drawling, "really great you're on board. Can't tell you how thrilled I was. So excited to be working with you – but of course I saw you in that little number what's-it-called –"
"Love More Complicated," Potts supplied handily.
Stark snapped his fingers. "That's the one. Pure gold, Natasha, I'm telling you. First time the camera hit your face I knew I just had to have you – and I'm a man who won't rest until he's got what he wants. I'm telling you, Tasha – I can call you Tasha? – Good. I'm telling you, Tasha, you're gonna have the time of your life here. I can hear the sound of coins rattling in cash registers even now. Doing this film will be the best decision of your life, I can guarantee you that. Everyone loves a Stark Film and a Stark Film loves everybody! Real resume building – I'm telling you, Tasha – the people won't be able to get enough of you. And – what can I say? – figure like yours, pretty face, that gorgeous hair – you've got it all!"
The threaded their way through the bulky sound equipment and lights rattling atop metal poles. Natasha made sure she didn't catch her shoe on any wires, allowing Stark's voice to become an unintelligible drone in the back of her head. She scanned the compound eagerly. Stark looked like he had pulled out all the stops: a construction team was busy hammering together a log shack, what looked like real life fighter jets were parked behind the line of trailers. Rumor had it that he had rented out the nearby village for two months.
"This is going to be the best thing since Star Wars, I'm not kidding. Great story! Great director! Great producer!"
"Great cast," Potts added for Natasha's benefit.
"Yeah, sure, that too. Seriously, though, Tasha, the special effects team has been working overtime to ensure this film is over the top. It's going to blow peoples' minds. I can already see myself at the Oscars – might as well give me the award right now – thanks for coming folks, I'd like to thank everyone who lost. I'm telling you, what's-his-name won't be able to hold a candle to me – the guy with the glasses? And sharks?"
"Spielberg," said Potts.
"Yeah, him," said Stark. "Ah ha –" he said, and flourished his arms, "and here we have your costars, Tasha. Leading lady meet costars. Costars meet leading lady."
Natasha coolly observed her two male cast members. Natasha didn't know what Stark was thinking. Two impossibly good looking, blond hunks?
Thornton Odinson was the first to reach Natasha, lovely long hair pulled into a tale at the nape of his neck, grinning rather slyly and eyes gleaming in the sunlight. "Natasha Romanoff," he said in his silky, deep voice, taking up her hand by her side and putting it to his soft lips. "The pleasure is all mine." An Aussie with a rich, goose-bump inducing accent, Natasha knew Odinson apparently only agreed to do movies if getting the girl at the end was in the contract.
He was also the top result on Google for the phrase 'nude pics'. Not that Natasha had any personal experience, of course. She just tried to do her research – completely academic research – on her costars before she met them.
Steve Rogers stood at a respectful distance from Natasha, smiling politely, and offered his hand. "Please to meet you Ms. Romanoff. I look forward to working together." His handshake was firm and direct, his eyes kind, and, although he towered over her by almost two feet, had a quality in his face similar to that of a little boy's.
Stark turned his head, seemed to realize he was missing something, and called across the compound, "You there. Flower boy – delivery man – coffee – oh damn, whatever you are – Barton!"
Natasha turned in surprise to find Clint Barton was, indeed, lurking by the coffee table, arms crossed over his board chest.
He stepped forward "Makeup?"
"Yes, that," said Stark with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Fetch my chair."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Stark," said Clint. Before he dashed off Natasha thought he tossed her a cheerfully exasperated look.
"Well, somebody missed leg day," said Stark, watching Clint leave.
"You've met Barton already?" said Steve politely.
"Yes, he came to my trailer earlier," said Natasha.
"My, my Tasha here not even a day yet and you're already having men up to your trailer?" said Stark.
Natasha didn't know if her part in the film was secure enough yet to simply ignore the producer, so she settled with a glower in his direction.
"If looks could kill –" Stark chuckled.
"You'd be dead a long time ago," Potts said.
Thornton laughed heartily, and in that deep accent of his – damn that was delicious – said, "Do not mind Tony, Ms. Romanoff. He is still a child at heart, I think."
"I resent that," said Stark.
"You'll get used to him," said Steve with a sheepish grin. "Anyway, Barton. He's a great guy. You have any questions, ask him. Knows just about everything about the movie business – even though he's professionally just our makeup man."
"He learned it all from me," said Stark. He was fanning himself rapidly with his hand, sunglasses flipped back on the bridge of his nose.
Just then the man himself jogged back over, hauling Stark's director's chair.
"God this heat is awful," said Stark, "You know what, Barton, I've changed my mind. You kids play nice without me, right? Pepper? Get my car."
"What's the magic word?"
"Abracadabra?" Stark faltered when Potts remained unmoved. "Please, popkin?"
"Yes, Tony." Potts rolled her eyes but her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile. Natasha wondered how she stood him. As she walked away, gracefully on her stilt-like high heels she put her smart phone up to her ear and spoke into it, "Jarvis? Mr. Stark is ready for you to come pick him up now."
Stark waggled his fingers at them all in a general toodle-oo and trailed after Potts like a lost puppy, assistant with the umbrella running to catch up.
"He's – um – a bit impulsive," said Coulson in explanation, staring at Stark's retreating back.
"He's a jerk," said Natasha.
Clint shrugged and deposited himself in Stark's chair, "Someone had to say it."
Scene 3. Take 5. Action.
"Cut! Cap – what's wrong with you? Haven't you ever kissed a pretty girl before?"
Stark's voice cut across the soft patter of droplets of water hitting the hard ground for the umpteenth time that day. The sprinkler generating the fake rain cut off. Natasha wiped moisture out of her eyes and turned to glare at the producer, who was frowning at she and Steve, sunglasses on, sitting cross-legged in his chair.
"Come on, Tony," said Steve, rolling his eyes, arms dropping from around Natasha's waist – but she noticed his cheeks did seem to be a touch pinker than usual.
"Why'd you stop us that time?" Natasha demanded, hands on hips. "It was much smoother than the take before – lines were perfect –"
"Tasha you've got mascara running all down your nose." Stark actually sounded disgusted. "Barton – fix her!"
Natasha clenched her teeth. Clint snatched up his makeup kit and jogged forward, feet squelching on the wet ground. Her dress was soaked and itchy, and sticking uncomfortably between her legs. Her hair was matted and stuck to her forehead like glue. The water did nothing to absolve the heat, only made everything uncomfortably soggy and sticky, like she was wearing a heavy wet blanket. She wouldn't have been at all surprised if she and Steve were steaming under the sun.
Barton approached her with a dry washcloth, gently padding at her cheeks.
"Relax," Clint hissed aside to Steve as he reapplied Natasha's eye makeup. "Your arms look too tense. You're trying to kiss her, not tackle her. Remember this is your big good-bye scene. You think this is the last time you're ever going to see this girl. You're losing her to another man. Lots of sappy emotion."
"Yes, well, maybe if Stark would just let the scene run for once –" Natasha began heatedly.
"No, he has a point," said Steve – so politely Natasha wanted to roll her eyes at him. "I am too edgy. I just – I don't know – maybe if I had a little more time to get to know you…."
Natasha smiled to try to put him at his ease, "Don't worry about it, Steve. Just acting – never said it was anything personal."
"She's right." Clint nodded. "There's nothing to it. See – watch this."
Before Natasha could register what was happening Clint had his arms around her in a tender embrace, his lips pressed against her own. She could feel her own wet skin against the hair on his arms. He smelled – like sweat, really – but she had never before realized how intoxicating a smell it truly was. All she could taste was him – lips soft and searching against her mouth, hands strong on the bare skin of her back –
He released her. Natasha tried to catch her breath. She involuntarily took a step backward, blinking. Clint's eyes were fixed on her own, all dancing gray light and large black pupils, penetrating like eyes belonging to some kind of bird of prey.
Dimly Natasha registered that people were looking at them. Stark was saying something about "really does know everything in the movie business."
"See," said Clint, breaking eye-contact with Natasha and turning again to look at Steve. "Nothing to it."
Scene 4. Take 4. Action.
Pueblo de Piedra was the local town, a collection of potholed streets covered by wind-blown dirt in the middle of the desert, miles from any twelve-screen theater or Walmart supercenter. Main Street was small enough that Natasha could see it in entirety from end to end while standing at the single intersection of the village.
Natasha strolled down the empty street with her hands in her pockets. It had been a long, toiling day filming a love scene with Thornton. Natasha was not above taking her clothes off in front of the camera but somehow the eyes of Steve and Clint combined had made her unusually uncomfortable. Natasha was displeased with how it had come out. She thought she looked tense and awkward. Stark said she'd given the scene an addictive nervous energy. Natasha wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
The Searchlings was about a small town guy and gall whose idyllic life was inconveniently disturbed by invading aliens. Enter Thornton, who played a powerful super being come to rescue the pitiful earthlings from their messy fate – and subsequently steel the heart of Cassie – Natasha's character – from Richard – Steve's.
"On my world you should be a queen," Thornton had whispered to her while unbuttoning her blouse.
"Please, take me back with you," she had whispered in return.
Stark, like he was producer and director, had also penned the screenplay.
Natasha's shoes clapped against the grainy, crumbling pavement. The street seemed to belong to a ghost town, every house and store deserted, ready to hold colorful extras once the camera's rolled, but now empty and lonely, sitting gaping in the falling darkness. Apparently Stark had actually paid for each of the town's inhabitants, barring a few of the more flamboyant locals that he was bribing to stick around, to take a couple months off in Tahiti.
The desert night was as hot and heavy as the day had been. Natasha could smell an approaching thunderstorm in the air. Her skin seemed to crackle with electricity and pent up energy. She had been desperate to get away from her cramped trailer (mercifully no longer fully pink) and the walk alone across the desert had been soothing, except for the thin sheen of sweat that now covered the back of her neck and forehead.
Natasha was attracted by the faint flickering glow coming from a storefront up ahead. She wandered down the street until she was able to make out the sign over the door Banner's Place. It looked like a cheap bar, a little dingy hole in the wall place where Natasha's uncle might have gotten drunk and been thrown out of once upon a time. The door was open, letting a warm reddish glow spill out onto the street. On the front window was hung a sign Open and beneath it Sandwiches, Fries, Cold Beer.
Inside there was a long counter that spanned one half off the room, on the other side there was a row of tattered looking booths. An old-fashioned juke box sat in the corner near the restrooms. No wonder the place was still open: it looked like a dive right out of the 1950's – Stark had probably paid good money to keep the proprietor around town.
Sitting at the end of the bar was Clint Barton, hunched over a tankard of frothy beer, speaking to a rather worn looking man who was using a scraggly rag to clean the inside of a mug. He was wearing a stained apron that had perhaps once been white in another life.
There was a window fan in the doorway humming a constant, low drone. Natasha had to step over it to enter the bar. Rather than making the room cooler it seemed to just push the hot air around.
Clint and the man behind the counter looked over as Natasha stepped inside. "Hi," she said, "it was so hot I decided to take a walk to try to cool off."
"Pull up a chair," said the bartender. He had a shy, tentative smile and lines at the corner of his eyes. He looked sad, but Natasha couldn't put her finger on what made her think that. "What can I get you to drink?"
Natasha pulled out a stool at the bar – one seat away from Clint. "Cold beer sounds great."
"Coming right up," said the bartender.
"Bruce Banner," said Clint, pointing to the bartender, "I'd like you to meet Natasha Romanoff – Natasha Romanoff," he pointed to Natasha, "I'd like you to meet Bruce Banner, bartender and all around great guy."
"Pleased to meet you," said Natasha, extending her hand across the counter.
"Pleasure's all mine, Ma'am," said Banner, touching her hand with his fingertips, weathered, worn, but gentle, and sliding her mug of beer across the counter with his other hand.
"How is it you know everyone, Barton?" Natasha turned to Clint in mock seriousness.
Clint shrugged and took a sip of his beer, "Everyone knows Banner's. It's legendary. Best damn brew in the west."
Natasha smiled and took a drink of her own beer. "He's right," she said to Banner who shrugged in a self-effacing manner and went back to polishing his mug.
"Don't do anything to tick him off, though. Wouldn't know it by looking at him but Banner's got a nasty temper."
"Don't believe what he says, Miss Romanoff," said Banner, but his eyes were smiling.
"Come on, man, the way you threw those two guys out of your place when they were harassing that village girl is legendary – not to mention the time you smashed your fist through the wall."
Banner chuckled weakly, "Broke two of my fingers."
Natasha laughed. The beer was rich and sweet on her tongue. The warm breeze created by the box fan blew a strand of her hair over her forehead. Clint swallowed another mouthful of beer. Natasha stared at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Storm brewing out there," said Banner thoughtfully from behind the counter.
"Yeah, I could feel it," said Natasha.
"Hope Stark's got everything buckled down alright," said Clint.
Natasha drank from her own mug and frowned. Clint seemed strangely…distant tonight, just as cordial as he always was but there was something in the way he was sitting, hunched over, head turned away from hers like he was trying to ignore her. Natasha uneasily wondered if it had anything to do with the scenes shot today. She thought to herself, almost indignantly, that it wasn't as if Natasha had actually slept with Thornton. It wasn't anything like that. Besides, what would it have mattered if she had? Not that she ever would have, of course. Natasha didn't have time for any kind of relationship right now, sexual or other.
Some part of her, a snarky, annoyingly logical part of her, wondered where this curious proclivity for thinking about relationships when Clint was around had come front.
"So, how long you been around here?" she said to Banner, ignoring Clint completely as he continued to mutely drink his beer.
"Going on twelve years," said Banner. "It's a nice life. Quiet like. At least it was until you Tinseltown folks moved in."
Natasha didn't know whether or not Banner was asking for an apology but then saw that he was smiling.
"Actually," he added as an afterthought, putting down his mug upside down on the counter and snatching up another to begin polishing it, "Stark's an okay guy – seems like a jerk but he's really doing great things for the town, given the people money, a little excitement in their lives."
"That's a good thing about, Stark," said Clint, "never forgets the little people in the world – as long as they remember he's one of the big ones."
Natasha looked over at Clint, surprised. He actually sounded bitter. He shot her a grin and a wink though, as if to reassure her he was kidding.
"If you had his money can you honestly say you wouldn't act the same?" said Banner.
Briefly, vividly Natasha wondered if she'd ever get where Stark was – assistants fawning over him every moment, jumping at his every beck and call, expecting everyone to do as he said, no questions asked. Something hard and heavy landed in Natasha's stomach. It seemed like a lonely life.
Clint twitched his head in what was half-way between a shrug and a nod. "You know," he said suddenly, "Stark has a heart condition. He could literally go any time, any day. Well not any day any day. You know. Six months. Thirty years. Tomorrow. I guess that's why he is the way he is. Can't blame him, really. Might as well live it up while you're here to enjoy it."
"Oh," said Natasha, and blinked. "Wow. I – er – didn't know that." She wondered why Clint had told her. She wondered how Clint had known. That wasn't a piece of information that was floating around in the tabloids – and Stark told everything to the tabloids.
"It's not easy being green, Miss Romanoff," said Banner with a sad little smile.
Natasha realized she was nodding in agreement even though she wasn't entirely sure what Banner meant. She thought of Stark dying, perhaps someday soon, unexpectedly with an assistant holding an umbrella over his head. The thought was…inconceivable somehow. Stark was so solid, so iconic.
"Please, call me Natasha," she said to Banner.
"Natasha," Banner echoed quietly, nodding in affirmative.
"Pour me another one, Bruce," said Clint, pushing his empty tankard across the counter. "Natasha? My treat."
"Thanks," said Natasha. Natasha wondered if Clint was, in fact, not upset with her. Perhaps he just acted differently out of the movie-star atmosphere of Natasha's trailer. He was quieter, more reserved, smile was less wide, almost somber. Natasha realized it was all an act. Everything about him was acting, his stage a brush and ink where Natasha's was the big screen, his mask the smiling face reflected back in her mirror, hers the makeup he painted on her skin. So adept at routing out other's secrets, Natasha wondered who the real Clint Barton really was, and if he ever showed him to anyone else.
Banner poured them both another round.
"Why does Stark call Steve Cap?" said Natasha, figuring – of all people – Clint would probably know.
True enough Clint launched into an explanation, "Apparently Rogers was in the army before he became an actor. Not a captain, though. Private, maybe Corporal."
"I always liked Steve Rogers," said Banner. "He's more laid back then the others. Private man, keeps his personal affairs out of the magazines."
"Yeah," said Natasha, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how much of her own life that had been broadcasted by the tabloids – wild parties, dozens of men – she wondered how much Banner and Clint believed of all that.
"Bunch of leeches," said Clint. "Steve's wise to keep away from them." He added, "Apparently he was going around with a girl from his hometown. Everyone thought they were a matched set. Got a Dear John while in Afghanistan." Poor Steve, short end of the stick even off the screen.
"Wonder what gets I guy like that interested in the movies," said Banner.
"Wide shoulders," said Natasha at the same time as Clint said, "Blond hair."
"What about you, Natasha?" said Banner, "what made you interested in acting?"
Natasha smiled, "Oh, I've been acting since I was a little girl. Lots of little parts in television. Guess I just got the bug." There was more to the story than that, of course, but Natasha didn't like to talk about it.
"What about you, Clint?" said Banner, with a shyly cheeky grin in Natasha's direction. "You seem pretty normal – what made you want to stick around with a bunch of Hollywood crazies?"
"Always loved backstage stuff," said Clint with a shrug. "I learned makeup in the circus. Perfected my craft on clowns." Natasha could tell Clint, also, was not telling the whole story. She wondered what Clint had been doing in the circus in the first place – whether or not that had been when he was a young boy. She didn't ask him. She'd let him have his secrets – precious as they were in this business of three-sixty degree camera coverage and paparazzi sneaking around behind bushes ready to spill your secrets on the next cover of a magazine or BuzzFeed article.
"You, Barton," said Natasha instead, "are single-handedly responsible for traumatizing thousands of children with your evilly grinning clowns." Clint smiled, one corner of his lips digging into his cheek.
"And you never wanted to be a star?" Banner prompted.
Clint laughed, "No way. In the circus I'd started out by learning the trapeze and a little trick-shooting, nothing much, but enough that my age would make it impressive. Anyway, got out one night and all those people – something about the way I couldn't see their faces but I knew they were all staring at me. I couldn't do it. Slipped off the bar and broke my ankle. So ended my career in the spotlight."
"Probably wise," Natasha joked, although for the life of her she could not imagine Clint Barton as a victim of stage fright. He seemed too at ease in crowds, keeping up an endless stream of chatter as he applied powder to her cheeks with his left hand – Natasha had by now realized Clint was a southpaw. But, then again, perhaps living behind the scenes, flitting in and out of the camera when the film stopped rolling was where Clint belonged, binding the movie together with his subtle manipulations of creams and glosses, an invisible thread who pulled together the finished product. Natasha was almost jealous of that.
Their conversation was cut short by a distant rumble of thunder. "Better get a move on, Bruce," he said, standing from his chair. "Want to get back to the compound before that storm moves in."
Clint extended his hand to help Natasha off her stool. She almost didn't take it. Natasha Romanoff did not need chivalry, but then decided it was actually kind of nice and put her small, thin fingers against his large palm.
"May I walk you back to the compound, Ms. Romanoff?"
"Thank you, Mr. Barton," Natasha answered primly.
"Pleasure meeting you," said Banner, "best of luck with the movie."
"Thank you," said Natasha. "I'll be sure to refer all my friends here."
Clint let Natasha walk through the door first. She stepped back over the whirring box fan. Outside it was even muggier than it had been when she'd gone into the bar. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Across the flat plane of desert Natasha could see gray clouds building in the sky, illuminated by the occasional electrical glow of lightning. The wind was picking up, throwing Natasha's hair into her face.
"He used to be a boxer," Clint said softly. "Banner. Killed the last man he ever fought. Bad blow to the head. Accident, of course. Hasn't ever stepped into the ring again."
The humid air tingled inside her nostrils as Natasha breathed.They walked together in silence back to the compound. It was raining by the time the trailers came into sight, something between a sprinkle and a downpour, enough that her hair was beginning to plaster itself to the side of her face and blouse cling to her torso. They ran the last hundred yards to her trailer.
"Make sure you keep the radio on in case of tornado warnings," Clint said. His face was hidden in the darkness. Natasha was suddenly, vividly reminded of that day on set and feeling Clint's lips against hers, warm and almost rough, chapped from the dry air.
They hadn't discussed it since. Clint had acted as if it hadn't happened – Natasha had gone along with his lead. She was beginning to wonder if it had, in fact, happened at all.
She realized Clint had said something and replied hastily, "Yeah, sure. I will – thanks."
Clint stood there for a moment. Natasha put a hand on her trailer door. Ran pattered off the aluminum roof of the trailer. It hit the top of her head and slithered through her hair. She could see Clint's skin gleaming with wetness.
For a moment she wondered if Clint was going to say something – was, perhaps, going to kiss her again. She wondered what she would say – would she rebuff him? She had to rebuff him. She didn't want Clint to think that – Natasha wasn't looking for – Natasha didn't want –
"Too bad Steve isn't here," said Clint finally, and his smile looked strangely stiff, half hidden in the darkness. "You could rehearse your scene."
He nodded a curt farewell and then turned on his heel, figure swallowed up by the rain and darkness in a blink of an eye. Something stirred abstractly in Natasha's stomach, an emotion she tried very hard not to align with disappointment. Another rumble of thunder, closer now, chased her inside the trailer.
Scene 5. Take 16. Action.
When Natasha opened her door she found Clint standing there with a monstrous thermos of coffee – which he offered to Natasha with a flourish and a grin, "I figured you'd need it after night you had. It sounded like quite the party."
Natasha groaned and snatched the cup of coffee from Clint's hands, taking a huge gulp of the scalding liquid before she replied. "You have no idea the headache I have right now."
"Yeah, if it feels at all like the way you look than you have my pity." Natasha was in no mood for jokes so she only scowled and let Clint come into her trailer.
He seemed to recognize Natasha didn't want to talk and got to work on her makeup silently, working quickly and efficiently.
"So, I'm guessing it wasn't a great time?" he said finally.
"It was a lousy time," said Natasha grumpily. It was only half-way true. There had been plenty of food, good music, and raucous dancing – not exactly Natasha's scene but not wholly tortuous. Tony Stark had given everyone the day off from filming in order to celebrate his birthday. He had ended up getting thoroughly plastered, flirted with some girl from television, insulted a highly respected director, challenged the butler to a duel, and passed out in a corner half way through the evening.
"Stark was an absolute idiot," said Natasha. "I don't know how Pepper manages to tolerate him. If I were her he'd have been out of the house long before now – even though it's his house." A really nice house, all plush carpets and floor to ceiling windows. No doubt Pepper did the decorating.
Worse the press had been there and had gotten a perfectly good shot of Natasha and Steve attempting to pull Stark out of the sight of the guests and into the back room. "Got quite the reputation with the men, Ms. Romanoff, they're beginning to call you the Black Widow – use a man until you're tired of him and then toss him out," one had shouted at her before the door slammed shut in his face.
Men were tiring. Natasha was sick of men. Everywhere she went men, men, and more men. Even Coulson – whose wife and two kids and unstraying eyes really didn't align himself in Natasha's mind with other men – was still, in fact, a man. Clint. Clint, too, was a man. But for some reason his manliness, the very essence in which he was man, seemed to be different than other men.
"Remind me never to make you angry. It looks like you're about ready to strangle him between your thighs," said Clint.
"And this Odinson character!" Natasha continued, working herself into a whole-hearted rage "Parading around like he owns the place and we're all his little underlings. Like he's some kind of flipping Greek god." Natasha took a vicious sip of her coffee and almost choked.
"Norse," said Clint.
"What?"
"Norse…as in Thor? Thornton? Norse god of thunder, lightning, and fertility and stuff…never mind," Clint smiled that crooked, abashed smile of his – like he was trying not to smile at all. He pulled her hair into a tale to get it out of her face.
"Fertility?" Natasha said, and groaned. "Whatever you do, don't tell him that. He already goes on enough about his mighty golden hammer."
Clint coughed in a way that might have been a laugh.
"Anyway, his real name is Donald Blake."
"Really?" said Natasha, perking up at the unexpected information. She didn't know why, but somehow the knowledge that Thornton, with his roguishly good looks and stupidly long hair that was shinier than Natasha's, was once in another life called "Donny", made her feel infinitesimally better about the horrible night.
"Steve, too," said Natasha, who – as men went – was almost tolerable. Technically Natasha wasn't supposed to talk when Clint started on her makeup, at the very small risk that her movement would make him make a mistake and he'd have to start over. "I wish – I don't know – he'd get out a bit more, have some fun. Get a girl. He trailed after me like a cat looking for food all night. Fine if he had actually been a cat but he's so tall. I felt like he was my bodyguard or something."
Clint clicked his tongue sympathetically.
Suddenly Natasha laughed and she didn't know why she did, a clear-sounded, genuine laugh that leapt from her lips uninvited. Although she didn't notice it until now the tightness of her chest and shoulders seemed to evaporate. Clint smiled at her through the mirror and grabbed a brush to apply foundation to her face.
"How did you know about Thornton, anyway?" she said.
Clint shrugged, "I guess people feel like they can open up me. Maybe since I'm sort of a cousin to your friendly neighborhood barber?"
"So you collect their secrets and give them out as souvenirs?"
"Well…not really," said Clint, "I don't spill everything to everyone."
"You, Barton, are a malicious gossip."
"Maybe not malicious," said Clint with a crooked smile but didn't deny the rest. Natasha laughed again.
"So, what about me? Collected any secrets yet?" Clint's gray eyes were warm and gentle reflected back at her in the mirror. Natasha looked at him rather than at her own face, beginning to be grossly distorted with the thick makeup required under the harsh lights.
"I can only collect what is offered, Ms. Romanoff," said Clint, and then told her shut her eyes so he could apply primer to her lids.
"And what about you?" she said with her eyes shut. "You ever spill any secrets of your own?"
She couldn't see his expression when he answered her, whether or not he was smiling, "What secrets? With me, what you see is what you get." He was a perfectly horrible liar but Natasha decided not to call him on his bluff.
Scene 6. Take 53. Action.
"My uncle managed me when I was young," Natasha said softly, fishing the olive out of the bottom of her drink with her wooden mixing stick. "He opened a lot of doors for me, old Uncle Ivan did," she was surprised at how bitter she sounded. "He helped me break into the business. I was a child actor. No Shirley Temple. No big roles. Just small stuff. An extra here and there. The girl in the background riding a horse. Uncle Ivan took the money I earned. Stowed it in a college savers fund."
"Ah," said Clint with a knowing nod, pouring his own martini, running his finger around the edge of the glass. "I've been around the performance business for plenty of years. Let me tell you, nothing boils my blood quite like exploited kid actors. And I've seen more than my share come and go. You're lucky you came out of it alright."
Natasha exhaled briefly in what might have been a laugh, "That's a theory of relativity if I ever did hear one." She took a sip of her martini and almost spat it out again –
"God this is disgusting! Like lighter fluid."
Clint laughed, "Guys in the service used to call me Hawkeye, like the character from MASH, because I made such awful martinis. They're legendary."
Natasha choked and struggled to swallow what liquid was still in her mouth, burning her tongue and making her eyes water. "What did you do – wash your socks in that stuff?"
"Hey," said Clint in mock seriousness, "no trying to guess the secret recipe."
Natasha laughed and said, "You were in the army?"
Clint nodded but immediately a guarded look came over his face. "Marines. Afghanistan 2001."
"How long?" Natasha asked. They were in Clint's trailer, sitting at either end of his ratty couch, a nondescript color between brown and gray. Just a drink between friends Clint had said. Friends. Clint and she were friends. There was nothing wrong in being friends.
"Two tours."
It seemed clear Clint was not going to say anymore. Natasha had been so close. The key was there, somewhere near at hand if only she could see it – loose his own tongue by using her own, spilling a bit of her own secrets in order to get him to reveal his.
"Natalie Rushman," Natasha said and took another drink of her martini. It wasn't so bad the second time around. "That's my real name. Uncle Ivan changed it early on. Thought Romanoff sounded more impressive, gave me a 'lost princess of Russia' appeal."
Clint nodded in understanding. "Natalie," he said, as if trying out the taste of it on his tongue. "Do you like it better?"
"I guess I've gotten used to Natasha," she said, and shrugged. "Uncle Ivan was right about at least one thing – it does look more impressive on screen."
"And that's what you'd like to be," said Clint, "impressive?"
"I don't know," Natasha shrugged and twirled a strand of her hair around her finger, "It's so difficult making it big in this business. I've come so far it feels silly to go back now."
"Silly or not," Clint pressed, gray eyes serious over the lip of his glass, "you're happy?"
Happy. What was happiness? Natasha was…content. Content enough, at least. Or would be once she got through this Stark production. Maybe by then she'd have a little more choice in her material, maybe, after that, and after that, and after that –
"I was lucky when I got the part in Complicated," she said. She was aware she had dodged Clint's question. She knew he knew it, too. "I thought the critics were finally starting to see me as an actress, you know. But now I'm not so sure. Tabloids have labeled me a sex symbol. That's something I never wanted to be. When I was little girl, I remember the thrill is was to disappear into the life of someone who was entirely different then myself, to be whoever I wanted to be, that exhilaration of hearing applause for the first time – I never wanted to lose that. But now I'm not sure."
"Not sure of what?"
"Not sure of who I am anymore. If everyone says I'm a symbol of sex, maybe that's what I've become. After all, I never thought I'd be playing some ditsy girlfriend who doesn't even know how to shoot a gun in an action flick – more concerned about special effects than plot substance. I thought I'd be playing more serious roles, growing as an actress – in the art instead of just my body."
"Serious roles like biopics, Indie films?"
The smile was so evident in Clint's tone that Natasha couldn't help but laugh at herself.
"Well no…not all the time," she said. "Everyone needs a little bit of blockbuster in their lives, too. But – well – you know." She hesitated, words she had never spoken to another human being on the tip of her tongue. "What I'd really like to do," she spoke slowly, feeling the texture of every word before it left her mouth, "I mean, after I get around to a few more roles, wrack up a little more doe and a lot more independence, I'd like to take a break and go behind the camera – directing, producing. That sort of thing."
"That sounds great," said Clint, and he sounded so candid Natasha almost believed him.
She pushed back the sudden eruption of warm fuzzies in her stomach. Natasha Romanoff didn't do butterflies. "Yes, well, I don't know," she said matter-of-fact. "There isn't a whole lot of respect for female directors."
"Come on, Nat," Clint laughed, "your speaking to your male makeup artist. I know no gender boundaries."
Natasha laughed as well, finding his smile infectious – if not, more than that, at the pleasure of hearing him call her Nat.
"So, from what it sounds like," Clint said, suddenly serious again. His manipulation of the conversation left Natasha slightly out of breath. She remembered that it was supposed to have been her getting secrets out of him, but suddenly their roles had reversed. Talking to Clint, saying these things that she had never told anyone else, there was an almost calming quality to it, an addictive, invigorating feel to the air, something that, if she should put a name to it, felt a whole lot like…freedom. "What you're really looking for is an opportunity to do what you want instead of being told what to do all the time."
"Yeah," Natasha nodded. "Yeah, I can't deny that would be nice."
Clint's smile was so twisted it was almost painful. And abruptly Natasha knew – the reason Clint understood so aptly was because he had experienced it all before, himself.
"My parents died when I was young," Natasha said quietly, and set her empty martini glass on a side table. "House fire. I don't remember them. I went to live with my uncle when I was four – I think. I don't remember. I don't remember a lot of my childhood. I think he made me take drugs – pep pills and stuff to keep me awake for shoots. I did a lot of theater, too. Grueling hours. He wouldn't let me sleep until I memorized my lines. Used up all the money on booze."
Silence met the end of her voice, ringing sharply in the stuffy trailer. A window air-conditioner rattled above them but wasn't quite enough to chase away the dry desert heat. Natasha wondered uneasily if this truth had been too much, if she had scared him away with her secrets, if he had reverted once again to Clint her makeup man from Clint her friend.
I can never tell quite who you are. She almost said it aloud but she didn't. She was glad she didn't.
"My father was an alcoholic," said Clint finally, softly, eyes away from her, staring at the empty glass hanging in his hands between his knees. "He used to beat my mother." And then he told her, all the secrets, all the blurred lines between story and memory, all the lies and truths that had held him captive just as Natasha's own had been fastened in chains around her wrists. How he and his brother always secretly hoped their father wouldn't come home at night. How his brother tried to stop it sometimes. How Barney took the blows for his mother sometimes, sometimes for Clint. The accident on a snowy evening. Driving while intoxicated. All very sad, the social worker said, wish there had been more that they could do. Running away from the foster home. The circus at twelve-years-old, prison at sixteen. Joining the Marines and Afghanistan after that to try to turn his life around. Hitchhiking across the country, assaulted with nightmares about all the orders he had followed in the army, all that blood on his hands. She didn't ask him what had happened to his brother.
"You make us human, Clint," Natasha said when he was finished. "You – all of us, Steve, Thornton, Stark – you pull us all back to ground, make us remember what it's like to be normal."
"Because I am normal?" said Clint. He sounded unsure.
"Normal isn't bad," said Natasha. "I would love to be normal."
"Yeah, well," said Clint with that twisted, sad little smile again, "if you ever find out how, let me know."
Scene 7. Take 12. Action.
Natasha filmed her death scene the last day (the resurrection had already been covered). She didn't have much CGI stuff to do – a mercy because acting in front of a green screen was a real pain – so she was cleared to leave, whereas Steve and Thornton still had about a month of action sequences left.
It had all seemed to pass so quickly, whiling away countless hours in front of the camera in the New Mexico heat – perhaps tiring at the time but now that it was over seemed to have passed in a blink of an eyes. Coulson already had a fifteen calls into other producers looking for a new leading lady. She'd be back at it soon enough, bags packed, trotting after Coulson like a trained horse.
She threw her luggage into her bags with little precision, blouses rumpled, shoes scattered, socks unmatched. About time. She looked forward to getting on the road again. Leave this lousy dump behind her and never look back. Go on to the next job, the next role, the next forced smile at an interview, the next airbrushed man who'd hold him in his arms and kiss her, tell her all the sweet things the movie script told him to do – Inwardly she wondered what was making her so angry about it all.
She hadn't seen Clint very often in her last week there. Kate, his teenage apprentice, had mostly taken care of Natasha's makeup. Thornton and Steve had both had a couple heavy duty jobs with hours of makeup preparation, big blood stains and laser gun chest wounds with glowing green slime and then of course – Thornton's alien transformation that had taken almost ten hours.
("Where's Clint?" Natasha had asked when she'd opened her door and found a skinny girl standing in his place.
"Oh – he had a big job with Odinson today. I'm his protégé!" The girl beamed with pride. "Well, I mean, not really. More like apprentice – sort of. Mostly I just hang around and watch what he does. I'm Kate.")
Natasha had not had a conversation longer than a minute with him since their shared martinis in the trailer. Suddenly Clint had ceased entirely being Clint her friend, returning once again to his chatty, aloof makeup man, all around great guy, best in the business. "That man never misses" Stark had said after Steve had come out with a particularly gory wound on his bicep. Natasha didn't know why she had ever thought Clint could have been something different.
Natasha reminded herself sternly that she hadn't thought that. She had never wanted that. It was probably better this way – better, in fact, if he didn't even see her off.
Just as she thought it she heard a knock on the door. She had memorized his knock in her time there, different than Steve's knock, different than Pepper's or Coulson's – a cheerful, driven, hospitable knock and Natasha's heart pounded in an unexpected pull of conflicting emotions when she heard it now, half joy half reservation.
When she opened the door he was grinning as if nothing at all was the matter, it was just another day. Natasha reminded herself that nothing was the matter. Nothing the matter at all.
"Hey," said Clint, lifting his hand in a partial wave.
"Hello." If Clint detected any coolness in Natasha's tone he didn't show it.
"So, you're off?"
"Yes," said Natasha.
"All done packing?"
"Nearly."
She wondered why he wasn't coming in. It seemed so strange and unfamiliar, him just standing there on her doorstop – as though he feared he wasn't welcome. Natasha wondered if he was welcome.
"I watched you earlier," he said. "You played the scene well."
"Thank you."
"I'm serious, Nat, you give this movie a lot of class," Clint said and Natasha almost winced when he said Nat. "Where are you off to now?"
"Coulson's finagling something," said Natasha. "I'll be the damsel in distress again before I know it. Who knows, maybe Stark will do a sequel."
Clint laughed because it appeared as though he had run out of things to say. Natasha almost asked him to leave so she could finish up with her packing.
Instead she said, words spilling from her lips without bidding, "I'm on Letterman tonight – promo for the movie, what am I wearing for the Red Carpet, that sort of thing."
"Sounds nice."
"Should I go for blond or leave it red? I've been thinking about dying my hair. You know, so people will stop associating me with The Searchlings."
"I'd go for the red," said Clint decisively.
"Really?"
"One thing I've learned in makeup," Clint answered, "is to never hide natural beauty."
Natasha didn't know what to say to that. She found her cheeks growing uncomfortable warm. Dammit, Natasha Romanoff did not blush.
"Thanks," she mumbled. An awkward silence descended upon the two of them, dry and crackling as the hot dessert air floating across Clint's shoulders and creating hazy, river-like mirages on the horizon.
"So…you and Rogers?" said Clint, leaning against her door jam, "That's cool. Steve's a good guy – all American type, you know? His favorite food is probably apple pie."
She knew for a fact his favorite food was apple pie but she didn't want to tell Clint that. "Wait – what are you talking about?"
For a moment Clint looked befuddled before comprehension, mixed with something like relief dawned on his face. "Oh – er – right. Stark. Don't listen to Stark."
He had been jealous. Suddenly the pieces fell into place. Clint had been avoiding her all week because he had been jealous. Momentarily Natasha's heart leapt before she remembered that being jealous was not a good sign and her heart plummeted down to the soles of her feet. She did not want Clint to be jealous. Him being jealous meant that – and Natasha did not want Clint to –
Clint was laughing, shaking his head at his foolishness.
"I mean," said Natasha hastily, stupidly because she didn't know what else to say. "He's a nice guy and all but we'd just never get along – like that, I mean. As a friend, sure but he's – he's too neat, you know. Obsessively compulsively neat. I went over to his trailer to rehearse a scene and he scolded me for putting my feet up on his table. I mean – it's not even his table." Natasha realized she was rambling. Natasha didn't ramble. "Um – did you want to come in?"
Clint smiled and climbed into the trailer.
"Want a drink or something?" Natasha asked.
Clint declined but Natasha crossed the room to pour herself a glass of water from the compact sink, slightly warm because the water cooler was sitting outside in the sun. Her throat was oddly dry.
"So – it's been great getting to know you, Nat."
"–You too, Clint." Too quickly. Calm down. Relax.
"Gonna really miss you around here."
"Thanks."
"I mean – not just doing your makeup but, you know, everything about you," too earnest. His eyes were too earnest. Voice was too gentle. The way he braced his hand on the wall was almost provocative.
"Clint –"
"I mean it, Tasha –" Tasha? Where had Tasha come from? "You're – um –" she could see the muscles work in his throat as he swallowed. "You're a pretty amazing woman. You've been a great friend –"
"Clint – Clint, wait," Natasha's pulse was racing in something dangerously near panic. Natasha Romanoff did not panic.
"Natasha – I don't know how you feel – but I –"
"Stop!" The word was out of Natasha's mouth before she could think. "Clint, stop!"
And Clint did stop. His mouth fell into a perfectly straight line, eyes attached themselves to Natasha's face. And suddenly she knew, with a piercing, hollow guilt, just how hard it had been for him to tell her this – to spill another secret only to have her throw it back in his face.
"I'm sorry," it was hard to speak. Her heart was pumping in her throat. "But I – I can't, Clint. Not the way you're asking me. Can't we –" she was aware she sounded desperate. She wished Clint would look away from her. His eyes were searing, excruciating. "Can't we just stay as friends? It's a good thing – why ruin it?"
"We are friends, Natasha," said Clint. He was smiling again but it looked counterfeit and alien, like a red grin painted on a clown's lips.
"Good," said Natasha hastily. "That's great. That means a lot, Clint. It really does. I just – I just can't – not now. I'm still trying to figure out my own life without having –"
"You don't have to explain," said Clint firmly. "I understand." It was as though she was speaking to him through a glass wall, voice muffled and distant, impossible to reach out and touch without hitting the barrier.
I'm sorry. She felt like she was supposed to say it again. Something heavy slunk into her stomach. She felt sick and disoriented.
Suddenly he was just her makeup man again, brisk and cheerful, telling her to have a good trip, best of luck in the future, and then he was gone. He left the door open behind him. Natasha shut it with a bit more energy than she meant to. The harsh click of the lock catching sounded like a gunshot.
She looked at the newspaper clippings hanging on her wall over the settee. Such vibrancy, such beauty, such potential – she crossed the room in one wide stride and tore the clippings off the wall. She ripped them into shreds and left them on the floor for one of Stark's assistants to pick up. Then she snapped her suitcase shut and called Coulson to bring the car, she was ready to leave now.
Scene 8. Take 1. Action.
March in California was just like any other month in California, dry heat and brisk wind whipping through the tall buildings of Los Angeles. Natasha's penthouse apartment was immaculate, all golden sunlight spilling through the floor to ceiling windows, sparsely furnished with designer pieces, minimalist but suave. She hadn't done the decorating.
Natasha was packing again, suitcase dissected on her queen-sized mattress, filled with rows of neatly folded shirts and dresses. Natasha could technically get someone else to do the packing for her but she somehow wanted to do it herself. Packing always made her think of him. It had been eight months since she left the set of The Searchlings. She hadn't seen Clint since.
She'd gone out for a couple of drinks with Steve. He was a nice guy – a good friend. Thornton had followed Stark's film with a series of equally action-packed flicks where he got the girl at the end. Stark, himself, had moved on to a more avant-garde scene, connecting with his inner artistic soul he had told Natasha when he'd called her, asking if she'd like to star in his latest film about a woman who went on a journey of self-discovery only to find she was actually a tree.
Natasha had declined roles in both a screwball comedy about a woman cop and a voiceover in an animated movie about a talking rabbit who wanted to be a ballerina. She hadn't worked since the summer. She now considered The Searchlings, despite the box office payout and rave reviews, to be, to-date, the largest mistake of her life.
She had never before thought freedom might feel so empty, so lonely without someone to share it with. A friend. A partner? Was that so wrong? How could Natasha have possibly been so blind not to see it while she had a chance, a partner to share her secrets with, to make knew secrets, and frighten away the old.
She was tucking a pair of stilettos into her bag when she heard a knock on her door. Her ears pricked up at the sound, but then she immediately scolded herself for being silly – it was merely because she had been thinking of Clint that –
Whoever it was knocked again.
Natasha dropped her shoes and padded across the soft carpet in her bare feet. She didn't bother looking through the eyehole in the door before she flung it open wide on its hinges.
Natasha felt her lips spread into an involuntary smile, corners digging into her cheeks until they hurt. Clint met her eyes over the flowers bundled in his strong arms. Roses. Red. He grinned. "Package for a Ms. Romanoff?"
"Clint!" she said, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by," said Clint, and shrugged. "Working on Jackson's latest film."
"That's great," said Natasha.
"You look good, Nat." Something in his voice, soft, almost mournful, brought it all back. New Mexico heat, martinis in his trailer, running through the storm, claps of thunder growing louder in the distance. The last day in her trailer, the distance that lay between then and now.
Natasha felt her smile wilt. She worked hard so it wouldn't show on her face. "You, too, Clint. Please, come in."
Clint stepped through her door, scanning the large apartment. She knew he was taking everything in, the white canvasses on the walls, the ceiling lights, beige leather of the couches, brass handles on the drawers of the desk in the corner. He set his flowers down by the wall.
"Congratulations," he said by way of explanation, throwing a hand to the rose. "On your Academy Award. Pretty big stuff."
"Thank you," said Natasha primly, curiously uncertain of where to bring this conversation. The week before she had won the Oscar for best actress in Love more Complicated. Searchlings had won best special effects. It had been nominated for makeup. Clint hadn't been there.
"I was watching it on TV. You looked nice."
Somehow the idea of Clint watching her on television, parading down the Red Carpet in her silver gown made Natasha oddly unhappy.
"Thanks," she said. "I was more nervous than I expected I'd be."
"Couldn't tell it," said Clint. "I thought you were funny. Acceptance speech one of the best of the night."
"You didn't think I was too ditzy, did you?" said Natasha. "Some reviews said I sounded like a featherhead."
"I don't think you sounded quite like yourself," said Clint after a pause. "But I guess you were just playing another character – pulled the I-just-one-an-Oscar from your repertoire."
Natasha wondered if that was an accusation. If he thought she had been just playing a character back with him in New Mexico, too.
"So what have you been doing with yourself?" said Clint. "I keep an eye on the casting calls. Haven't seen your name lately."
Natasha wondered if he kept an eyes out expressly for her name or just in general. Her stomach was twisting uncomfortable. She offered Clint a drink before she realized she didn't have a drop of booze in the apartment. She'd thrown herself a going away party of-sorts the night before, steadily working her way through her last bottle of Champaign while watching old Bogart black and whites. Clint said it was fine, sharing his first genuine smile of the reunion – one of the twisted, slightly abashed ones like he was trying not to smile at all.
"I've taken a little break from acting lately, actually," said Natasha finally. "It seems to have lost its spark."
"Midlife crisis?" said Clint teasingly. "I'm sure you'll get back into it eventually. You're a natural."
"Yeah, maybe," she said.
"Where you off to?" Clint asked. Natasha realized she had left her bedroom door open. He must have seen the half-filled suitcase on her bed.
"Filming starts in Budapest on Tuesday – some Indie flick. You probably haven't heard of it," Natasha said dismissively.
"But you're not acting?"
Natasha shook her head. "Directing."
"You're directing?"
"Yeah, well, lacking in personality Stark makes up in finances," Natasha said, trying and failing to suppress her smile, "And The Searchlings is wracking in box office doe. I'm loaded. Plenty of money to do what I'd like for once."
"That's fantastic, Nat!" said Clint, apparently so sincerely happy for her that his old nickname slipped out involuntarily. Natasha felt a thrill of pleasure shiver down her spine at the sound of it. "I mean, really great!"
"Thanks," said Natasha. "I'm excited to get started. I've got a couple of unknowns starring." Coulson technically wasn't her agent anymore but they still kept in touch. He had given her a tip a few weeks ago on a couple of hot foreign actors, brother and sister, that Natasha was itching to get a look at.
"Well, let the flowers count for double congratulations then," said Clint. "When do you leave?"
"Tonight, actually, red-eye through to Europe."
If Clint was upset about her imminent departure he didn't show it. Natasha didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
"Well, I'm sure you'll do great, Natasha. I'm happy for you."
Natasha thanked him again, acutely aware of how much she was smiling. She asked him how he was doing. Keeping busy. Job after job. It's a living. They talked about Steve, laughed about Thornton's latest role, discussed Stark's latest whim, talked about The Searchlings and Natasha's film in Budapest.
"Well, don't want to keep you from packing," Clint said at last. "I'd better get going."
For a moment Natasha fought a wild desire to tell him to stay. Instead she said, "I'm happy you dropped by, Clint. Really. Let's keep in touch, okay?"
"It'd be my pleasure," said Clint, and moved to the door.
She was going to lose him, she thought urgently, rapidly. She was going to lose him again because she had been too blind, so horribly blind and selfish –
On an impulse Natasha crossed the room until she was beside him. She stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his rough, whiskery cheek. "That was for before, Clint," she whispered. "I acted like a fool. I'm sorry."
"Natasha, you don't have to –"
"But I do. I threw away your friendship because I didn't think I could return it the way you wanted me to. That was stupid. I was stupid."
"Natasha, it's fine. It's in the past now. You were right. We're friends. It would have been silly to throw that away." Clint sounded terse now, almost heated. His eyes were hard and intense, fixed on her face, taking in every detail of her features, the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the gold specks in her hazel eyes.
Was it? Was it in the past? Had he truly given her up, gotten over her? Was that why he was there now, because he could finally handle being in the same room with her again? The hope that had burst to life in her chest when she had seen him on her threshold was rapidly dissolving away. Was she about to lose him again all because of that one, foolish, horrible mistake from the summer? Her heart thudded almost unbearably against her ribs. She could hardly breathe. He was so close. She could feel the heat of his body on her skin.
"I'm sorry, Clint." Natasha swallowed, saliva scraping down her tight throat. "I said so many things I didn't mean to. I was scared. I didn't know what I wanted. Please, tell me – tell me how I can make it right."
"Don't, Natasha," Clint said. "I understand. You've been forced to listen to other people all your life. You – you deserve this. This freedom. To let yourself be unshackled. How could I ever let myself stand in the way of that?"
"Who do you want me to be? I can be anyone – anyone you want. Just tell me, Clint." It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Something she had thought so many nights, lonely in her empty, overly large bed, cold and swallowed by darkness.
"I want you to be whoever you want to be, Natasha."
Natasha felt her eyes burn and dammit Natasha Romanoff did not cry.
"Tell me. Tell me, Clint. Please, I don't know how to stop acting. You used to let me drop the mask. Reminded me how to be human. Tell me how to be human again. Please."
And his lips were on hers, warm and gentle. She couldn't remember who had made the first move. She tasted his breath on her tongue and felt the hardness of his chest under her palms. He was so near. So near. The contours of her body slipped perfectly into the edges and subtle dips of his own, fitting like a puzzle. She didn't have to tell him she loved him. She didn't have to put a name to the emotions coursing through her veins, dizzily twirling in her brain. She didn't have to because she knew Clint understood. He could read her, draw her out of her shells like no one ever had been able to do before, unravel Natasha Romanoff from the layers of masks surrounding her, a Russian nesting doll with a different face and smile painted on every body within a body. He found her center, wrapped his arms around her waist and drew the truth from her lips with no need for words.
When she emerged moments later, gasping from lack of air and exhilaration, she whispered against his jaw, "So…Budapest…we could use a guy in makeup."
Fin.
Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it. I'm not sure how driven my Natasha came out, more like hazily certain of the general direction she is currently sort of moving toward. I found it more difficult to keep Clint and Natasha in character in this sort of setting – altered as their pasts and settings were. I'm not sure if I'm completely satisfied with how they came out but – meh – it was fun anyhow :)