Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or their franchise. I simply borrow them.
Having Somebody to Mind
It was pitch black when he found the courage to slip through one of the countless doors of the section where the living quarters were located. His mind had been unable to think of anything but what he'd been told, and so he kept wandering the deserted metallic hallways until his boots found themselves in the doorway to Natasha's room.
He had been here before after debriefs, the occasional socializing and post-mission debates, but for most parts, he shared her beliefs that their designated private quarters were just that: private. They lived hazardous lives and could they blame each other for wanting to slip into the temporary peace of mind that isolated cots provided with a good book? Their very existence was touch-and-go, but he knew that he needed to get this off his chest. He hoped for some explanation. Personally, he thought it was too soon, which was ridiculous. They had come back from Morocco yesterday and he'd given her privacy then. It hadn't been a particularly demanding or dangerous mission—not more demanding and dangerous than so many other missions, and he always wondered when the universal scale of danger changed. Would it always be like that, knowing that the dangers would always be exponential?
He knocked, not knowing why but doing it anyway. The door was slightly agape which he didn't think anything of, seeing as this hallway had no other occupants. The sparse quarters that belonged to Tasha bordered non-residential storages. Nobody wanted to be on Tasha's bad side – and she did little to please those with the same or lower rank unless necessary – and so it had eventually become like this. She liked to be alone.
The room was dark, but the leftover halogenic light from the hallway that had managed to pierce the darkness in a steep triangle allowed him to make out the outline of a woman's luggage on the bed – cot, really, due to its metal frame and lack of luxurious pillows and bedding – and a silhouette moving between it and the dresser. The room had the same layout as his and he could have easily moved through the darkness and in between the furniture by heart, but he didn't. He hesitated, contemplating whether or not to flicker the light switch on or leave all completely while he now had the chance. He lingered momentarilywhen he spotted her.
Black leather tights accompanied one of her thinner black tops that showed off both her collarbones in front and her shoulder blades on the back. She gave him one glance before returning to her packing. He flipped on the light switch and watched as electric brightness replaced the gloomy darkness of uncertainty and mistakenness. She stopped her tracks, her body tensing and her hand mid-motion with a couple of the more personal underwear pieces. Earlier he'd have blushed but he'd seen too much – of her as well – to react in any embarrassing manner. She looked at him curiously, trying to casually assess the situation, indubitably a trait attributed to their line of work.
"Barton, what're you doing here?" she said. It could be mistaken as her being tired; when in truth it was merely her way of stating she was busy or behind schedule.
He waited until she actually faced him. "I wanted to check up on you," he replied and he could hear the bad lie even before the words had left his lips. She gave him one of her rare casual smiles and went back to packing, her voice turning the same detached tone she often slipped into when expected to work.
"What made you think I needed checking up on?"
At first he didn't reply. He just stared at her with a hollow gaze, trying to read her. Despite having been her partner for almost six years now, he still deemed her – for the most parts – unreadable. It was sad and it was tragic, but he had seen the same expression in the mirror. When there was nobody to impose, nobody to impersonate, nobody to imitate, they would slip into these forms, empty, occasionally appearing like emotionless minds doing everyday tasks like doing laundry, reading, showering, sleeping, exercising. They weren't quite fit for an everyday life, having adapted to the hazardous lives they led in the shadows.
He wanted to be honest and say, I don't want you to go.
However, he had no right or authority so his words would be meaningless. Their other lives were lies, why add more? His concern for her well-being was real, and as they exchanged gazes and she interpreted his silence and unwavering gaze, she understood. Slowly, she ceased her packing and slid unto the bed. In the brightness, she looked human and almost vulnerable as if he could extend his hand and touch her. She was something surreal; he could pretend for most parts. He recognized the fatigue in her light eyes, flickering before falling into place in that uncracked façade she'd managed to paint over the years.
"Tasha," he breathed, not knowing why. He sat down next to her. He wanted to say something meaningful and profound, followed by a sweet gesture or friendly, supportive caress, but he had no idea how. He was therefore surprised when he felt her hand clasp his knee and tighten in a rare expression of mutual understanding. He looked up and met eyes as hollow as his.
They could have sat there for hours. Neither of them had the time. He vaguely recalled something about mission debriefings and early recruit training – his director had not respected his wishes for solitude and misinterpreted his willingness to work with Natasha as willingness to be around people, i.e. green agents incapable of the same emotional and physical, for that matter, containment that defined and was required in their line of work – and he knew she had a plane to catch in less than four hours. She'd need very little; aside from weapons, and even then, she could buy whatever she needed in Nairobi. Packing was done mostly to appease her own needs. He knew from experience that Tasha preferred to get the job done quick and efficiently and then retire from hostile environments as quickly as possible. He wouldn't have remembered that kind of stuff about other agents, their preferences.
"I know," she whispered with genuine fatigue, allowing these sensations to flush freely for a couple of nanoseconds. Then she got up from the bed and went to the dresser.
He watched her collect an item from the drawer he'd previously observed her gather underwear, intimate underwear, from. The sound was not that of skin brushing against lace and satin, but the familiar click from a gun magazine being checked for bullets. She loaded the gun adeptly and threw it into the pile of clothes that had already been thrown unto the bed where they awaited packing into the very feminine suitcase. He noticed how she seemed to avoid his eye contact and regretted coming here and causing her discomfort. Discomfort often led to distractions and he didn't want that. However, he knew her well enough to know that it took more than discomfort to bring the Black Widow out of balance.
His eyes landed on the clothes. He did not recognize them; he rarely did. They seldom wore the S.H.I.E.L.D. provided attires whilst working undercover and the civilian clothes were often discarded again, probably donated for charity. Aside from the skintight cat suits and training outfits, much like the one she wore now, he'd seen her wear dresses, jeans, pencil skirts, dress shirts, pantsuits, ball gowns—but never had he seen her in something more than once. She'd learnt not to grow attached to things and was far from a materialist. The principle did not only apply to clothes and belongings but relationships as well. He had been around S.H.I.E.L.D.—and other places with the same mindset, for that matter—to see the very feminine choice of clothes; clothes that would highlight her shapely curves.
She noticed how he tightened his knuckles and quickly diverted his eyes elsewhere. He had decency left but it wasn't what made him look away. It was the thought of what S.H.I.E.L.D. – the organization that prided themselves on things like honor, patriotism, freedom, and equality – sent her to do. He wouldn't deny having done missions where the purpose was seduction, but they used her more frequently than he cared to like.
When she spoke, her voice was tired and honest. "I don't mind these missions. I have no care," she said as if it would grant him some comfort. It didn't.
Their eyes met, his expressing sadness because he believed her word. "But I do – mind."
She gave one of her wistful smiles that reflected a potential appreciation, taken away by glumness far too early in her life. It was free of bitterness, and his heart ached with the acknowledgement as she looked directly at him. "I know," she confided in a whisper, somewhat grateful that somebody did – mind, that is.