Story: Gold

Genre: Drama/Romance

Rating: T

Pairing (s): Established Clintasha, Slow Burn Romanogers, Past Steggy, Minor Tasertricks and Pepperony

Summary: Natasha Romanoff begins to question her relationship with engineer Clint Barton after meeting one of Tony Stark's best friends, Steve Rogers. AU.

A/N - After a long hiatus I am glad to say that I'm starting a new story! I don't know what the update schedule is gonna be or how many chapters I plan on writing, but I'm intent on finishing this. I hope all of you enjoy it!

Prologue

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I was nine years old when my mother taught me about love.

She stirred soup in a big silver pot we bought from the flea market the week before. I sat at our kitchen table, folding napkins in a haphazardly fashion. Father wasn't home yet, so she decided it was best to start cooking dinner. I wasn't a stranger to her childhood stories or the wild tales she spun in her web. But that night had been different.

"Little Natalia," she sang, and I smiled. "Oh, I wonder what love they will give you." She saw my puzzled expression and said, "The boys, you know."

Boys? They were already throwing themselves at my feet, handing me flowers, praising my beauty. Was that not what love was?

"Those boys only seek what they see on the outside, ignoring how beautiful you are within," she said, stopping her stirring and facing me. "We wouldn't leave you in their hands even if our lives depended on it. Yeah, 'cause we know better."

I understood. Love, the selfish kind, was bad. But it's a tempting desire, to like someone for their looks and nothing else. I hadn't experienced real love, apparently, because I kept being a fool. And you'd be surprised, for a girl my age, to be in a relationship, which I wasn't, though crushes were bases here. A simple school girl crush, based on appearance, personality irrelevant to anything and everything.

Because if they liked your looks and you liked theirs, why did that matter?

My mother rattled on. "Your father and I, we both found each other's beauty mesmerizing, but what drew us together was our personalities; fire in our hearts, kindness towards others, having the ability to trust even though it might've seemed frightening. You won't know about these qualities just by glancing at someone. You ask questions and keep learning until you can read one another as if you were both open books." She had turned off the stove, stirring our soup a couple times to make sure it was ready to eat.

I had so many questions though I knew she couldn't answer all of them. I wasn't sure what they even were, for that matter. Besides, I was a young girl. I didn't need answers about relationships when I wouldn't get involved in them anytime soon.

My father came in after, kissing me on top of my head, laying his suitcase by the kitchen doorway. He wrapped his arms around my mother and they swayed back and forth, humming their favorite Russian hymn together. There was something so touching and endearing about the way they showed affection. I kept staring, tilting my head, wondering if I would ever get a partner and if we'd end up like my parents.

That wish came in the form of a man named Clint Barton nine years later.

I met him at the airport the first day I arrived in New York City to start my career as a ballet instructor at a very private dance company: The Shield Agency. I'd been trying to catch a cab to my new apartment, but none would stop for me. I sat on one of my suitcases, wondering if I could carry some of my belongings with me to a nearby hotel, when I heard someone say, "Last time I saw a woman sitting on her luggage, she got splashed with dirty rain water and broke down crying afterwards."

I glanced up to see a man in his early 20s, smiling down at me with grey eyes that reminded me of a storm. His dirty blonde hair was neatly combed, but that was to be expected when you were dressed in a suit, briefcase in hand. I responded, "That's the equivalent of breaking a nail and I don't cry over broken nails."

He chuckled and held his hand out for me to take. I took it and he pulled me up from my luggage.

He introduced himself. "Clint Barton."

I told him my name—it wasn't Natalia Alianovna Romanov anymore, not since I filed my immigrant papers—the Americanized translation. "Natasha Romanoff."

That day, he'd given me a ride to my place, not in a fancy sports car like I suspected he would have, but a slim, black limousine. He told me about his business, Hawk Industries, and him being the CEO of the entire corporation. Before I got out, he gave me his number, telling me to call him anytime I needed something. Now, I'm not the type to rely on people, but I was alone in America and he obviously wanted to know me better and I really needed a friend to show me the ropes.

So, I called him. And those calls led to hangouts and those hangouts led to dates and those dates led to our engagement. Our wedding, which was only nine months away, was going to be everything I dreamed of having, everything I always wanted.

But had I known the next few months would force me to question our relationship and question everything I've ever known about love, I wouldn't have regretted my engagement to Clint Barton. I wouldn't regret meeting him before I met the man who would change my life forever:

Steve Rogers.

And this is where we begin the real story.