AN: So I'm very fond of this paring. The ending of Avengers, when Natasha says something to Clint that makes him smirk like that, sparked an idea. Natasha has mastered social engineering: the ability to get someone to trust you by making them believe you are someone familiar to them, a friend of a friend, such as it were.
But what does she do when it's someone she cares about who requires help?
The story moves between Clint's and Natasha's POV, split between the lines.
I do not own the Avengers; that's all Marvel and the writers, etc., et al., and so on.
Enjoy! 3
STRINGS
Natasha Romanov excels at pulling strings. Maybe that is the real reason her nom de guerre is Black Widow. Not the killing, but the way she can manipulate a person, weave her web around them so carefully that it is only when it is too late that they understand it is all over.
She has them exactly where she wants them.
Natasha has done it too many times for one to be expected to keep count, but she knows, if pressed, some twisted corner of her mind will produce the precise number. She keeps a mental ledger. It drives her crazy and it keeps her sane-damnation and salvation.
But she has always saved this special manipulation for marks.
For her partner's sanity, however, she will use it on him. He gave her a precious gift: a conscience, bruised and battered thing that it is, but it is genuine and reminds her that she is human. That he thinks she was, and is, worth saving.
So is he.
Clint Barton half-expects the knock at his door. Being holed up in his off-Helicarrier apartment-which, miracle of miracles, survived the attack on New York-gave him a measure of pseudo-peace. It's better than being on the carrier, where he sees-imagines?-the condemning stares from his fellow SHIELD agents.
He still doesn't feel right in the head and not all the shawarma in the world can fix that. Helping save New York hasn't fixed that. After he woke up from that nightmare state, Natasha had told him that it wasn't his fault; nothing he did while being Loki's puppet is a mark of red in his ledger. But when can he resist fucking up everything? It's almost as much of his trademark as his arrows.
So instead he picks at the wound, until it's a bloody mess.
Clint had asked Maria Hill for the records of the attack, of everything that happened while Loki was the unwilling (not really) guest of SHIELD. Despite it being only a week ago, she was able to hand him, within five minutes no less, a highlights reel that gives him exactly what he would want to see.
Clint doesn't question why it was all gathered in a convenient montage. SHIELD is, after all, a spy organization. He wonders who else will be seeing this exact play mix, but shuts that thought down, at least, before it drives him insane. There are probably several versions of what happened, depending on who is doing the viewing.
He retched for half an hour straight after watching Natasha's interview of Loki, and would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach.
The freaking so-called god of trickery had been bested by the Black Widow. Yes, that gives him a measure of relief. If it had been a movie on TV, Clint would have been mentally cheering. Applauding the underdog in that particular match.
But he had told Loki so much about Nat and Loki had wound him up to kill her. There are pieces in his head that are fractured... splintered... and he's not sure he can put everything back together. This isn't something he can just stitch closed or wrap a bandage around to stop the bleeding.
So when there is a knock at his door, it's her. Of course.
Natasha doesn't say anything, just enters the apartment like she has every right to anything of his.
Clint would argue, but he agrees with that logic.
Natasha carries a duffel bag and a brown bag from a grocery store into the kitchen. She eyes the pizza box and five cartons strewn across his countertop, three of which held Chinese food and two that had held Thai. She pushes them into the trash to make room for her bags, and then places her hands on her hips.
"What's the last thing you ate that didn't come from a box?"
"Coffee this morning."
"I said ate." Natasha's gaze is steady. "Is there anything in your fridge that is remotely edible at this point? Do I need contact the HazMat unit?"
"No?"
She says something Russian that he interprets as questioning how his own stupidity hasn't gotten him killed yet. She then takes out steaks from the bag, along with peppers and butter. Some sort of seasonings. Lastly is beer and microwave popcorn.
"Start cutting the peppers into strips. I would hope you have something to do that at least. I'm going to go change."
He mock bows to her. "As you wish."
She doesn't smile, just looks at him like he is an idiot, and continues toward the bathroom.
Clint finds a clean knife and starts cutting the peppers. His hands are steady on something other than his bow for the first time in what feels like years. That's how long it feels like he was under his control. He thinks that tomorrow he might mend some of his arrows. Small steps toward normalcy.
As he finishes with the assigned task, Natasha walks back into the room.
Clint Barton has seen Natasha Romanov in the slinkiest of little black dresses and the laciest of lingerie-not an image he minds popping into his head on occasion. He finds the sight of her in a faded t-shirt and yoga pants to be sexy as well. It means her guard is relaxed, never down, but it's a sign of the trust that exists in this strange relationship between them.
And her butt does look fantastic in them.
"The peppers are cut."
He steps aside to sit down and watch her cook. She's good with her hands.
She sears the steaks before putting them in the broiler to finish. "I brought a movie."
"Nat, really not in the mood."
"It's The A-Team. Explosive action and high-octane laughs. At least, that's what the cover says."
"Are you going to punch my side every time I mock it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He takes two of the beers from the case and opens them, then hands her one. It is a relief to him that their partnership is the same as it's ever been. "So, Nat. I gotta ask."
"What?"
"Are you up to date on your tetanus shots?"
She gives him the look that could speak volumes, if she needs it to do so. Right now, it just says "...what?"
"I mean, you did bite me. I could have gotten rabies."
"...I am going to take this food and the beer and go home if you say anything that idiotic again." Her lips twitch in a smile she is trying to hide.
But it's enough that Clint feels just a little bit more of himself come back.
Clint keeps throwing popcorn in the air and catching it in his mouth. One of these times, Natasha thinks, he is going to choke on a kernel. If that happens, she'll revive him only to kill him herself for such stupidity.
They sit side by side on the couch, watching the movie.
Clint goes quiet after the first ten minutes, his brow furrowing.
"What is it?"
"The fact that they all came together. Like Hannibal said. It can't be a coincidence. Bad plotting, but it worked out for our little group."
Natasha purses her lips as she considers his words. "There is a Chinese proverb, when the student is ready, the master appears. When you want something, you find the opportunities more easily. Because you look for them."
Clint stares at her for so long that she no longer knows what to expect. He finally turns away, looking at the screen and taking a long pull from his beer as if to wash away the words he might have said.
It is time. Natasha first props her head on her hand, arm braced against the arm rest. After about twenty minutes, she shifts to rest more on her side, pillowing her head against her arm. She closes her eyes more often.
When she has kept them closed for more than a few moments, she hears the volume on the TV decrease sharply as Clint fumbles with the remote. Soon the movie is background noise, and all she is aware of is breathing, his and hers, and the fact that they are almost in time.
After the movie, Clint cradles her in his arms as he carries her and she lets her head loll against his neck. He tilts his head to accommodate her, making a perfect pillow. There is only the faintest catch to his breath as she brushes her nose in a nuzzle against his neck.
But she hears it.
She allows herself to make a soft sound of sleepy contentment as he walks toward the bedroom. He may be holding her a bit tighter than before. She stays relaxed in his arms, placing a hand against his chest if by a natural stretch.
Everything has to be handled just so. This is one mission in which failure is not an option. There is no guarantee that another opportunity will present itself. She won't let him fall.
He can't fall.
The sound of his footsteps changes as he walks into the bedroom portion of his apartment, the thick rug making a soft ksh ksh sound. She takes a quiet inhalation, filling her senses with the pleasant scent of him.
Natasha has always appreciated the fact that he gives up his bed for her when her visits run late into the night. Clint never turns it into a proposition; he retreats to the raised alcove in his loft instead, near a skylight, settling on the couch up there. It doesn't matter to him. She has stopped by early mornings before assignments only to note that his bed had not been slept in, but a blanket lay draped over that couch.
If things go according to her design, he will not be sleeping there tonight.
She hears the whisper of sheets being nudged aside as he sets her down on the bed. He starts to straighten.
Now.
She tightens her arms about his neck and places a delicate kiss at his jugular.
Clint freezes.
The next kiss is bolder, against unresponsive lips so he cannot mistake the first as accident. Natasha pulls back to assess his expression before stealing a third kiss.
His lips are softer now, as he lets himself be kissed. He does not return the gesture. He kneels next to the bed, but doesn't sink into her embrace.
In her mind, that is a good sign.
Her fingers curl against the collar of his t-shirt. Her nerves are lit up, attuned to him. She draws away to watch him, but keeps her arms wound around his neck.
There is a battle in his eyes. He stares at her like he does when he takes aim: measuring. It reminds her of when he offered her a different life.
"Tasha?"
He has a few names for her, but Tasha is the one she likes most. It is a soft name, meant for care and concern. The name he uses when he is worried. It is a name perfect for being whispered in a darkened room when they are alone, like now.
"Please, Clint." She lets a hint of desperation cling to her tone.
He is more patient than she when waiting for the perfect shot. But he's also one to make quick decisions when there is need.
They both need one.
He kisses her with a sweet nip. It is not the type of kiss they have faked together for some undercover role. It feels uniquely his - brash but gentle in some ways that shouldn't be possible with the kinds of lives they lead. She knows deceit and this gesture holds none.
She feels a smile form on her lips as they kiss again. Again. Again. Each brush of the lips and touch of mouths is a choice Clint is making.
It is a testament to his prowess that she can't pinpoint the exact moment he lays next to her so they can continue this exploration. She chides herself for being so careless.
He runs a hand though her short curls, caressing the strands before moving his lips down to her jawline.
Natasha keeps her eyes closed and gives his shirt a light tug. She presses her cheek against his temple as she gasps.
Clint chuckles. "Like that?" He kisses just behind her ear again as his breath strokes the skin.
She wonders if it is possible that she has been the Black Widow for so long, using sex as a weapon, and no one has kissed that precise spot near her ear. She nods to answer his question, despite the fact he already knows.
Sometimes we all just need a little nudge of assurance.
They do not play the dominance game, at least not right now. They move together, as partners should, as items of clothes get tossed aside in favor of more skin to skin contact so secrets can be laid bare.
It is Clint who unties the drawstring of her pants as she arches beneath his hand.
Just as she planned.
They lie in the aftermath, panting. Natasha has flung an arm over her eyes. Their bodies enjoy the barest contact with each other; they had been thrown apart in the aftermath like their chemistry was explosive.
It's enough-more and he knows that he would want more. And more until they collide once again, that sweet shattering bliss he never thought he would have.
Clint rubs a foot against her leg as he studies her. Distance is better for that, for him at least, as well.
Tasha extends the sexy limb toward him so he can continue, a smile flitting across her face.
Nat. Tasha. Natasha. Widow. The Black Widow. Those are all the names he calls her. Even when she assumes a persona and he has to say a different one, it's not what he's calling her. He knows she can probably tell which one he's saying in his head based on his tone.
"Tasha?"
"Mmm?"
He loves her voice. He won't tell her that. When she's more relaxed, which she rarely is, her accent seeps back and that does things to him. "...why?" The question needs an answer. He will respect all her little idiosyncrasies, but if things are changing between them-he hopes so, oh god does he hope so-he wants to know how to proceed.
"I manipulated you."
The words are a knife to the gut, with a little twist to the blade for flourish, and he is glad for the darkness. "Why?" He can't keep the building emotion from his tone, but only a faint tremor betrays him.
He is lost, again. Trapped in that dark place that he thought only Loki could bring him to, submerging him in anguish like waves in an ocean. There is no land, no shore, only endless cold, dead bright blue.
Her body pressing along his is a sudden, warm shock. "I manipulated you with the only thing that would work." It is her words that falter now, her voice that holds a quiver.
"...What?" There is enough pain in him to lash out at her, but he doesn't because he wants to hold on to the hope her touch brings.
"The truth, Clint. Lies, no matter how pretty, wouldn't work on you."
He is cautious when enfolding her in his arms. Everything is too raw. Too real. "I feel like I'm only getting half of the conversation here, Tasha."
"I needed you to come back, Clint. So I manipulated you. I planned everything for tonight."
Hawkeye does not work with deceit like the Black Widow can. Sure, he manages well enough with it, but the lovely former Russian spy can breathe it like air, swim in it like water. He knows her tells, though. She's not a machine. "Why, Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to say you seduced me?"
She doesn't recognize the reference and the faint frown on her face makes a tiny crease between her brows. "Yes. I manipulated you."
He kisses that little ridge. "To seduce me. Because you wanted me. Because you want me." He hesitates as he speaks, fumbling for the right words to unravel her web. He can deal with being a physical outlet. He can. If that's what she wants, he can. He will tell himself that again and again until it is true.
"I need you to be you again, Clint."
"I know I've been a bit out of sorts..."
Natasha pins him with her eyes alone. "You haven't been you. I know after what happened..."
She trails off and it startles Clint to realize that perhaps Natasha Romanoff does not have the words for what hangs between them.
"And I can't be who I want to be without the person who saved me. The person who first saw the humanity in me."
He won't say the word love to her. She won't accept it. People use it too often anyhow and in her mind, it's a diluted, weak thing. A child's fancy.
"Are you going to come back to me now?" She cants her head to the side, which softens her gaze.
"Promise."
She does not pull away and slip into the night like a phantom. She is not a fantasy-she is far better as a flesh and blood woman. Better as Tasha the person than the masks the Black Widow can wear.
He rests his head against the pillow and closes his eyes.
"I cannot believe you're actually going to fall asleep on me." Humor drips from her words.
She really knows how to pull his strings, reflects Clint, as he seeks that one spot behind her ear again.