When Natasha first joined SHIELD, she wasn't expecting much. Actually, she hasn't been expecting to join SHIELD in the first place. She would have been perfectly content (alright, content was not the right word and neither was perfectly) to continue to run around Russia and generally make a mess of things. SHIELD had prevented that.
When she joined up with Fury's grand troupe of agents, she had not been expecting to spend most of her time attempting to shepherd a bunch of super humans (and, she supposed, an alien and Tony Stark) on world-saving missions.
And she was most definitely not expecting to make a bigger mess than anything she had made in Russia.
It started on the day the coffee machine in Stark Tower broke, three weeks and six days after the while manhattan fiasco. The whole morning consisted of getting a begrudging, and exceedingly grouchy as well as slightly hung-over, Tony to make a Starbucks run. (though he kept forgetting what everyone wanted and wound up buying sixteen scones and three coffees between the five of them because 'he got nervous')
That was the first morning Clint wouldn't look her in the eyes.
He'd walked into the kitchen, considered a scone, apparently deciding against it, then left, taking the elevator to his 'nest' on the roof. He didn't look guilty, though something about his posture was ashamed. His shoulders, which were usually pulled back in a show of defiance and pride, sloped forward, and his head seemed to follow the angle, his eyes glued insistently on the floor, making hasty greetings towards his fellow Avengers, barely even shooting a 'hello' in Natasha's general direction.
Natasha had seen him hurt, scared, and vulnerable. But he had never avoided her like that before. He looked at her a grand total of once that day. And even then, he had lied to her.
She had been on the roof, having attempted to give him his space all day, but been unable to sleep, as her concern worsened into the night. She had been trying desperately to get his attention. Such attempts had proved so futile that her desperation had grown to the point of her standing on a ledge, looking out at the glittering Manhattan skyline, and praying that Clint didn't allow her to go through with her unspoken threat.
He of course, did not. He'd stood next to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her off the ledge. Then, he had unwound his arms from her, turned her around, and focused his eyes on her forehead. In the darkness, his skin seemed unnaturally pale.
"Natasha," He'd spoken his words slowly, as if he were saying rehearsed lines that he couldn't quite remember, "I'm fine."
And then, quietly, he'd turned, and left her standing there, alone, in the cool darkness, her body still cold from his touch.
She'd stood there, silently, for several more minutes, before she, too, left.
The elevator ride to her was a blur. She found herself stumbling through the dark kitchen as JARVIS flipped the primary light on for her.
What she needed right then was a drink. She went to Tony's fully stocked bar, eyes bleary already with sleep that would not come and head swirling with concern, and pulled out the bottle of vodka that was always full- not even Tony touching it, the one that was the proof to the unspoken pact in the tower that the vodka was for the Russian, and absolutely no one was to touch it.
She ignored the glasses sitting on the bar's lacquered surface, and grabbed a straw, noting, with a dark and unfeeling chuckle, that it was a pink silly straw, and shoved it through the mouth of the bottle, after opening it.
Natasha sat on the floor, not bothering to even find a chair, and began to sip the drink, not really thinking, as she stared at the shiny, checkered tiles of the kitchen.
This was her moment of solitude, and she tried to wipe Clint from her mind. She tried to erase her concern for him and just focus on not feeling.
Natasha's moment was crushed, however, by Tony Stark, who shuffled in, just as tired as Natasha felt, and poured himself a glass of scotch. She watched him, vaguely detached, the bottle of vodka having begun its wonderful numbing of her nervous system, noting his neglect for mixing the drink with water.
He turned around, and almost tripped over her. "Natasha?!" He exclaimed, eyes widening slightly, "I didn't peg you for the 'drinking alone in the middle of the night' type."
She shrugged, not wanting to open her mouth, trying to keep her thoughts and emotions in check as she took another sip from the straw.
Tony sat down across from her, throwing back the scotch, eyeing the woman contemplatively, as if trying to see exactly what was happening behind her green eyes, "Well," he said, at last, "You are Russian."
She shifted her weight, eyes narrowing at him, "What is that supposed mean?"
He stared her down, reaching up and fumbling for the bottle of scotch, and, pouring himself another glass, he responded, "You know, I think. It's the same way with me. It helps ease the pain." He continued to look at her, and she saw something dawn in his eyes- as if something inside his head had clicked. "But it's not your pain you're worried about, is it?"
"His pain is my pain, Stark." Natasha stood, carefully, and, taking the bottle with her, made her way back to her room, leaving it at that, reveling in the false warmth spreading up her arms as the alcohol continued to take its toll.
She loved just how numb she felt.
I think that made some sense. Everything will be clarified within the first five chapters- I'm just trying to figure out exactly what I want to do with this story. Review, please.
