Clint plays an ass and has too much to do, Natasha's a flirt, there's a reason this story is rated M, plus the author is conservative.
"She's not depressed. Well, not as much as Psych is saying." Clint's announcement had Coulson looking up from his computer to see the archer slouched in a chair.
"Lockpicks, Clint." Coulson held out his hand. He had locked the door, that he was sure of, and he couldn't wait until the new electronic locks were finally installed. When Clint rolled his eyes and handed the kit over, Coulson tapped it lightly against his desk. "Why do you say that?"
"One, they were feeding her crap that was probably older than Fury. Mess hall tried to give me something about how that was all she needed and or deserved. Before you ask, I was polite. I made her take a shower, and she looked a bit more alive when she came out of the bathroom. Plus," here Clint paused, pulled his laptop from his backpack, and opened it. He hit a button. "Take a look."
It was the video and audio feed from Natasha's room, and Clint had pulled up their conversation from the point that she had seen him making the bed. "Depressed people can laugh, Clint."
"Sure, but it's a lot less likely in those that only lay around in bed all day and don't take care of themselves like she was doing." Clint spun his laptop back around, muting the speakers and pulling up the real-time video. "I'm just trying to put myself in her shoes, and I'm remembering my first little bit here. I was pretty shocky at times, she's probably even more so. Making her mad might be what's needed. Have a couple ideas."
"Care to share?"
"She's probably going to be looking for some security, she's still kinda locked up in her head, just how much, I don't know. I'm not a psychiatrist, after all. Trying to figure out just what we're going to do with her will be interesting." Clint's eyes didn't leave the screen, watching Natasha move around her room. "So no outright interrogation, no questions at all until she's really aware of what's going on. As for pushing her buttons...I've got schoolwork, easy enough to do it in there. Don't think she's the sort that'll like that, especially after being left alone for so long, and from what all the reports on the Black Widow say. I can also take my cues from what she does and says, be an ass. The rest, still kinda out there."
"Keep talking."
"I think," and here Clint started to look uncertain. "I think she's going to need a friend. And I think that I'd like a friend. And there's another, very nebulous, idea floating around in my head that I'm not going to share until I get it all figured out."
"Just be careful. She could hurt you pretty badly." Coulson leaned back in his chair, gazing at Clint steadily.
"I'm a big boy, Coulson. Of course I'll be careful." Clint picked up his laptop, closing it and sliding it back into his backpack. "But I've got some stuff to finish for tomorrow. Can I have my picks back?"
"Not until you learn to knock."
Natasha knew she owed her rescuer a thank you, and she could only really, truly, think of one way. So when Hawkeye – Agent Clint Barton, she reminded herself – walked into her room the next day, holding a notebook, she put her half-formed plan into action. Walking over to him, she slid her arms around him from behind, breathing into his ear, "I believe I owe you a...thank you, for getting me out."
She felt him stiffen slightly, heard his breathing increase, then steady. "I'll pass, thanks." He shrugged out of her embrace, placing what he was carrying down on the desk. "Now go back to whatever you were doing, I've got to study." He sat down, opening the notebook and pulling a pen out of his pocket.
Natasha stood there for a moment, stunned in the rejection. This had never happened before, in all her years of working for the Red Room and KGB. Feeling a challenge, she walked over and draped herself over the man's shoulder. "Are you sure?" she purred.
She could never discover afterward just how he'd gotten the jump on her, but she suddenly found herself pinned on the bed, hands held behind her back by one of his hands, legs held by one of his. "Hush," he told her, free hand pulling out zip ties and quickly, efficiently, tying her up, before tossing a blanket over her body and turning on the TV, sitting back down. "Watch some TV. Because your accent? It sucks. Plus, you can learn all sorts of bad things about Americans."
She twisted around, trying to get free, only to wrap herself up in the blanket. "Little help, here?" she begged, finding that it was wrapping around her in a manner that was becoming uncomfortable.
"Nope, don't think so." Clint looked at her out of the corner of his eye and nodded to himself, before starting to write, flipping between pages in his notebook. "So if Jefferson said this..." he mumbled, mostly to himself.
Natasha started to feel angry. Not only had he rejected her, he was now ignoring her. She pulled every trick she could think of, keeping an eye on the man sitting at the desk. She watched in pleasure as his shoulders started to tense, his jaw clenched, and one leg started bouncing.
She never saw him move, but suddenly he was just there, leaning over her, eyes dark. "So, my pretty little spider," he breathed into her ear. "Having trouble?"
Smirking in triumph, she slowly licked her lips, watching his pupils dilate. Quick as a snake, she darted her head up, nipping at the side of his jaw, before letting her head fall back down, opening her eyes as wide as she could. "Maybe," she whispered. "I do think you could...help."
One thing that Natasha Romanoff would freely admit for the rest of her life, was that Clint Barton could kiss, taking command in a way that she had never experienced before. She felt his hand trail down her side, squeezing her hip, and then soon, too soon, he was pulling back and gagging her, picking her up, and repositioning her such that seeing anything other than the TV would require flexibility not allowed by her current state. She heard him pick his things up from the desk, move the chair, and felt the dip of the bed as he sat down, heard the thud of his boots hitting the chair, and felt the blanket settle back over her body. "I said, hush." he commanded, one hand reaching over and stroking her hair. Somehow, she fell asleep with the quiet scratching of pen on paper and some random American TV show filling her ears, a hand on her head that should have felt restrictive but was instead calming.
Clint slipped out of the room, passing Coulson in the hall. Coulson watched in puzzlement as the archer scowled at him, then stalked off down the hall, muttering about Russian wenches and cold showers. Coulson slowly smiled, feeling an irrational pleasure that Clint was getting some form of payback for not only disobeying orders, but for being such a pain in the ass himself. He turned and headed in the opposite direction, already planning on pulling the security feeds from the room.
The pattern repeated the next few days. Natasha could tell that the man was interested, but he kept on teasing her, following her lead and then pulling back just when she thought she'd succeeded. It was frustrating, infuriating, and she started to feel a challenge, the first time she could remember feeling like that in months. She changed tactics one night, waiting to hear the click of the door lock, then jumping on him as soon as he entered and shut the door. She had him pinned, notebook laying on the floor halfway across the room, and leaned down and kissed him roughly. "So, Agent Barton," she whispered, leaning forward, enjoying the way that his eyes followed her, flicking down to her chest and then back up to her face. "I do owe you that thanks, you know." She leaned forward, kissing him again, this time rolling her body down onto his.
He let her, and kissed her back, raising his head, before dropping his head back to the floor with a smirk. "You do know that this room is wired for sight and sound? Are you that much of an exhibitionist?" As she froze in shock, he tilted his head up and breathed in her ear, "I'd much rather wait until we can be someplace...much...more...private." He moved on the last word, and Natasha found that she was suddenly the one pinned, a position that seemed to happen far too often with this man. She wasn't sure if she liked it, or wanted to castrate him very, very slowly. "So, my pretty little spider, behave, cooperate, and you'll find...life...suddenly improving." One of his fingers trailed along the side of her face, down her neck, and to the hollow between her breasts before he was suddenly standing up, retrieving his notebook, and leaving the room.
Coulson was standing outside the room, a slight smile on his face. "Having troubles?"
Clint glared. "SHIELD had better be happy that I'm not using any of their hot water anymore," he snarled, stalking down the hallway.
Coulson hurried to follow. "Clint."
Clint stopped, and spun around in the hallway. "I'm fine," he snapped. "You know, it's just that I've got two tests tomorrow, a paper due Monday, which my professor wants hard copy and he won't say why, which means that if I don't get it done by tomorrow afternoon I have to fly in and stick it under his door Saturday when I'd much rather be doing mission prep because we're supposed to head off to wherever the fuck it is again Sunday, and a totally hot redheaded Russian woman throwing herself at me whenever I walk into the room, which I know is wired even more than most of the detention cells here and I can't figure out why she didn't think of that. Most of the time in class these days, I'm remotely logged into the security feeds, seeing what she does, and trying to figure it all out. Figure her out, it's a good thing I sit with my back to the wall and nobody next to me, and screw whatever is being lectured on. She's my problem, I know. Up to me to fix her or take her out like I was supposed to. It's also a test of my self-control, which I can deal with because I don't want the entire fucking world seeing any more than they already are. I've heard the whispers. I had some random guy in that fucking ugly new blue Star Trek reject uniform walk up to me yesterday and give me suggestions. So either you deal with whoever leaked those videos, Coulson, or I will, and my way will involve cracking heads of anybody who has access to the security feeds and the knowledge of how to spread it around, including you and Fury. I've missed two group study sessions for my IR seminar so far in the past month, thanks to her, and the last e-mail I got from the group leader, who also sent it to the professor, was suggesting that if I miss another, read tomorrow's, I'm pretty much fucked in their eyes. Only excuse according to the group is if I was unconscious in the ICU, and that would require a doctor's note and proof from a hospital that they recognize. My cover can only go so far, and it's being pretty well tested this semester." He stopped, breathing heavily.
"Calm down," Coulson ordered. "Look, this conversation needs to be someplace other than the hallway, so meet me back at your quarters. I'll be there in a little bit, just need to do something first, grab a couple things."
"If it's not at least 80-proof, I'm not playing." Clint grumbled, but he walked off, pausing once to snarl wordlessly at somebody who congratulated him and slapped his back as Coulson watched him go, before turning to stop by security and attempt to determine just who had started spreading rumors and videos.
Coulson tapped lightly on Clint's door, trying to balance multiple items. When Clint opened it, he held the tray out. "Here. I think part of your issue is that you haven't eaten yet, have you?" Pushing into the room, he put down the rest of the items on the desk, searching for places that weren't covered with study materials. "You've come a long way, Clint, must admit that. That punk-ass kid who was going for his GED would never have this sort of deal going on."
"Yeah, well, Delores and her bunch didn't give me much of an option once they got involved. You gave me even less of one. And college is a hell of a lot more interesting than the GED. College student is also a fun role to play, even though I have to miss out on all the parties and girls. It's also tough, flying in and out practically every day and hoping that I make it there in time to fit with my cover of dutiful son taking care of uber-sick mother. At least my classes are all right around lunch this semester. The seminar group isn't helping much, either, even though the professor knows that there are times that I just can't be there, and told me at the beginning of the semester that it was cool. I just can't make the rest of the group happy, participating over e-mail or IM. Video chats aren't possible with most of their computers, and I don't have anyplace secure around here to actually do that, anyways." Clint took the tray over to his bed, sitting down and staring at what he'd been given. "I don't remember when I last ate. Breakfast maybe. Thanks."
"I suspected as much." Coulson sat down at the desk. "Can this be moved?" He took a look around the room. "And actually, tape a couple posters and a sheet up on the wall behind your bed, use a headset, video chats might be possible."
"Yeah, just pile it all up on top of the laptop. Good idea about the chats, but I'm not going to sweat it. Professor has my back, the group'll just have to deal." Clint was bolting down the food that Coulson had brought. "Sorry for snapping earlier."
"Don't blame you, unless you really did decide to get physical. Wouldn't recommend confronting Fury."
"Wouldn't confront him. I'm not suicidal, just your happy little crazy assassin-spy. The air vents around here are way to big for security purposes, I'd just hide in one until I could get a good shot. Probably when he's alone. And asleep."
"And thank you, Clint, for pointing out what many people already know, and increasing my paranoia about the security of the Helicarrier even more. So, Natasha."
"Ah yes, my pretty little spider." Clint finished eating with a low chuckle, and glanced at what else Coulson had brought in. "Is any of that for me?"
"Don't know. You said you had tests tomorrow?"
"Yeah, physics and history. I'm good on that stuff. Gimme." Clint held out his hand, waiting until Coulson passed over the ice cream and a bottle of beer. "So. The wench. This is all in thanks, believe it or not, I really don't think she poses that much of a risk, but I'm being careful as hell. I think she's starting to go stir crazy, stuck in there; she did ask to come with after all, and has been behaving. No attempts to keep things from meal trays back, no making weapons, no trying to leave."
"True, except for trying to strip you naked and have her wicked ways with you." Coulson pointed out, enjoying Clint's wince.
"I think that's just her training coming out. Like I said, she keeps on saying that it's a thank you. If you look at half the guys she's taken out, it's been while they've been in bed. Sex is just a tool for her. At least, part of me is thinking that it's just her training. The other part of me is saying 'Hey! Hot woman throwing herself at me!' And even then, she's not all that aggressive and I've been able to either break her grip or turn it all around on her." Clint shrugged. "I want to take her to the gym. Clear everybody out, have a few security guards in those oh-so-lovely air vents, and just let her get some energy out in a way that won't have the entire fucking Helicarrier congratulating me for the next month and make me send at least half of them to Medical. And if she behaves herself there, I'll just toss her in the Quinjet with me and take her to drop off my paper. It won't be done in time to take it with me in the morning and I won't have time to finish it during the day while I'm on campus, but I can get security to let me into the faculty offices to drop it off."
"You sure that's a good idea?"
"What, you think that she'll suddenly learn everything about SHIELD from a gym and a suburban college, escape and return to the Red Room, a group that she asked to get away from? She'll probably flip out over the fact that it's new to her. Sure, she can take me out with a weight, but so far, the only time she's put me on the floor is when she got the drop on me today. And you saw how that ended up, because I know you watch the feeds. Bastard." Clint grumbled. "School...I think I can keep a handle on her, especially with the new drugs that R and D has come up with. Hard to run off when you're on the ground, seizing. But take a look at the feeds from the gym when we get in there. I predict it'll be interesting."
Coulson was running a phrase Clint had used through his head. "Pretty little spider?"
"Yeah. Like I said, she's smoking hot, not that big, and her code name is Black Widow. Besides, it's another way for me to play with her, keep her off balance, maybe keep her a bit more honest. And I'm trying to push her buttons. You were also the one who told me to get her out of that funk, remember? I'm probably halfway there by now. Plus, it's fun, for all that I'm going nuts trying to be one thing in that room and myself out of it. So, gym and field trip? Maybe tomorrow, when I get back from school and abject groveling to my seminar group?"
Coulson sighed, taking a drink of his own drink. "I'll see what I can do. It may not be tomorrow, but I can swing Saturday. Not quite sure about taking her with you to drop off the paper."
"I like Saturday better. I can tempt her with that tomorrow, when I gift her with some ballet, and it'll mean that there won't be two back and forths in one day. And try for getting her permission to go with me? I think that's what might be needed to wake her back up completely."
Natasha spent the next day systematically hunting down microphones and cameras, furious with herself that she hadn't thought of that when they first put her in this room. As she found each one, she very clearly said "naughty, naughty," or shook her head. So when Clint entered that night, it was to find Natasha laying on her bed, watching TV, wearing only a long shirt.
"Missed a few," was all that he said, tossing the blanket he was carrying over her, before grabbing the chair and sitting down, propping his feet up on the bed and staring at her. "So, my pretty little spider. Bored yet?"
"Very." Natasha was feeling put out, that she'd missed microphones and cameras. She could have sworn that she'd found them all, even the one inside her bed. She realized that for the first time, Clint hadn't brought anything in with him except for a blanket, and felt a sudden hope that maybe, for once, he'd do something other than study and tease her. Zip ties were less than comfortable.
He reached over to the desk, picking up the remote control and pulling a tape out of his pocket. "A present. I know it's not as good as live," he slipped the tape into the VCR, pushing play, and a ballet started to play as he returned to his position on the chair. "and it's not Russian, but the American Ballet Company is pretty popular in their own right."
She watched, hungrily, as the opening strains of Swan Lake came through the speakers. Clint just stayed where he was, dividing his attention between her and the television, a small smile on his face. After a few minutes, he hit pause, then casually glanced at her. "Get dressed. I refuse to sit on a bed with you when you're half-naked."
Natasha scrambled to comply, not caring that he was watching her, not caring about the remaining cameras. Whoever was watching would have seen it all already, after all. Clint, for his part, just seemed to look straight through her, expressionless, then stood up and sat down on the bed, grabbing a pillow and leaning back against the wall, pressing play. She stiffly sat down next to him, very carefully keeping a minimum of thirty centimeters between the two of them, only to have him mutter "come here," and pat the bed next to him. She slid closer, feeling his arm come down around her shoulders and pull her right up next to his side. It was...odd, and she didn't know what to think. She did find it surprisingly comfortable and reassuring. Homely.
At the end of the first act, he paused the video again and glanced down at her. "Feel like getting out of this room tomorrow for a bit? Thought you'd might like to see the gym, get some exercise in."
Natasha nodded. "But what of your superiors? They might have issue with what I could do."
Clint shook his head. "Coulson cleared it, and," he smirked, "my pretty little spider, I'll be there."
Natasha just sniffed derisively, then turned back to the television. Somehow, she ended up falling asleep, leaning against the man, and found herself the next morning tucked under a blanket. Her boots were on the floor next to the bed, the first time she'd seen them since arriving at SHIELD.
