It took Clint longer than he hoped to get Coulson to agree. But only slightly. It wasn't like he expected it to be easy.
It didn't start with sparring. First it was Clint just taking her on brief walks, usually when there weren't many people around, and never anywhere crucial. He could tell that Natasha noticed this, but she didn't say anything. She didn't talk very much at all, really, but Clint did his best to fill the gaps.
Their first actual match was a test, and they both knew it. Clint was acutely aware that Fury was watching via the security cameras, and he could sense Coulson's concern. He wished her was the only one who did, but he could see Natasha's eyes taking in every tiny detail of the seldom-used gym they had settled on to stretch their muscles.
Clint didn't like this. Sparring with the black widow would be stressful enough without knowing he was under tight surveillance from SHIELD's head. He much preferred for these kind of work outs to begin feeling loose and comfortable. Not stretched taunt like this.
Despite the whole thing feeling wring, he grinned. "Ready for your rematch then?" He asked cheerfully. Natasha looked even more on edge than he felt.
She shrugged, eyes darting around distractedly.
"It's okay." Clint tried to assure under his breath. "Just like our walk yesterday, but with more punching."
The joke did nothing for her. Natasha swallowed. This was hard. Normally to fight she would let her training take over. But she couldn't do that here. She couldn't.
Clint threw the first punch, which Natasha caught easily. He grinned, and some of her nerves eased off. Maybe she could do this.
He continued the assault, and Natasha continued to catch, duck, and roll with the punches, not quite up to launching her own attack. She could do a lot with someone else's movements though, so she continued with that.
Natasha started taking chances. A swing here, a sweep there, trying to keep him on his toes. Her blood was pumping, more than it had in a long while. This wasn't the calm control of taking down a mark, it was practice, it was training with a... partner? Friend? She didn't know what Clint was really.
Her distraction was her downfall, and Clint took the opportunity to sweep her legs out from under her, pouncing and seizing her arms to hold her still. "What was that about getting lucky?" He teased.
Natasha went rigid. She wasn't here. She was... where was she? She didn't know. Memories crashed upon her in an unrelenting wave, memories she couldn't place. Memories of training with other girls, of pinning them down, then... then...
Clint had expected something to happen with their little match. What he had expected was for Natasha to attempt to kill him somehow, through some weird Black Widow brainwashing. Nothing personal, but he wouldn't be surprised.
He didn't expect this.
Natasha... practically went rabid. She screamed and thrashed, and when Clint loosened his grip, she pulled herself free, kicking, scratching, biting, pulling feathers from his wings, her nails leaving deep scrapes in his skin.
Natalia couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. She was going to die. She had lost. When she lost, she died, that was just how it worked. So she fought, in any way she could. She shoved the other one away, she kicked and clawed until she had no one left to fight anymore. Because that was how it worked. She was dimly aware of someone calling her name. What was happening?
When she came to, Natasha remembered where she was. She heard voices yelling, and one soft voice much closer.
Her eyes settled on Clint on the other side of the mats. He was curled in on himself defensively, covered in bloody scratches. His wings had feathers missing in chunks, deep red blood seeping from those places. His knee looked like it was dislocated, and there was a nasty bruise forming over his left eye. "Natasha?" He whispered softly, fearfully.
Natasha quaked, realising what she had done. A moment later she was grabbed by four security guards and taken back to her cell. She offered no resistance.
What had she done?
-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-
"She's not a threat!"
"Barton, are you even looking at yourself right now?!"
"That wasn't her!"
"Looked like her to me!"
"Go to hell Sitwell."
Fury stood, his wings flaring out in intimidation. "Both of you can either shut up, or get out. Now."
Clint was on the verge of arguing, but Coulson shook his head quietly, and he sighed. "Yessir." He grumbled, sinking further into his seat.
Fury sighed tiredly. "What do you think?" He asked his other companions.
Hill bit her lip. "If she wanted Barton dead, he'd be dead."
"Agreed." Coulson murmured. "And it wouldn't have taken her this long. They've been out before today. This wasn't an intentional attack."
"Then what was it?" Fury rumbled, looking at the frozen screen. "Why bother programming this? What's the point? Sleepers don't work like this."
"She's testing us." Sitwell said. "Seeing what she can get away with."
"I swear to God Jasper..." Clint struggled to keep his temper under control.
"I'm just calling it how I see it Barton!" He exclaimed. "She's dangerous, you can't deny that, no one can! If we let her get away with this now, who knows what she'll be doing next week?"
Coulson interrupted before Clint could snap again. "I don't think this was something intentionally programmed." He said softly. "Don't look at it like that, just... look at her face- there." He froze the video. "What does that look like?"
They were all silent for a moment.
"Fear." Hill eventually responded, "She's terrified."
"Of what?" Clint murmured. "I- she knows I'm not gonna hurt her."
"We don't know what kind of training they have in the KGB." Coulson said softly. "You had her pinned. We don't know what comes after that in her experience. You could have triggered some kind of panic reaction. Fight or flight."
"She was just scared." Clint whispered. "She needs help."
Sitwell sighed. "And how many agents are we gonna lose because she's scared? You're already going to be out of the field for weeks, and this was just her first match."
Clint's anger was again interrupted, this time by Maria. "You're both right." She acknowledged. "She is dangerous, but she does need help. Question is, what do we do about it?"
"Leave her to me!" It burst out of Clint before he or anyone else could stop it. "You're worried about losing agents, then just let me handle her. That way the only life you're risking is mine."
"Clint." Maria said softly. "You can barely stand."
"I'll handle it." He grunted. "This way it's even. You risk one agent, you gain one agent."
Fury cleared his throat. "You send me weekly reports."
"Yessir."
"And don't do anything stupid. You take backup whenever necessary, and she's to wear a tracking bracelet at all times."
"Yessir."
"Anything you need, talk to Coulson."
Coulson nodded as well, and Clint tried not to let his relief show. "Yessir."
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Clint wasn't allowed to go to her until the next day. When he did finally make it to Natasha's room, he didn't like what he saw.
There was dark circles under her eyes, even deeper than usual. She was dressed in the same clothes as the day before, which still had spots of his blood on them, and she sat on the edge of her bunk, staring intently at the floor. For all Clint knew, she hadn't moved since being brought back here. All bets were that she hadn't.
"Hey." He greeted fake-cheerfully, crutching through the door. "I brought breakfast, if you're hungry."
Natasha made no acknowledgment that he had spoken, so Clint sat down, placing the plate of toast and fresh fruit beside her.
"You're not in trouble." He said. "Fury's left me in charge of you for now. Nothing's gonna happen."
Still she didn't react. Clint was used to her not talking, but Natasha usually spoke through her eyes, through her expressions. Now she may as well be a statue.
He tried for a joke. "Hey, if anyone should be doing the silent treatment it's me. My beautiful face is ruined Natasha!"
She trembled, then raised her head to look at him. Upon seeing the state Clint was in, tears began to swim in her eyes.
Clint winced. Shit. "Oh, hey, don't... come here." He limped over to the bed and wrapped his arms around her. It may not have been the best decision, given what happened the last time he had her in a compromising position, but he couldn't very well let her cry alone. "It's okay." Clint murmured, trying not to touch her with any of his bandaged parts.
Natasha didn't move to return the hug, nor to push it away. Tears leaked from her eyes unbidden, soaking his shoulder, and she shook with silent sobs. She wanted to say something. She wanted to apologise, to tell him that she was a lost cause. But the words wouldn't come. Only the pathetic tears would.
Clint shushed her gently, taking a chance and wrapping his wings around her too. They were bandaged a little, but healed faster than the rest of him. "It's okay." He assured, bringing his wings in tighter when she didn't shy away from them. "You're okay."
"I'm sorry." Natasha gasped around the tears.
"It's okay." Clint repeated. "Just breathe. With me, you know." He took deep, calming breaths, which she soon began to copy. He could feel the trembling start to abate, but didn't let go just yet. "Did you sleep?" No answer. He grimaced, pulling away. "Eat something. Please."
Natasha swallowed the lump in her throat. "I can't."
"Please, Natasha. For me."
For him. Okay. To apologise. To prove that she was really sorry. Even if she wanted to show him that she wasn't worth the effort. Natasha fished a piece of toast from the plate and nibbled at the crust.
A sad smile crossed Clint's face. "Thank you." He stayed right beside her, letting one wing wrap around Natasha's shoulders. "That wasn't you yesterday. I know that, and I think you do too."
"What does it matter?" She asked flatly. Natasha should have known not to trust Barton. He was a believer. He trusted people, even when he shouldn't. It was nice to pretend for a while that she could change, but the truth of it was that it was too late.
"It matters cos I'm not giving up on you." Clint murmured. "You deserve better."
Natasha was quiet. Thoughts of what she really deserved floated around her fractured mind. She didn't notice that Clint had stood until he returned.
"Here." He said gently, wielding a damp cloth. "Let's clean you up a bit."
Natasha made no movement as he carefully wiped the dried blood off her neck, her cheek, and eventually her hands, holding her wrist in a way that almost felt comforting, and carefully working the cloth around her fingers, cleaning his own blood off her hands.
She stared at the top of Clint's bowed head, seeing his wings folded behind his back. The stark white of the bandages was impossible to hide. Her free hand brushed one, and Clint stilled a little. "It's okay." He murmured. "They heal faster than the rest of me."
Natasha swallowed so that she didn't start crying again. "Why?"
"It's... complicated."
He was lying about something. That was okay. She deserved it. Clint tugged at her wrist, pulling her hand back. The cool cloth did feel nice on her skin. "I'm sorry I pushed you to spar so soon." Clint mumbled, pretending to focus on her hand. "I could see that you didn't want to, but I pushed anyway."
"Don't." Natasha said firmly. "Don't do that." She had attacked him, hurt him, after he had spared her life. And now he was sitting here, cleaning his blood off her hands, and apologising?
Clint swallowed, and pretended that he needed to hold her hand a little longer. "I wanna help you, Natasha, but I'm gonna make some mistakes. Don't be scared to tell me if I'm making you feel worse, or... anything." He raised his head. "Okay?"
He was being earnest, which was so much worse than when he was joking or trying to piss her off. Natasha nodded tremulously and withdrew her hand. "I don't know why you're wasting your time on me."
Clint smiled. "Well," He said, "I can't go back in the field for a few weeks. I might as well spend them with you."
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Clint stayed true to his word. He visited every day. Sometimes he brought paperwork to complain about, sometimes he brought a deck of cards and taught her how to play a game called 'uno'. They went out again, but hadn't ventured near the gym. Once he had brought a computer to show her a movie he thought she didn't know of, and Natasha didn't have to heart to correct him.
It was actually kind of sweet, how he looked to her at every new development to see her reaction, excitedly asking what she thought. He was kind of a puppy at times.
Ten days after their incident, Natasha noticed something on their morning walk to the cafeteria. "Your wings are still growing." She noted, "Don't they stop when you get older?"
With how squirrelly he usually was when Natasha asked questions about wings, the smile surprised her. It was a crooked, fond kind of grin. "They are a bit, aren't they?" Clint said thoughtfully, toying with one of his primaries.
"Do they grow all your life?"
Clint now looked shy. "Yeah." He said, the hint of a blush on his cheeks. "They- uuh... yeah."
"Why?"
There it was again. He was holding back. It wouldn't bother her so much if Clint wasn't so open about everything. "It's... hard to explain."
"You're lying." Natasha noted without venom. She wasn't accusing, it was just an observation. "You're always lying about this. Why?"
Clint was silent for a little while, and Natasha let him think. She liked just walking together, even if she did have this ridiculous tracking bracelet on every time she left her cell. "I- I promise I will explain it, Natasha, I just can't right now. I will though."
"Soon?"
That got a proper smile out of him, that roughish, boyish grin that lit up his face and made his eyes glow with warmth. "Yeah. Really soon, I think."
Something here was going over her head, but Natasha tried not to be frustrated by it. Instead she took what petty revenge she could.
"What is that?" She asked skeptically, pointing to the tray of hash browns.
"Huh?" Clint glanced to them, then back at her. "They're hash browns... uuhh, fried potato things, you know?"
Natasha blinked, keeping on the best 'I'm an ignorant foreigner' face she could muster.
It seemed like he fell for it. "Oh man, you've gotta try these, they're great." Clint forked three onto her plate, and Natasha smothered a grin when he turned away. This could be... fun.
She felt several pairs of eyes on her when they sat down, and Natasha sat up straight, squaring her shoulders to show that they didn't get to her. She felt Clint prickle beside her, but neither said anything. They were both the subject of a lot of whispers, but Natasha knew she bore the brunt of them. She didn't care. It certainly wasn't the first time people had been whispering about her.
What did bother her a little was how everyone present had wings. All different colours, sizes, and shapes, but everyone had them. She had held onto some hope that there was someone how there like her, who didn't have any.
She almost wished for her fake ones back. Almost.
"Hey," Clint got her attention, noticing her zoned out eyes. "You okay?"
Natasha nodded quietly, stabbing her bacon. She felt... vulnerable, somehow. It was annoying. Then something drew her attention. Something behind her. Trying not to be too paranoid, Natasha glanced around. Clint's wing was out, unlike usually, when they were neatly folded behind his back. It was shielding her somehow. Hiding her? Not quite, but... it felt defensive.
She looked at him, silently questioning, and he shrugged. "What?"
Clint wasn't oblivious. He had to know what he was doing. He had picked up on Natasha's unease and... tried to protect her, in the least obtrusive way he could. "Nothing."
Clint smiled and nodded to her plate. "You should try the hash browns then, they're better when they're hot."
Natasha barely refrained from rolling her eyes, but took a bite, faking mild surprise at the taste. "It's good." She said, and Clint grinned.
"See? I told you!"
She kept the smile inside, seeing his childish excitement. Yeah. This was fun.
Natasha kept her pretend questions simple. She asked what metaphors and figures of speech meant. She asked Clint what SHIELD's symbol was supposed to be. She also asked genuine questions, to muddy the waters a little. Her favourite by far was when she managed to convince him she didn't know what a gondola lift was, leading to a five minute explanation with hand drawn diagrams to help her 'understand'.
It was funny. And sweet. Natasha wasn't sure which she liked the most.
After a week however, she decided that seeing the look on his face would be much funnier, and she was getting a little bored of keeping it up. They were watching a documentary in a small, out of place, common area, when Natasha pointed to the train on the screen and asked, "What's that?"
Clint frowned. "That's a train Natasha, you know what a train is."
Natasha kept on her innocent facade and watched the realisation creep onto his face.
Clint turned his head slowly to stare at her. "Wait, you... and the gondola, the- the purse dogs? The hash browns?!"
He sounded so betrayed. Natasha bit her lip to keep from smiling. She kept her gaze fixed on the screen.
"You little shit!" Clint exclaimed, righteously outraged, and he pounced. He held her down with one hand on her sternum, leaving her arms free, and playfully battered at her with his wings. "I'm trying to educate you and this is the thanks I get?" He questioned with a wide grin.
Natasha spluttered at the assault, swatting at the wings with her hands but making no real effort to get away. She could feel... something, bubbling up inside her, and it became more intense with every second, until she burst out with a quickly stifled laugh, and a not so stifled smile. It felt strange to be laughing and smiling for no one's benefit but her own. She liked it.
Clint slowed his attack to smile down at her. He hadn't ever seen Natasha laugh before, not really. He'd seen her laugh to seduce a target on his recon of her, but that was different. That laugh was silky and smooth and deeply unsettling. This was bubbly and cute and, actually, kind of childish. He loved it.
He realised with a jolt how much better Natasha was doing. Only weeks after almost gouging his eyes out in a sparring match, here they were again, him holding her down, and instead of mauling him, she was smiling. Even laughing a little. Letting him hold her down. It warmed his heart, and before he could second guess himself or she could stop him, Clint had leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Natasha stilled, staring at him, and Clint quickly retreated off her. "Sorry!" He said, "I didn't mean to- Nat? You there?" She didn't move, though he could thankfully see that she was breathing. "Earth to Natasha!" Clint waved a hand in front of her eyes.
That did snap her out of it, and she sat back up with an uncertain look in her eyes.
Clint cocked his head. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I... yes." Natasha said quietly. She wasn't looking at him.
"I'm sorry if I crossed a line." Clint said, "I didn't mean to... I dunno, I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She murmured, raising her head to meet his eyes. Clint was surprised to see that she seemed... happy. Shy, but happy.
He noticed something else too, something that made him smirk. "Are you blushing?"
"No." Natasha said flatly, covering her cheeks with her hands, which even she had to admit undermined her denial just a little.
Clint laughed. "Oh my God, you are!" He exclaimed delightedly.
"Shut up."
"Awwww, who's the cutest little secret agent in the world?" He teased, reaching to mess up her hair.
Before he could, a hand clasped his wrist, and the next moment Natasha had him in a firm hold. He grunted in surprise, but quickly found that it didn't actually hurt. It wasn't even uncomfortable.
Clint laughed into the couch cushion. "You softie."
"Go to hell Barton."
"Only if you come too!"
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Natasha woke immediately at the first hint of pain. It was her usual response, even on the off chance she got cramps in the night. She couldn't risk being attacked.
But this wasn't an attack, and neither was is cramps; those weren't due for another two weeks. No, this was something on her back. It itched and stung and ached. She rotated her shoulders and grimaced. Was something wrong with this shirt? It felt like pinpricks on her back.
She pulled it off over her head and felt it catch on... something. Natasha grimaced. She felt strange.
Blinking in the dark, she saw that there were blood spots on the back of her shirt, and frowned. How could that have happened? She felt around on the bed to make sure there was nothing sharp, but only found a few more patches of blood on the sheets. What was this?
Natasha twisted one arm around her back, reaching for whatever the hell was going on. Her heart stopped when she felt something protruding from her back, realising that she could feel her own touch on it as well, even sticky with blood. She hissed with pain when she realised she had accidentally pulled something off.
Bringing her arm back confirmed her suspicions. It was a feather. Blood clashed with the emerald green of the downy plume.
Natasha stared at it in the dark. She hadn't expected this. If you were born without a limb, it wasn't supposed to magically start growing when you were all grown up. What the hell was happening here?
She wrapped herself in her dirty shirt to sneak to the showers, which were thankfully empty. She watched the blood wash down the drain, trying to grasp what was happening. She gently towelled off, but found that manipulating the towel around her newly sprouted limbs to be difficult. Thankfully most shirts she had encountered lately were made to hold full sized wings, so hers were easily hidden under the material.
The next step was to clean her sheets and her old shirt before anyone noticed. Natasha didn't stop and wonder why she was going to such lengths to hide this. Something just told her that she should.
She bundled the fabric in enough of a ball that the blood wasn't visible from the outside, and swiftly walked to the laundry area in the basement. Very few SHIELD agents used these facilities, she had noted, so the odds of running into anyone were slim. And the kind of agent she might run into wouldn't look twice at bloody clothes. That was usually what they were washing too.
She had barely been there a few minutes when there was a knock at the door. "Natasha?"
She turned her head. Coulson. Great. "Hello." She said softly. He looked out of breath. "Is something wrong?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing." He asked, approaching. "Your tracker put you out of your room. At this time, I wanted to check on you."
Check that she was okay, or that she wasn't taking their base apart via the plumbing? "I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine." Clearly sending him away. He'd have to be a stubborn bastard to stay.
Phil caught sight of something soaking in the sink, and grimaced. "Are you sure?" He asked gesturing to the bloody material.
Natasha fell back on the one thing that would make men cower. "I'm just a little early this month."
Far from retreating, Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He questioned, without the hint of a blush. "On your shirt?"
Natasha went still.
"It's okay." He tried to comfort. "Look, Natasha, if you've hurt yourself, you can tell us. We're here to help." He tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but stopped when she flinched away. Coulson frowned. It had been a few weeks now since Natasha had been so defensive about physical contact. "What's wrong? Did you have a flashback?"
"No." Natasha said shortly, deciding that her clothes had soaked for long enough, and heaving the wet material to the washing machine, the dripping water soaking her knees when she crouched down.
It was in seeing her bending like that, the material of her shirt pulled tight over her back, that Coulson started to see what had happened. He gently reached with one hand, tracing his fingers over Natasha's shoulder blade.
The second his fingers encountered that telltale bump, Natasha yelped and fell over, staring at Coulson with wide eyes.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He said quietly, offering her a hand up. "How do you feel?"
Natasha took it, pulling herself up. "I- I don't know." She admitted. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. I don't understand much about them."
Phil sighed. He had a bad feeling about this. "How much do you know?"
She shrugged, going back to pushing her clothes into the machine. "I know they're real." Natasha muttered, throwing in some powder. "I know you can't fly on them. Colours vary. I know they grow your whole life." She faced him.
There was a sadness in Coulson's eyes. "Do you know why?"
Natasha hesitated and shook her head. "Cl- Barton said he'd explain later. He kept putting it off."
Phil rolled his eyes. Of course he did. He sighed. "Why don't you and I get some tea?" He offered.
Natasha blinked.
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"People usually start growing their wings within the first few weeks of their life." Coulson started, sipping his coffee. The two were sitting on the roof, watching the sun gradually creep over the horizon. "Colour's pretty instant, which I guess you noticed already, and their size... fluctuates over your lifetime."
"So why didn't I have any before?" Natasha asked. "And why now?"
"Clint didn't tell you." Phil took a deep draught of his coffee. "I don't know how it works specifically, some of those scientists in the lab could probably be more accurate about it, but... the upshot is that the more people who love you, the bigger your wings are."
Natasha hid how hard that hit her, the tightness in her chest. She didn't say a word.
"And the strength of that love makes them bigger too. That's why babies get them so early, parents' love."
Natasha swallowed the lump in her throat. "So, my parents... they didn't-" She broke off. "Before they..."
"Your wings shrink when someone who loved you dies." Phil said sadly. "My dad died when I was a kid, it happens." He could see that this was bothering Natasha, however well she hid it. "Natasha. I know it might not feel like it right now, but this is a good thing." Sunlight hit her face, illuminating her eyes, the bottled tears glittering like starlight. "Someone really loves you. Enough to make your wings start growing. Any idea who that might be?"
Natasha shook her head, even though she knew right away who it was.
"Sure." He clearly didn't believe her, but didn't want to push.
Coulson gently put one hand on her shoulder. "It's not all him you know." He said softly. "And don't think I haven't noticed his wings getting bigger lately."
Natasha bit her tongue. "It's not... it's not like that."
Phil smiled. The sunlight made his wings glow. "What it's like," He said, "Is love. It doesn't change anything. He loves you. That doesn't come with any expectations. It's simple."
"It doesn't feel simple." She muttered.
Coulson's wing wrapped around her shoulders. "Because you're not used to it." He said. "But you will be. And you don't have to hide them."
"They hide themselves."
"Not for long." Phil smiled.
Natasha glanced at him sideways. "You sound very sure of-" She broke off with a strange little yip, feeling the stumpy limbs puff up a little.
Coulson chuckled, like he knew exactly what had just happened. "Don't worry." He said, "You'll get used to it."
The sparkle in his eyes told Natasha exactly why her wings had just grown, ever so slightly, and she smiled gently. Maybe this was a good thing.