A/N RL hit with a hammer, and the distractions have been a total PITA. But finally, chapter 3 is done. Thank you Gledwyn and Keiichi for the input. BTW, in case it wasn't clear, the dog in this story is based on a real dog and is pictured there. Klepto, as we have named him, endeared himself to us by doing the exact same things that the dog in the story does—taking things off the porch and then returning them. He even took a glass jar and returned it to the porch the next day, unbroken. Most of the dog/people interactions in this story are actually true to life.
Part 3
The mission takes her to a world famous and highly exclusive spa in Paris. She is tasked with befriending the mistress of a Ukrainian crime lord in an intelligence gathering operation. It soon becomes obvious that Lerusia has never heard the phrase 'loose lips sink ships'. After two days of sharing the sauna, Turkish steam baths, and a prolonged conversation at side-by side tables during a particularly gritty exfoliating massage where it took her a whole half-minute to relearn how to peek out from behind cucumber slices embedded in her eye sockets, the young Ukrainian woman considers 'Nadenka' to be one of her closest confidants. They go shopping and to treatments and salons together and everyone from the clientele to the extraordinarily discreet staff are refined and serene. Natasha has never been so bored in her life.
She's supposed to be at the spa gathering information for fourteen days. Lerusia spews so many details about Bohdan Sirko's lifestyle, daily schedule, and habits (up to and including his apparently astounding sexual prowess and proclivities) that by day ten she has had about as much as she can stand. 'Nadenka' learns there has been a family emergency back home, so she and Lerusia exchange numbers and email addresses, air kiss each other's cheeks and vow passionately and with many hand gestures to keep in touch.
Natasha then shifts to Phase two of her mission. She flies to Grodno, Belarus where Sirko is exactly where his talkative mistress had said he would be, buying some chemical weapons from a former KGB agent turned weapons dealer slash capitalist in a textiles factory. There is an unfortunate incident involving the chemicals that results in a spectacular explosion, and as a result, Lerusia no longer has to worry about what to get Bohdan for his birthday the following week. There's also one less entrepreneur in the world.
Fury debriefs her on the Helicarrier and then sends her to the Avengers Tower to touch base with the others. Not much has changed since she was there a few weeks ago, but after the Paris spa ordeal, she wants to punch someone and there's not a good sparring partner to be found. Steve Rogers would be more than adequate, but it only takes one round with him before she realizes he's pulling his punches. He tells her it's because he "doesn't want to hit a dame, even when she's an assassin with the code name Black Widow". Stark is a no-go, he refuses to spar with her again outside his Iron Man suit after what she did to him last time, and Banner—well, that's just not a route even she is willing to take. She's restless and irritable and it's a dangerous pairing for someone like her.
She's been there for three days and Clint calls when she's walking down the hall on her way to the training room after breakfast. His first words when she puts the phone up to her ear are, "I'm cleared."
Tension drains out of Natasha and for the briefest moment, it crosses her mind that his impending final review might be the real reason for her unease, but she dismisses that notion. Still, she smiles at the good news and ignores the tangible relief that two techs passing her in the hallway show at her change in demeanor.
"Let's celebrate," she suggests.
There is sudden silence on the other end of the line, and then his voice is all wariness when he replies, "All right..."
She's confused by his reaction and then remembers that the last time they celebrated together, it involved eating painful amounts of shawarma and ended with her picking bloody glass splinters out of him in the infirmary for a good two hours. Her laugh is bright and clear and causes the IT guy from the 4th floor to double-take and trip over his own feet in surprise. "I promise that shawarma and forceps will not be involved."
"I heard that—sounds kinky," Tony Stark's voice comes over the P.A. speaker midway down the hall. When she shoots the accompanying hall camera a glare, his unrepentant voice adds, "Tell Legolas I said congrats."
"You get that?" she asks Clint.
"Even if I hadn't, his text just came through. When do you think you'll be able to make it down here?"
She tells him, "Soon."
He's been her partner long enough to know she means that literally. "See you tonight."
She catches an evening flight to Charlotte and it's just after nine that evening when she guides the rental car down the driveway.
The dog is lying on the front porch and as soon as her car comes into view, he hops to the ground and makes for the edge of the woods. Unlike the previous times, he does not vanish from sight. Instead, he pauses there, watching as she parks the car next to Clint's Bronco. One ear stands fully erect, the other flops half over, and the effect would be comical were it not for the tension and wariness projected by his entire physique. He's gained weight since she saw him last and now sinewy muscle stretches over his lean frame.
Clint comes outside when she's getting out of the car and watches as she gets her suitcase out, coming down the steps toward her. "I've got some pizza inside if you haven't eaten yet."
She nods and gestures toward the dog with her chin, "Why am I not surprised to see him still hanging around." The animal sits on his haunches to watch the two humans.
"Must be my animal magnetism," he shrugs nonchalantly.
"It is because you're feeding him."
"Well, that too."
They're nearly to the porch steps when the ground seems to give way beneath her foot and she lurches forward with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. Clint's hand snaps out to grab her elbow, steadying her. "I'm sorry, I totally forgot about the hole."
Pain shoots through her ankle, but with his help she manages to stay upright. "The hole," she repeats, looking down and sure enough, there's a hole dug right in the middle of the pathway leading from the driveway to the porch. "Are you laying land mines or trip wires," she asks, tone dry to disguise her wince as wryness.
"More like a Ghost landscaping project. I filled it in a few times but he kept emptying it out again, so I've just learned to avoid it. How's your foot?" he asks, and his warm hand is still providing extra support.
She tests her weight on the injured ankle. "I've had worse." It's true, but she's still breathing through her teeth with her jaw squared stiffly. The pain is obnoxious. It's not broken or she wouldn't be able to walk on it at all, but it's definitely a sprain, and she hates sprained ankles even more than she hates bullet wounds—they're more limiting in her line of work. She distracts herself from the pain by seizing on what he's just said. "Ghost? Seriously?"
Clint shrugs and takes her luggage away from her, relieving her of the extra weight. "Thought about naming him Tiger because of the stripes, but I knew you'd never let us live that name down."
"You know me well." The thought of such a timid creature being designated with a name more appropriately applied to an animal far more dignified, confident and powerful is ridiculous enough that she almost forgets how bad her foot hurts, until she tries to go up the porch steps. Biting back a curse, she upgrades 'sprain' to 'bad sprain' and pauses there, one hand clenching the railing and the other balled into a fist. She shoots the dog a glare for digging the hole in the first place, and he stands up, lowering his head in a curious gesture that can either be construed as deference or challenge. When he melts into the woods behind him a moment later, she decides that it's the former rather than the latter.
"Can you make it up the stairs or do you need a lift?"
Natasha scoffs and concentrates on getting up the next step. "Please, it's a twisted ankle, not a gunshot wound."
He seems to consider pushing the matter, but ends up responding agreeably, "Ok," and focuses on helping her the rest of the way inside.
By the time they make it inside, she can feel the tightness in her shoe and knows her ankle has already started swelling. Clint drops her suitcase by the door, walking her over to the recliner. When she sits down with an audible sigh of relief, he crouches down in front of her and his hands are gentle as he works the Jimmy Choo pump off her aching foot.
Sure enough, it's already starting to bruise and swell, and he looks up at her. "This is your idea of a celebration?" he asks, quirking one eyebrow.
She smacks him upside the head for that one and he only laughs. A few minutes later, he's got her foot propped up on the ottoman with an ice pack to help with the swelling, and is digging through a travel bag in the hall closet in search of something.
"Aha!" he exclaims and emerges holding a tan wad of fabric in one hand, and a walking boot in the other. "Look, it's your old friend, Ace. He's been missing you."
Natasha stares balefully at the elastic bandage, but she knows it's a necessary evil. If she doesn't wrap her ankle and stay off of it for at least two weeks, she's at even greater risk of injuring it again. After carefully wrapping her ankle and easing the boot on before tightening the straps, he brings the pizza box over along with a couple of ice cold beers and they eat in comfortable silence.
When they're both finished, he gathers up the leftover pizza crusts and puts them into Ghost's empty dog dish, topping it off with a couple cups of dog food. Even though she really should stay off of her foot, when Clint goes out the front door and whistles, she gets up and hobbles over to watch through the glass.
The stray has learned that when this particular human appears with the silver bowl in his hand, food is eminent. Where before, the dog would only emerge from the woods if no one was outside, now he circles around the man at an anxious trot from a distance of five or six feet, pausing to lift his nose and scent the air. Clint has barely set the bowl down and taken a step away before the dog dives in. He watches the man walk away as he eats, and he's still not doing a whole lot of chewing before he swallows the kibble down, but there's less desperation than there had been two weeks prior.
Barton comes back inside and gives her a Look when he sees her standing there. She ignores it and gestures at the brindle dog with her chin, "He gets pretty close to you now."
"Yep. Making some good progress."
She nods once and asks, "So what's next?"
"What's next?" he repeats, "What do you mean, what's next?"
"Yes. What's your next plan of attack? You know, to make further progress in your... canine rehabilitation project."
He seems amused by her aggressive choice of words. "My next plan of attack, so to speak, is to keep feeding him, give him some more time getting used to me and who knows, eventually he'll probably let me touch him and..."
His optimism is so unrealistic, she can't stop herself from raising one eyebrow incredulously. "And... what? You think he's just going to suddenly decide that you're safe, that you're not out to hurt him? That you're not feeding him because you have some ulterior motive in mind? Riiiight, let me know how that works out," she gives a derisive snort and stares out the window, watching as Ghost eats the last pizza crust.
Clint rests his shoulder against the door jam and studies her face for a long moment before turning his attention to Ghost. The dog is giving the bowl a thorough licking to clear it of any crumbs before he meanders around the yard with his nose to the ground. Without looking at her, Barton asks, "So what would your recommended course of action be, then?"
She carefully considers the question. "He's not going to do any more than he absolutely has to. People have probably proven to him time and again that they're not to be trusted, and you just feeding him isn't going to change that anytime soon. At the same time, the dog is even more of a social creature than a human is. My point is, neither are psychologically wired to be alone for their entire life."
He shifts his gaze to her and his gray eyes are thoughtful. "No. I suppose we're not."
Natasha tilts her head, acknowledging his words, and continues, "Well, you can use that to your advantage. I think you are going to have to push him, a little at a time. Force the issue. Start with the food, he's grown used to eating and he won't want to give that up now, so make him work for it. Does he only come out when it's time to eat, or is he hanging around in general?"
"He's always around, now. If I'm outside, he's always there, watching me. He'll follow me around, from a safe distance of course. Say, fifteen or twenty feet, tops."
"He's curious, then. Wondering what your true motives are. It will probably continue, so long as you don't do anything to threaten him outright. You push the matter, you make him interact with you, I'm willing to bet that sooner or later he's going to accept you to some extent... grudgingly."
"Since when did you know so much about social behavior in dogs?" he asks with genuine curiosity.
"I don't know anything about social behavior in dogs." She lifts her chin, meeting his eyes. She lets the rest go unsaid; she knows what it's like to not have anyone to trust, and no other breathing creature on this earth knows that better than he.
The good humor fades from his face as he meets her eyes. "Fair enough," is all he says.
He tidies up the kitchen while she gimps around, getting ready for bed, before they say their respective goodnights.
The ankle sprain ruins any possibility of their usual morning sparring and parkour routine. When it's time to feed the dog, Clint carries the dish outside and places it on the ground a few feet away from the porch steps instead of out in the middle of the yard. Then to push the matter even further, he sits at the top of the stairs. Natasha hobbles outside and joins him.
The dog paces back and forth in a wide arch, unsettled by their continued presence and close proximity to the metal bowl. Lifting his nose, he scents the air to verify that there is indeed food in the dish and then licks his chops with anticipation.
"How long do you give it?" Clint asks.
"Fifteen minutes, tops," is her self-assured reply.
Ghost is uncertain how to proceed. The kibble is so close he can see it and smell it, but the humans are far too close to the bowl. He retreats to the edge of the woods, sitting on his haunches as he ponders his options. After a few moments, he seems to come to a decision and trots toward them. When he's about five feet away from the food dish, he stops and lowers his head in that curiously deferential manner Natasha has seen before. Then he lays his half-cocked ear back and lets loose with a short, inquiring bark.
Clint's eyebrows shoot upwards with surprise at the unexpected sound. "He's never done that before."
"He doesn't know what else to do."
The dog gives them another questioning woof, and then he bows, lowering his forelegs and chest to the ground, rump in the air and wags his thin bony tail. There's no aggression in his body language, just a simple question relayed in canine tongue. Bark? Why won't you two humans go back inside so I can eat my food in peace?
"We're not leaving, so if you want your food, you better eat it," Barton answers, gesturing at the kibble with his chin.
Standing again, the brindle stray cocks his head, his brow wrinkling and ears shifting into what can only be construed as a frown of dismay. He makes his displeasure known by barking again and turns to trot back to the edge of the woods, looking over his shoulder before he vanishes into the dappled treeline.
They wait.
Thirty-two seconds later, Ghost reappears. Patience clearly isn't one of his virtues. He gives them a few more woofs of protest as he trots around, but it's lost on neither of them that despite his obvious disapproval at their presence, he's edging ever closer to the food dish. After a couple of minutes of that, he stops, his dark suspicious gaze going from the food dish to where they are seated on the porch and back again, and he stretches out his entire body toward the food. Then he startles at absolutely nothing and takes off at a run for the woods.
It takes him a few seconds to recover from that and he sits on his haunches a second time to weigh risk versus reward. Reward wins out big judging from the drool dangling from his jowls, and he gradually works his way closer to the food dish. He gets close enough for his chin to brush the edge of the metal bowl but that scares him too and he runs off again.
The third time is the charm—he actually manages to grab a mouthful of food before he darts away. But he retreats less and less each time until he finally just ends up reaching out with his entire body, his legs stretched out behind him and his chest nearly touching the ground so he can gobble down the kibble. He watches them the entire time for any sign of a threat and when the bowl is empty, he withdraws to the forest again, though not without a backward glance.
Clint gives Natasha a sidelong glance and she shrugs. "Like I said, push him. Get him out of his comfort zone. Who knows where it might lead."
"Get him out of his comfort zone," he echoes, his expression inscrutable. "All right, I can do that."
