Hello, everybody!
Shout outs this chapter go to Meow, Rennier, and karui . di . angelo, whose name didn't show up last time. Sorry!
I've gotten a request for the translations to be written, so those will be at the bottom of the page in the order they showed up in in the story. If you want a suggestion, go to the bottom before you read and paste everything into a sticky note, then just look at the sticky note whenever you need a translation.
Enjoy…
When Natasha woke up the next morning, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She felt lighter than air. God, she hadn't felt this good in two years. Not since the last time she'd had a hit. Now, feeling like this, Natasha wondered why in hell she'd ever wanted to cut herself off. She grinned, getting up for a shower. She watched her veins jumping out under the rush of the cool water, could feel the drug coursing through her blood.
A knock on the door woke Clint. He could hear the shower running and groaned, knowing he would have to answer. It took all his energy to drag himself out of bed and open the door. It was a deliveryman with two large suitcases. Wardrobe had come through.
Natasha came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel just as the door closed.
"Wardrobe?" she guessed, seeing the suitcases.
"Yeah," Clint yawned, leaving the cases by the door. He stretched his arms above his head. "Have at it."
Natasha grinned, grabbing the pink suitcase and unzipping it. It nearly exploded as she did, all the clothes spilling out. Clint was amazed that it had been possible to force all that in.
As she hung up the clothes, Natasha also inspected them to get a feel for Noelle Dupont. There were tights, leotards, gauzy skirts, and ballet shoes—flat and pointe—since Noelle owned a dance studio, and there were also plenty of evening gowns and strappy heels for ballroom dancing. Natasha couldn't find a single pair of pants or a plain t-shirt, but the dresses were pretty enough. She found a compartment completely dedicated to jewelry, which was mostly pearls. Pearl necklaces, bracelets, earrings, even barrettes. Natasha raised an eyebrow but shrugged. She looked good in pearls, anyway.
"Breakfast?" suggested Clint once she was done. His wardrobe was a lot easier to handle, being comprised completely of jeans, polo tops, dress shirts, black trousers, and dress shoes, plus a huge amount of fancy watches. He had changed into a dark purple polo top, smirking at an inside joke. Natasha was twirling in front of the mirror in a red cap-sleeve dress with a pearl clip in her hair.
"Yeah," Natasha replied. "But not pastries—I never thought I'd say this but I'm kind of sick of them."
"Sick of pastries?" Clint asked, feigning horror. "Inconceivable!"
Natasha shot him a glance as if to say Really? Princess Bride quotes now?
"Yeah, that wasn't cool, was it?" Clint cringed.
Natasha shook her head. "Let's just go," she said, slipping her feet into sandals.
"Le livreur nous a donné ces aussi," Clint said as they walked down the hallways, handing Natasha key.
"Les bicyclettes?" Natasha asked, recognizing the shape of the key as fitting in a bike lock.
"Oui. Apparemment, nous ne conduisons pas pour rester respectueux de l'environnement."
"Tres bien," Natasha said. She didn't mind a little extra exercise, especially since Noelle didn't go to the gym. Biking would be slightly more difficult with all the dresses, but Natasha had long since perfected the art of biking in dresses without flashing anybody.
The assassins found their bikes locked up right outside the hotel, a sturdy blue one for Clint—which Natasha eyed enviously—and a flimsy colorful one for Natasha, which she rolled her eyes at.
"Voulez-vous echanger?" she asked Clint hopefully.
"Non merci," Clint laughed. "Je ne veux pas l'air ridicule."
Natasha sighed, but mounted the bike. She lead the way to a diner she'd spotted the other day, which was probably two miles away. As she rode, she decided they would have to ride further than just to the diner and back, because four miles total wasn't even going to render her out of breath, much less count for a full workout.
As Natasha stopped her bike and affixed it to the rack in front of the diner, she inhaled. Paris wasn't the most aromatic place in the world, but the food in this diner smelled delicious. Natasha remembered the other girls in the Room who'd been using. One girl in particular had had the most voracious appetite whenever she was high. Conversely, another girl had so little appetite that she had practically been force-fed. It had never affected Natasha's appetite, thankfully, and that would make it easier to hide it from Clint. She'd have to watch what she said, though. She'd always been prone to hallucinations.
As they walked into the diner, Clint's arm brushed Natasha's, and she made a mental note not to inject. If he brushed up against he again, he would surely feel the bump of the injection site and know what she had done.
He couldn't know what she had done.
Natasha remembered the last time she had relapsed, and how she'd told Clint. If he'd been angry, maybe it would have been okay, but he wasn't. He had just looked so disappointed, so confused, like it was a joke and she hadn't really fucked everything up. But she had, and his sorrow was enough to make Natasha cut herself off again. She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat just from thinking about it.
As they ordered—chocolate crepes for Clint and raspberry jam crepes for Natasha—she could feel herself coming down from her high. She knew what would come next—the hollow feeling, the sudden sadness after hours of elation, the uncontrollable urge for another hit. She hated this feeling, even more so because Clint was chatting with her, grinning and talking and laughing and she knew that if she told him it would all turn around.
She wouldn't have to tell him. When she got home, Natasha was going to throw away the baggie and never think about it again and Clint would never have to know. It was one line, for fuck's sake! Her life couldn't be ruined because of one line of heroin! The lump in her throat tightened, but Natasha swallowed it down. The waitress was approaching with her food, and Clint was smiling adoringly at her, and Natasha was determined to forget about everything.
"Donc? Qu'en pensez-vous?" Clint asked, breaking Natasha from her thoughts.
She smiled at him. "Pardon, quoi?"
"Écoutiez-vous a une mot que je disait?" Clint asked with a chuckle.
"Bien sur," Natasha replied with a giggle.
"Quelle danse est ce que nous faisons en premier?" Clint repeated himself.
"Oh," Natasha said. "Je ne sais pas. Que est ce-que vois voulais faire?" She realized she didn't know the names of these dances in French, so she assumed a French accent and spoke in English. "Waltz? Foxtrot? Tango?"
Clint stuffed a crepe in his mouth and scrunched up his nose. He made a "hmm" noise and looked up to ceiling as if it would drop answers on him. "Waltz," he finally decided. "Ce soir?"
"Ce serait une plaisir," Natasha smiled. "Voulez-vous aller voir le Louvre aujourd'hui?"
"N'est-ce pas trop touristique?" Clint asked.
"Probablement," Natasha agreed. "Peut-être une petit galerie au lieu?"
"D'accord," Clint said. They both finished their food, talking about things that weren't important until the waitress brought them the check. Clint took Natasha's arm as they made their way out of the diner, and she kissed his cheek, telling herself it was just in case anybody interrogated the diner's staff about them.
"Voulez-vous faire une course?" Clint asked once they were outside, his eyes twinkling.
"Je pensez que vous demandriez jamais," Natasha laughed, pushing away from him and grabbing her bike. She unlocked it nimbly and was whizzing away from the diner in no time. Clint caught up with her easily enough, but then Natasha took a sharp turn down a small path and Clint had to scramble to turn around.
"Pas juste!" she heard him call from behind her, and she threw her head back and laughed.
"Vouz pouvez faire mieux que ça!" she taunted, but when she turned around, Clint wasn't there. Natasha frowned, then heard a whistle in front of her. She whipped her head around only to see Clint ten feet ahead. He must have taken a short cut. "Tricheur!" she accused. Clint only laughed. Well, two could play at that game.
Natasha saw Clint heading around a small pond, so she sped up, turning away from that route and choosing instead to cross a rickety bridge, ending up on the other side of the pond, twenty feet in front of Clint. She resisted the urge to flip him off, knowing it was something Noelle wouldn't do. Natasha shot out onto a street, ignoring the squealing of tires as the cars screeched to a halt. Clint was right behind her now and she couldn't lose a second. She was up to thirty miles an hour now, racing downhill. She could practically sense Clint on her heels, and she could see a flight of stairs ahead. Natasha grinned. She knew how to get him off her tail.
Clint figured out what she was doing two seconds before she did it.
"Noelle, ne fais pas!" he shouted, but it was too late. Natasha was shooting down the stairs, and Clint, who could never let her go into danger without him by her side, was barreling down the steps with her. On the last step, Natasha flipped, spinning through the air. She landed on her feet and ran a few steps to disperse the energy. Her bike clattered down and landed in front of Clint's. He jumped off, rolling on the concrete just quick enough to avoid the next flight of steps. As he brushed himself off, he glanced at Natasha, expecting himself to be angry with her.
Instead, he felt a grin forming. "C'etait genial," he said, and Natasha laughed.
"Mais les bicyclettes sont ruinee," she said, not seeming too sad about it. The ride down had been exhilarating for both of them—almost as good as…
Natasha stopped that thought in its tracks. One of her legs was aching, but she shook herself off. Nothing was broken, although she might have twisted a wrist.
The assassins looked towards their bikes, Clint's at the bottom of the second flight of stairs, a handlebar snapped off, and Natasha's poking out of a bush, one of the tires wrenched from its spot. Both knew they should feel bad, but they just didn't.
"Je m'en fou," Clint answered honestly, and Natasha had to agree. She walked up to her partner and ran a hand through his hair, then linked her arm with his.
"Il'ya une petit galerie juste la bas," Natasha said, pointing to a small building to their right.
"Allons y," Clint responded.
By the time they made it back to the hotel, it was eight o'clock and they were exhausted. They'd left their bikes at the nearest dumpster and walked everywhere after that.
Natasha unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately dropping the façade. She kicked off her shoes and headed to the bathroom. "Give me a minute," she called to Clint.
Once the door was locked, Natasha rooted through her purse to find the little baggie. She lifted it up in front of her and glanced at the toilet. Maybe before she threw it out, she could just do one more line. It wouldn't be that big of a deal, right? She sighed and shook her head. Clint was right outside, and if she came out high he would notice. It had been different last night, when he was asleep. There was no way she'd get away with it now.
Natasha opened the toilet lid, took a deep breath, and dropped the bag in. She flushed it down and then splashed some water on her face, pasting on a smile.
Clint was rooting through his bag for a new shirt when she walked out of the bathroom. He turned around, pulling a t-shirt on. Probably the only one he had, since Richard didn't seem like a t-shirt kind of guy. "Ready?" he asked.
Natasha nodded. She grabbed a bottle of water and took a gulp, then made her way over to Clint. He'd cleared as much space as he could, pushing the bed back into the corner and piling their belongings onto the couch.
The redhead pulled her partner to the middle of the room, and placed of his hands on her waist. She put her hand on his shoulder, and then lifted their other hands up to the side. "Step forward with your right foot," she instructed. "Now pivot onto your left, close together. Step back with your left, swing your right foot out, switch directions. Step back with your right, back with your left, close."
Clint did surprisingly well, learning the steps without a hitch. "That's it?" he asked.
"Those are the basic steps," Natasha replied, having to tilt her head up to look at him. "Now the waltz is in three/four time, which means the count goes like this: one, two, three, one, two, three," she explained the rhythm. "There are nine steps, three groups of three. Try the steps while I count."
Natasha, as the follower, twirled around Clint effortlessly, counting in threes. He stumbled a few times, but seemed to get it quickly enough. It was only when Natasha started the music that everything went downhill. Suddenly, he couldn't remember the steps, he got the rhythm wrong, and he bumped Natasha's toes at least seven times.
"Stop worrying about the music, Clint," she told him. "Listen to my voice. Listen to me counting," she counted in threes again, and the dance went fine, but as soon as she stopped talking, Clint stumbled.
"Fuck," Clint mumbled as he messed up for the millionth time.
"Don't give up," Natasha said. "Look, I'm going to put the music on, but I don't want you to listen to it. Pretend I'm counting, okay? Listen to my voice in your head, but don't listen to the music."
Clint sighed, but nodded. Natasha pulled them back to the middle of the room and positioned herself again.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yeah," Clint said.
This time, she could tell Clint was tuning out the music. He was concentrating hard, keeping his eyes on Natasha's. The dance was perfect. Natasha smiled.
"I knew you could do it," she smiled. But that was only the beginning. Natasha showed Clint as many twirls and dips as she could stuff into his brain. As long as he tuned out the music and focused on her, he could dance perfectly.
"Alright, last one," she said a little while later. "One, two, three, twirl, one, two, three, dip," She felt herself falling backwards, stopping only a couple feet above the ground, one of her feet on the ground, and the other pointing out. Clint's hand on her back was strong, and his face only inches from hers.
"Like that?" he asked softly.
"Perfect," she answered breathlessly. Was it just her, or was his face coming closer? Natasha leaned upwards without thinking. Two inches, one inch, four centimeters, and then her lips were brushing against Clint's, her eyes closing.
The song they'd been dancing to came to an end, snapping Natasha back into reality. She rolled out of Clint's grasp, standing shakily. "Sorry," she said quietly.
"No, it was my fault," Clint said. She turned around to see him standing right where she'd left him, looking down. "It won't happen again."
Part of Natasha's mind wanted to tell him "But I want it to happen again" or—better yet—wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. But she bit her lip and swallowed the feeling. She knew this couldn't happen. It was one thing when they were Noelle and Richard, but when they were Clint and Natasha, they couldn't afford to have anything change. If their partnership were compromised, not only would S.H.I.E.L.D. lose its best team, but she would lose her best friend. Natasha knew she couldn't handle that, so no matter how much she wanted to, nothing could happen with Clint.
But, God, she wanted to. She wondered if Clint could see the longing in her eyes when she looked his way. Probably. She doubted it was hidden very well. She wondered if he felt the same way. He had kissed her, but that was probably just a fluke. She knew she was pretty—Clint had probably just been lost in the moment.
"Um, it's late," Natasha said. "I'm going to go to bed." She grabbed a slip from the closet and changed in the bathroom. When she came out, Clint was in bed already. She curled up on the edge farthest from him, and held back tears as she fell asleep.
I just want to say that I didn't really mean for the drug thing to happen, I was just writing and then there it was. Sorry if it's become too angsty for you—I promise there will be loads more fluff in later chapters, and maybe even some lemons if you ask nicely.
Also, tell me if you got the Doctor Who reference—I couldn't resist! As for the Princess Bride quote…I'm truly sorry about that one. It just happened.
Review if you liked it, if you hated it, if you have ideas for it, if you want me to post a sexy end-screen dance, if you got that reference, or even if you're just having a bad day and want to let it out.
Here are the translations, in order of appearance:
"The delivery man gave us these as well."
"Bicycles?"
"Yeah, apparently we don't drive so as not to hurt the environment."
"Alright."
"Do you want to trade?"
"No thanks. I don't want to look ridiculous."
"So, what do you think?"
"Sorry, what?"
"Were you even listening?"
"Of course."
"What dance are we doing first?"
"Oh, I don't know. What do you want to do? Waltz? Foxtrot? Tango?"
"Waltz. Tonight?"
"It'll be a pleasure. Do you want to see the Louvre?"
"Isn't that too touristy?"
"Probably. Maybe a small gallery instead?"
"Okay."
"Want to race?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Not fair!"
"You can do better than that! Cheater."
"Noelle, don't!"
"That was awesome!"
"But the bikes are ruined."
"Who cares."
"There's a little gallery over there."
"Let's go."
