Author's Note: Another week, another update. Hope you enjoyed the suspense in the last chapter - cliffhangers are fun, aren't they? Lyrics are from the same song, and I hope you've all listened to it at least once while reading this. Reviews make me happy!
American dreams came true somehow
I swore I'd chase until I was dead
Natasha hadn't slept well. Or at all, really. Clint had taken her to a nearby drugstore before driving her here, promising to buy all her usual toiletries she'd been lacking on the Carrier. Unfortunately, this particular Walgreens didn't appear to have stocked up on Kruidvat ("What do you mean, imported? It's shampoo.") or Chanel No. 19 ("It costs how much?"), so she was forced to settle on some crappy generic brands that would probably give her a rash. In short, it was the same situation she'd been in on the Helicarrier, only slightly improved by having personally selected the items.
Her quarters were little more than a hospital-styled room, an uncomfortable twin bed next to a cheap set of plastic shelves for her clothing. The walls were off-white, with a bathroom in the same color just large enough for a skinny shower and an old-fashioned sink and toilet combination. A small-screened television (with a poorly concealed camera "hidden" in the base) surveyed the room from its perch in the corner, complete with most basic cable channels except for the complete lack of news networks. Eileen, the mousy blonde tour guide, had hinted that some news programs upset patients with "sensitive dispositions."
"Not, of course, that I think you're delicate," Eileen stammered. "I mean, I don't think you're tough either. I mean, of course you're tough, you're just not like a heathen. I mean – well, yes, all the news stations are blocked."
Eileen had essentially given her run of the place – with banal limitations pertaining to operating rooms and private quarters in use – but Natasha felt little inclination to wander. Clint had produced a worn paperback copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from his glove compartment, mumbling something about the title catching his eye years ago, and Natasha was eager to read it, eager – if she was honest with herself – to understand more of the enigma presented by Clint Barton. He seemed willing to learn her past, willing to share his present, but showed reluctance when confronted with his own history, and Natasha found herself morbidly interested in his story.
It shouldn't matter, it didn't matter, who he was before, because she had been a different person back then too, up until a few weeks ago, and that person would never have been invited to sleep on Clint Barton's couch for weeks while searching for her own house. That person didn't exist anymore, and neither did the old Clint Barton, whoever he was. Natasha just wanted to understand why he was so kind, so patient, what had molded him into the man he was, willing to take a chance on a redhead with a death wish instead of blindly following his orders. A small, stupid part of her wondered if therapy would help her understand the people around her better, and it was only that hope that kept her from climbing the walls in the wee hours of morning when she should have been sleeping.
She was sitting on her stiff cot-bed, eight chapters deep in Scout's story (and when were they going to kill this damn bird, anyway?) when a soft knock came at the door. Eileen entered without permission (though Natasha knew that her room was under surveillance anyway, so she could hardly protest a lack of privacy), her blonde hair in a bun and looking much calmer than she had yesterday.
"Good morning, Ms. Romanoff. Are you ready for your appointment with Dr. Smythe?"
Natasha set her book down, already dressed in black yoga pants and a blue tank top, Clint's hoodie tied by the sleeves around her waist for courage. "I suppose," she said flatly, refusing to let her nerves show. "How bad can it be?"
"I want her out of there, and I want her out now."
"Calm down, Clint. You know Fury would never deliberately put her in any danger."
"Deliberately put her in danger? He's throwing her to the fucking sharks!"
"Agent Romanoff is in no danger."
"Agent Romanoff," Clint sneered, his knees bouncing up and down frantically while he sat on the couch. "I saw that you've been assigned as her handler, so don't go giving me this 'Agent Romanoff' shit. Her name is Natasha, and it's time you started calling her that."
"Natasha will be perfectly fine. Dr. Greene has been with the program for almost twenty years, and his colleagues say – "
"Screw his colleagues. Did you see what he was doing before he became the jolly Greene doctor?"
"That was a poor pun, even for you."
"Well, I'm upset, dammit! This is so messed up Phil, you have to see that."
"Clint." Coulson sighed, the sound shivering down the phone lines, weighted down with stress and worry. "Don't do anything rash. I promise you, she'll be fine."
"Yeah. And you have her back, right, Phil? I don't know how you ever expect her to trust you in the field after this. When she finds out you knew…"
Couslson sighed again, and his voice softened, sympathy creeping into his impassive voice. "Look, you're upset, and I get that. I was upset at first too. But this isn't the first time Fury's dealt with a rogue Russian. He knows what he's doing. I trust him, so it all comes down to, do you trust me?"
Clint paused before answering, carefully weighing years of friendship and loyalty against the irrational over-protectiveness that had sprung up the instant he'd read Greene's file. "Yes," he finally replied, albeit reluctantly. "I trust you."
"Good," said Phil, and he was back to being a handler, crisply businesslike. "Now get some rest, because I know you haven't slept since you dropped her off. I'll talk to Fury about letting you visit there. And by the way, Clint, as angry as Natasha would be if she found out what I did, I'm more inclined to believe this caveman chivalry of yours would piss her off a whole lot more."
Clint gave a weak chuckle. "You're probably right. Goodnight, then, Phil. Oh, wait. Have you been looking into that – that other thing I asked about?"
"What, you think Natasha tapped into the phone line or something?"
"Just superstitious, I guess. Did you, though?"
"Sure did. You two are all set for next Friday. I'll meet you there around seven, so you can grab dinner first. Sound okay?"
"Sounds great," Clint breathed out, grabbing his overnight bag and walking to the door of his apartment. "Thanks again, Phil."
"Anytime."
Sure, Clint knew that Coulson on his worst day had better instincts than Clint on his best day, but when it came to Natasha –
Well, Clint wasn't taking any chances.
"And then he puts on this terrible Sopranos accent – not that I knew what it was at the time – and he says 'I'm gonna make ya an offa ya can't refuse' and for some reason, he just seemed different, in a stupid sort of way and I – I don't know. But I didn't try to shoot him again."
Dr. Smythe smiled encouragingly. She was a younger woman, only a few years Natasha's senior, with soft brown hair cut in a bob around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were at once gentle and shrewd, missing nothing even as they encouraged honesty. Their session had been unlike anything Natasha had prepared for; instead of lying on a couch and explaining her dreams, she and the doctor had sat across from each other in arm chairs and talked about books, movies, music (not that Natasha knew a lot about any of those topics) before subtly bringing the conversation around to her past.
Natasha had decided, while pacing her room last night, that it would be more productive to talk, to tell the shrink what she wanted to hear, than to stay stoic the whole time. She stuck to safe topics – Clint, her life in Russia before the Red Room, Clint, her training at SHIELD, Clint, and her upcoming search for a new apartment. Topics that had no truly painful associations, topics she could discuss without sounding like a murderous maniac.
Dr. Smythe set her clipboard on the end table next to her chair, the table that contained a panic button Smythe probably thought Natasha didn't know about, and glanced at her watch. "Well, I think that about does it for the morning session, Natasha. Why don't you grab lunch and relax a bit before your afternoon appointment?" Her words, like her voice, were calm and even, but something suddenly seemed forced about her tranquility.
That thought nagged at Natasha all through her lunch – which was disgusting, hospital food, and she realized she'd been spoiled eating Clint's cooking all the time – and remained with her in her hour of free time, stealing her concentration away from Jem and Scout and the mystery of Boo Radley. She was almost relieved when Eileen came to fetch her again.
"This is different than the way we went this morning," Natasha pointed out as they walked. Eileen had squeaked and squabbled and wrung her little hands, before explaining that Dr. Smythe's mentor was scheduled to oversee her afternoon session. Natasha wasn't sure she wanted to talk to Smythe knowing that someone else was watching, but then, her whole sordid past was a matter of public record anyway, now that she worked for SHIELD.
Eileen dropped her off at a windowless room, Exam Room One stamped on a plaque outside the double doors. Natasha pushed into the room, noting the soft click of an automatic lock behind her.
There were three armchairs in this room, two of which were already occupied. Natasha instantly recognized Dr. Smythe, but the other doctor's face swam in front of her eyes before connecting sharply with a memory.
"Yuliy," Natasha snarled, her body tensing in preparation for a fight. Something poked into her neck from behind, and turning, she saw Eileen skittering away, syringe in hand.
Her vision clouded, but she could see the man turn towards her with a bland smile. As strong hands caught her falling body, his voice echoed in her ears.
"Hello, Natalia."
A/N: Don't you think cliffhangers are fun? And, just so you know, Yuliy may or may not be the Russian form of the name Julius...