Big Thanks to everyone who reviewed in our last chapter: the guttersnipe, Dan Alaya, Miss Kitty Chevious, Shelbs13, MartaJ, sv4me.
Chapter Nine: Rally
Sometimes if Natasha shut her eyes hard enough, she could pretend she was back at home with her mother and father. If she clamped her hands over her ears, she could pretend to be chasing after her brother as they played outside in the snow. When she wrapped her arms around herself, she could almost imagine her mother squeezing her in a tight good-night hug while their dog barked outside.
It didn't work very long. The dog bark always ruined it. It'd turn into a high squeal, an ugly noise complicated by the sound of fire consuming their tiny house. And that was a good memory. Most of her memories were ghosts from missions she went on, strangling a man with piano wire, allowing her body to be used to further a goal, violent encounters with the Winter Soldier.
Those last memories were what worried Natasha as she made her way to the parking garage, six minutes ahead of schedule to have some sense of control over the event. Although Clint had never shown anything close to aggressive tendencies with her, Natasha knew it was better to be wary than harmed. Nights with Winter Soldier were great – except when they weren't. To be fair, both she and the Soldier were highly trained killing units. Both of them had issues with memories, Black Widow from her many times being reprogrammed and the Soldier from his constant cryo-sleep and reawakening.
Between missions and his going back into hibernation, they didn't have many chances to be together. They took whatever opportunities presented themselves. Natasha could still feel their first time, her hair getting caught on the flaky paint of the wall the Soldier had her pinned to. Old nail heads bit through the leather of her suit, both of them too preoccupied with stealing warmth from the other to bother removing clothes. Widow was sure to return the favor their second time around, all but tossing him at the wall. A cooling body was close by but neither agent paid the corpse any mind, too enthralled with a blinding need to be close to the other's body. They didn't kiss. The Soldier sucked her throat and Widow refused to put her lips to him at all. It wasn't personal. Not a moment of it. The Soldier needed a body to fuck just as much as the Widow. Still, there were moments when the Soldier would slow and nip her jaw and the Widow would sigh something that sounded like affection.
When it was over, he held her, two broken pieces trying to fit together and fix themselves. It never worked. There were times when they almost felt it, felt like being whole and safe but there were just too many pieces missing. The Soldier pulled away and the Widow didn't say another word as they returned to base.
For months now, Natasha was trying to start something similar with Barton but the man avoided her like he promised a vow of celibacy; which was ridiculous because just last week Debby from accounting thought it would be fun to tell her about that Halloween party back in '07 when Barton posed as Robin Hood and slept with half the – but that didn't matter. Natasha was curious to know if sex with Barton would be any different from the Soldier. She knew without doubt there would be small differences, Winter Soldier's left arm was metal, their coupling was a base instinctive need, Soldier had more facial scruff than Barton, and a whole different canter to his voice from Barton's drawl. Natasha didn't care about those differences or how Barton's kisses were kinder than the bites Winter Solder marked her with. What Natasha was curious about was that moment after, when Black Widow and Winter Soldier's hearts almost matched but were never right.
Natasha was curious if Barton might match her. The answer, regardless, would be a frightening lose-lose. More than anything, Natasha wanted to know for sure. It was more important to her than the prospect of them being imperfect as she suspected. Barton might have a hard time adjusting, based on his puppy-like affection for her and his hesitance in forming anything other than a one-night-stand with Natasha – by his own words. She herself was unopposed to sleeping with the man more than once, even if they didn't work well. It never stopped her from sleeping with the Soldier.
On the other hand, if Barton was her match . . .Natasha didn't want to think about it. She put the thought aside and strode into the SHIELD parking garage for "Private Vehicles," opposite the one that housed cars for missions. Although Natasha had been shown the garage on her tour of the SHIELD facility, it was her first time being in the cavernous tower herself. Important structures in SHIELD were built underground, the less important built above ground. The parking garage was small, only two levels and filled with less lighting than the mission garage. SHIELD liked to splurge on the best of the best, just not when it came to items of personal use. Since the cars here weren't government bought they weren't given as much attention. For the most part, the garage was used for agents who lived on site and were granted enough security clearance to leave of their own volition. Although skilled, Natasha hadn't been granted the opportunity.
After her stunt last week she didn't have clearance to leave the facility by herself, let alone in a car. There was a strong possibility that Barton wouldn't be allowed to escort Natasha off base. At that point, Natasha could care less about SHIELD protocol. She assumed by Barton's actions, he could too. She supposed that was part of the fun of it, sneaking out of SHIELD while her status was being evaluated. It was reckless and exactly what she needed. Maybe not in the long run, but Natasha had never been a person who expected a tomorrow. It was something she, Barton, and the Soldier all had in common.
Barton met her just outside the elevator 4.06 minutes later, the archer grinning in surprise when he exited the doorway and spotted Natasha standing close to a wall just opposite. She made sure to keep her expression cool, but Barton's genuine joy at seeing her was hard to ignore. The poor man was head over heels. She'd have to remember to be gentle with him when he realized they weren't what he seemed to be waiting for.
"What are you smiling at," Barton said, walking close and ducking his head a little to see her. His smile was boyish. Natasha bit back a laugh at his antics.
"Nothing of importance."
"Oh? Doesn't look it to me." Barton tipped his head to the side like a large bird and she huffed. His smile was downright smug now.
"Are we going somewhere or are you going to smirk at me all day."
"Oh, I plan on doing both," Barton countered without hesitation.
She swatted his shoulder and together they made their way to his car. Once the fuchsia Fiat was in sight, Natasha knew who it belonged to. She shook her head at him and Barton just grinned all the merrier. As promised, he handed his keys off, their lingering touch reigniting Barton's smile. If holding his hand was all she had to do to get that reaction, Natasha knew she'd have him by the end of the evening.
"Go easy on her, okay?"
Natasha didn't hold back her laugh. "Please, Barton. I'll treat her so well she won't want to go back to you."
"Hey! Don't steal my car from me," Barton protested as they got in. "It took us a long time to see things eye-to-eye but now me and the car are square."
"The car and I," Natasha corrected. "Honestly, if I am correcting your English your country is forsaken."
Scratching the top of his nose, Barton wheezed with laughter. "What'chu talkin' about? My English is perfect. If you want someone talking fancy, you shouldn't be talking to an ex-carnie."
"I will keep that in mind when I need someone of a superior vernacular."
"Vernacul-what?" Barton slipped on a pair of sunglasses as Natasha started the car. It purred and Barton pouted at her. "Damn, she never starts up like that for me."
"That's because she needs a woman's touch." Feeling bold, Natasha ran her index finger around the steering wheel.
Barton snorted, unimpressed. "Quit flirting with my car. And I have fantastic hands, thank you very much. Never got any complaints."
"Your performance is so pitiable no one has wanted to tell you the truth."
"Oh ho, ouch!" Barton barked with laughter. "It didn't sound like you had anything to complain about back at the river."
Natasha turned to look at him and it dawned on the man that wasn't quite the right thing to say. Even with the car engine going and the wheels chewing on the concrete as Natasha drove out of the garage, the silence in the car was oppressive. Barton's shoulder's twitched and she remembered the wings he had there. Somewhere their conversation twisted on itself and they were left in a dark parking garage. Natasha wasn't quite sure what to make of it. She'd fallen into a routine, one she used on marks to make them comfortable around her but riled up with arousal to make them careless. Then Barton did something unusual, reminded her that he wasn't a mark and they weren't on mission. Without an alias to hide behind, Natasha wasn't sure what to do.
The truth was, the moment by the river had been real for her. It wasn't a performance. It wasn't a scheduled event in the mission and it hadn't been what she was anticipating. Natasha was great with improvisation but even that was within an act; the seductress, the killer, the Black Widow. The woman underneath it all was small and soft, hidden behind wall after wall of emotional protection built by an illusion of a strong woman without fear. She followed the muscle memory and acting imprinted on her from the Red Room. She pretended to be as vicious as the man who rescued her who smelled of cigars. It was a show, of course. The real woman slipped between the bars now and again to investigate her world but those visits were few and far between.
It just happened that most of those visits were in proximity to Barton.
Barton scratched at his nose and asked Natasha to roll down the window when they got to the guard check. Leaning over Natasha, Barton flashed his SHIELD badge (assuring the guard he was wearing his big-boy pants and could leave base). By the time he was back in his seat and Natasha was driving out into the sunlight, she already had her mask back on. She was going to get to the bottom of this Barton thing, figure out where they stood, then. . .she'd figure out something to do after that.
Barton explained the roads she'd need to take but didn't tell her the final destination.
"It's a surprise!" he promised, like that explained everything. Natasha rolled down a window, though it was to blanket herself in the sound of rushing air opposed to needing to feel cool.
Natasha anticipated Barton being unable to stand the noisy silence but the man was relaxed and comfortable. He kept sneaking glances at her and each time he was caught, Barton smiled at the corner of his lips before returning to investigating anything outside the car. Natasha reminded herself of the ops they'd been on, missions where Barton stood still and quiet for hours, waiting for a target as Natasha looked into other matters because she couldn't stand sitting still. A spider was never still for long; working on her web, mending broken strands or wrapping prey.
When Natasha drove into the parking lot of a fairground and Clint instructed her to park, the Black Widow glowered at him. This was a joke, yes? Of all the places to take her to relax. It was almost insulting. No, actually, it was. Clint knew she grew anxious around crowds when they weren't on a mission. Besides, she knew that he knew that she knew he hated crowds himself. It was all a bit immature.
"A carnival? Truly? This is where you want to waste our day?"
Barton made a noise of mock insult as he unbuckled. "So says Nancy-Negative. Luckily I'm a forgiving guy and I'm still gonna impart my knowledge of this subculture onto you. How's that for a fancy vanicular?"
"Vernacular, Clint."
He beamed at her with the use of his first name. Natasha made a note to refer to him with it.
"Come on." He hopped out of the car (yes, Clint bounced) and tapped the hood till she got out and locked up. She held onto the keys but he wasn't anxious to get them back.
Clint's grin touched every part of his face. He grabbed for her hand and Natasha was surprised that she didn't feel an instinctive need to deck him. She tensed, alright, but there was no pinch between her shoulders or queasy throb at her gut from being touched when she didn't want it. She didn't even feel the need to pull away, something that chases after her just moments after being with the Winter Soldier. It felt. . . right. Not exactly nice, only it was, and she was calmer than without the touch. She felt like a top that had been spinning and was finally stilled.
She dropped his hand and took a step away from Clint. By that time they were close to the gates, families with small children and teens on dates congesting the area. Four lines zigzagged into the gates, passing security checks where men searched bags. A child shirked and an elder wheezed as he smoked. Everyone talked all at once but not a word could be heard in the mush.
Clint offered his hand again. "Hey. Hey, Nat. I'm right here."
Crowds pressed all around them but near Clint they parted, the squat man brushing them out of way with a shrug of his shoulders. He kept the spot close to her clear. Natasha glared again. She didn't need his protection (even if her hands were shaking).
"We're partners, remember? You've got my back and I need yours. I can't get through this crowd without you."
"I don't need you patronizing me," she snapped back. Clint just kept smiling. Natasha wanted to hit him. Since that first day they met, caught in the blur of the snow, Clint hadn't been afraid of her. It was infuriating. Any sane person was. Even some who had gone mad knew by instinct to be wary of her. What made him so different?
"I'm not patronizing you," Clint said. "Remember back in Syria when you warned me about the other sniper? I need your help now just as much as I did then. I hate crowds, Nat. I really do."
"Then let us go somewhere else." Her shoulders hunched up as the crowd pressed closer, adapting to Clint as they surged forward to the gates.
"Not an option."
"And why is that?"
Though his smile never wavered, it became something lighter. "It's a surprise."
She stared at his hand, the masses moving around them. Clint kept smiling and Natasha couldn't stand it anymore. She grabbed his hand and they marched past security, Clint flashing a badge that allowed them to pass without issue. Natasha was grateful. Although her gun had been taken from her, Natasha would never allow herself to go unarmed, two knives on her person.
Calmed (grudgingly so), Natasha was in a more observant mood. The fair wasn't huge by any sense of the word but there were definitely more people here than at SHIELD. Over the din, joyful screams echoed from an area with more adult rides. A tilt-o-whirle could be seen, dangling it's cargo over the heads of onlookers. Every corner of every spot housed a food or collectable stand, both over prices at rates to make the government envious. Where there wasn't a questionable kalamari or low quality art stand, was a trashcan. Where there weren't trashcans were families with fussy children. Banners tried to grab her attention as much as the bone vibrating music. It was all very exciting but overwhelming. Natasha wondered again why Clint thought to bring her here.
"Come on, let's loose the crowd."
Clint tugged her in a direction the crowd wasn't. After a few minutes negotiating with his elbows, Clint led her to a less crowded barn, housing an assortment of animals: cattle, sheep, goats, chicken and children. The children were roudy enough to be on the animal list but weren't actually in cages. She excluded the ones in the petting coral, giggling up a storm whenever a dour calf lapped at their kibble studded hands. Parents cheered on, taking photos and video to live in eternity on the internet. Tracking civilians had become so much easier with social networking, people voluntarily letting strangers monitor them.
"See, isn't this better?" Clint encouraged as he made a sweeping gesture. Musk and feces scented the air but as a whole, Natasha enjoyed the presence of feather-footed bantam chicks to a bustling crowd. It was quieter here, the lighting a dim, soothing quality like sitting in the shade of a tree.
"Marginally," she said to be difficult. Clint rolled his eyes.
"Yeah right. Go pet a cow or something. I know you're dying to."
Natasha, for the record, had no intention of doing any such thing. She did, however, enjoy walking past the stalls. Goats were by far the friendliest, stepping on top of one another to press their nosed through the fence to try and lick her. There was a misfit of the bunch with a crooked eye that reminded Natasha of the milk goat her family raised before everything. She'd forgotten about it, giggling when her mother spoke in empathy to the animal on a cold morning before sunrise. Clint had a great deal of fun riling up chickens by clucking and gesturing at them. Other fair goers stopped to watch when he got too boisterous and Natasha would have warned him off had Clint not grinned so bright. When he got into an actual fight with a turkey, Natasha put a stop to it before the Tom's handler (a young teenager with FFA written on her shirt) started crying.
"Frickin' pheasant. I would have won too, if it weren't for those meddling kids and that secret agent," Clint sulked as they left the barn.
"That sounds like another culture reference," Natasha commented.
"Scooby-Doo."
"Scooby-What?"
"Holy cow! How have you not heard of Scooby-Doo? We're already passed, like thirty balloons and giant toys of 'em." Natasha shrugged and Clint shook his head in exasperation. "Okay, before our next mission, we gotta watch some Scooby-Doo. You can't work for an American Government agency and not know America's favorite Great Dane. Maybe we'll watch the Zombie Island movie but nothing after Hex Girls. It got dumb after Hex Girls."
Natasha wondered when this became her life, listening to the world's best archer (and biggest child), monologue about meaningless culture references. She hadn't a clue what he was saying but Natasha found herself smiling anyway. Up until Clint, her life was focused on the bidding of whoever held her collar. While SHIELD was unquestionably the possessor of that chain, being a tool in an organization's kit was not all of her life anymore.
She wondered if the difference made her a better agent or not.
Seeing how happy Clint was, she didn't want to be a better agent at all. She wanted to be Natasha.
After navigating the barn, Natasha found the crowd wasn't quite so oppressive. She and Clint darted through gaps like they were on a mission following a target. Natasha's muscles fell into a comfortable rhythm, soothed by the normalcy of being on the hunt. She didn't know where they were going but Clint sure wanted to get there in a hurry. While on mission, Natasha was the one who usually lead their duo while Clint kept an eye for enemies. It was without any real surprise that Natasha realized she was comfortable with their role reversal, Clint leading. She was used to taking cues and found it easy to understand what Clint was thinking before he finished gesturing her forward. His smile was ever present.
After a few more minutes, they were in another part of the fairground where the crowd thinned. Clint's grin was batty as he swung his arm for Natasha to hurry.
"This is what had you so excited?" Natasha asked. She didn't see what all the fuss was about as they entered an old-style theater.
The Sinclair's Scandal was modeled to look Western but fell into a composite, half-European pub with a stage too big for the room. Only a handful more than seventy people could squeeze into it, less with how much space the round serving tables took up that sat six each. False candles flickered from the tables and customers squinted at their menus in the relative darkness of the theater. The room was at odds with itself, modeled for the 19th century but illuminated with lights clinging to the walls Natasha knew without doubt were from the late 1950's. The bulbs inside couldn't be more than a few years old. Dark but cramped, the theater felt a bit like a broom closet. All of it would have been unremarkable if it wasn't for the sage, polished black with plenty of room for the six ballet dancers in the mists of a performance.
"Oh."
Her breath bellowed out like someone squeezed her gut. The dancers weren't fantastic in any sense of the word. Good would be a kind word for them. Their form was off and one of the girl's was far too timid in her steps, forcing the others to compensate. A recording of piano music played over the sage, not loud enough to fully disguise the sound of the six dancer's feet. Despite all of that, Natasha felt calmed down to her bones.
All of her years as a Black Widow, the one thing she enjoyed was dancing. Her instructor had a cruel sense of perfection for the girls and the daily practice had been exhausting, but dancing was the moment when Natasha felt alive. It was another performance, yes, but one where absolute concentration was required of her; body and mind. While dancing ballet, she didn't have time to worry about the black spots in her memory. She didn't have to fight off memories like when she killed a child soldier or the shuddering breath of a hit that used her body. When Natasha danced, she was nothing but the emotion of the music she danced to. Some songs were of hope and longing, emotions she didn't understand but danced to all the same. More than once she danced herself near blind with fatigue, arms twisting, legs bent, jump, pause, jump, start again.
It was release without lust, ecstasy without drugs, and spiritual without religion.
"Come on, let's get a seat," Clint said, his voice patient as when he was focusing for a target. He'd pocketed his sunglasses when Natasha looked to him and he chewed on the side of his lip, pulling back another smile. He knew he'd done well. Somehow his presence didn't interrupt Natasha's good mood as much as she thought he would. She was okay with him seeing her enjoy herself. Natasha didn't know if she herself was alright with that acknowledgement but her body told her she was in no danger. A creature of instinct, Natasha listened to what it said.
"Yes."
She didn't need to say anything more than that as she slipped her arm around his, like Clint was an escort for a gala far more sophisticated than the current surroundings dictated. Natasha noticed Clint's shoulder's jerk and the blush at his cheeks. She made a note to try and tease him about his wings later. For now she wanted to watch the dance.
A waiter eventually came by to their table and Clint ordered for them in hushed tones. Other patrons were similarly quiet as they watched the ballet. The waiter returned with water, two beers, and a basket of bread. Clint started cutting his own roll and Natasha scowled at the poor choice of alcohol but objected when Clint made a face and grabbed for the bottle. He rolled his eyes and clinked their drinks together. It was bitter and dry and Natasha was surprised to find that Clint had a roll buttered and ready for her. Although internally appreciative, Natasha prepared her own roll. Habits. Clint wasn't offended.
When the waiter arrived with their food, Natasha realized it had been almost twenty minutes and neither spoke during the entire time. Clint just grinned at her and made a
"shushing" motion when she tried to speak. She took another swig of the beer and studied the meal in front of her. Enchiladas and two fish tacos, both with ample dressing and a charitable plate of salsa for her to add. Spicy. Clint knew her well.
Before they finished their dinner, the dancer's act ended. Natasha slumped in her seat and longed to take the stage as a singer prepared for her song. At the end of the dancer's performance, audience members clapped and started to mummer amongst themselves. A few stood from their tables and went back to the fair outside, a whole other world compared to the atmosphere of the theater.
"What'cha thinkin', 'Tasha?" Clint asked between mouth-fulls of his own burrito. It wasn't quite as spicy as Natasha's and he'd taken more interest in the side of rice and beans that came with it.
"The sauce could be better," she deflected. Clint's lips formed a soft smile and he looked away but Natasha could tell that he glimpsed at the truth through her. Clint had a way of knowing exactly how she felt. She'd be startled by it if she had any doubt in the fact that Clint would never do a thing to hurt her. Far too loyal.
Unfortunately for the singer, she wasn't quite as enchanting as the dancers. Natasha focused on her meal in earnest and finished before the singer was. She drank half the beer and all of the water, then a second glass as she waited for Clint to finish. They both ate with careful practice, a skill learned by feverish hunger countered by the pain of eating far too quickly. When on the move and starving as a child, one learned to hold onto their food but not vacuum it up, despite how much they might want to otherwise. Apparently Clint had more patience in that regard than Natasha. She decided not to feel insulted by that by eating another biscuit.
"I know the guy who owns this place," Clint said as he wiped his hands down with a napkin. His voice was casual but experience with the man told Natasha he was gauging her reaction. "Why don't we go back stage and talk to 'em?"
"Okay."
She didn't feel up to talking any more than necessary.
Tossing a few bills down, Clint tipped for the waiter and paid for the meal (neither was a generous amount but the service had pretty much been non-existent). They stood and left without any problem from the waiting staff or customers still listening to the singer. She was far too pitchy for Natasha's tastes. Clint ushered Natasha to an unmarked door that opened to a brighter hallway. It was noisy there, muggy with light and sound from the stage. Their shoes squeaked on the false-wood floors. Natasha was ready to leave the hallway not three steps in. It left her with an uncomfortable feeling, a flick at the back of her neck or the grinding of dental tools on plaque.
"Almost there," Clint promised and she wanted to hit him for knowing her so well.
Almost at the end of the hall, Clint turned left and rapped his knuckles against a door. After ten seconds and another, more impatient knock, it opened.
"Barton!" a man the size of a water buffalo cheered and slung his arms around Clint, hoisting him four feet off the ground. Clint's hair brushed the ceiling and he squawked as he shoved the man as best he could while his arms were pinned.
Natasha had her knife out and was preparing to stab at the first fleshy spot she could find when she noticed Clint was laughing (wheezing) again.
"Natasha, 's fine – Pitor, put me down, you brute!" Clint addressed both of them in one breath.
Pitor glanced at Natasha over Clint's shoulder. His grin was warm with surprise. Natasha kept her knife raised.
"Uuhg, seriously, guys. Pitor, you're breaking my spine. Natasha, at ease." She registered the military command and it was just the push she needed to relax her shoulders.
"He's not actually breaking my back." Pitor gave a hearty chuckle and squeezed. "Never mind. He'd killing me. Attack, my Russian Ninja!"
Pitor guffawed and Natasha slipped her knife away. She could hear the joke in Clint's words. Pitor dropped Clint, who fell unceremoniously on his rump. So much for SHIELD training. To Natasha's statement, Pitor scooped her up next and hugged her. Without thinking, Natasha kicked and clawed but Pitor's skin turned to steel. Part of her mind registered him as a mutant, one of the X-Men who joined back when her nation was still the USSR. It was big news at the time. However, most of her mind was preoccupied with spitting fury. Pitor laughed and adjusted Natasha like she was nothing more than a very big, very angry cat.
"Yo! Colossus! Put her down! Natasha's got a thing about touch; as in don't."
Still grinning (she didn't think he was capable of anything else), Pitor set Natasha down. She stood hunched with her fists raised like she was prepared for another attack. Natasha's shoulders shook with the absurdity of it all. Having the sense to look at lest a little embarrassed, Pitor addressed her in Russian.
"My apologies. My name is Pitor Rasputin."
It was nice to hear her mother tongue, though Natasha wasn't in a mood to appreciate it. Scowling, she took a moment to survey him again. The man had to be eight feet tall. Even after he deactivated his bizarre mutation, his flesh still looked hard as steel. His accent was odd, his Russian off. He'd been away from home a long time. It would make sense. Natasha remembered the higher ups of her unit complaining about a natural born soldier being snatched up by an American based Mutant group before the government could enlist him.
"Romanova. Natasha Romanova. How did you know to speak to me this way?"
"Barton called ahead, said you are Russian."
"Are you guys talking about me? I heard my name," Clint tried to cut in.
"What is your relation to Barton?"
"With Barton? Old friends! A good friend who grew up in a circus got homesick while we were X-Men so we visited the one Barton performed at. Very exciting! Kurt managed to befriend the archer Hawkeye and the three of us performed together."
"Whoa! Whoa, I definitely heard my name that time. What are you guys saying?"
Pitor became nervous after a moment. "He did tell you about his time in the circus, yes?"
"Guys, really. That's not fair. At all."
"Yes, though not in so much detail," Natasha answered, ignoring Clint.
"Tasha, not you too."
"Good! Good! Barton and I have not spoken in years and I did not want to start off on the wrong foot."
Because starting on the 'right foot' demanded a person launch their long missed friend and a perfect stranger into the air. Instead, Natasha said, "Likewise, I guess."
Pitor's enthusiastic grin let her know she'd said the right thing. Clint groaned and smacked a palm to his forehead.
"Okay, this got old five years ago."
"How long do you plan to keep him 'out of the loop', as they say."
"Guys, please, all in English, not just some of it."
"Awhile yet. Punishment that he neglected to tell me of his schemes."
"I hate you both! No, you know what? You guys suck. S-U-C-"
Pitor grabbed Clint again and heaved him over the shoulder like a stolen bride. Clint thrashed but it wasn't near the lethal levels Natasha demonstrated. Pitor didn't even need to turn his flesh to steel. Natasha smirked as Pitor opened the door wide for her to accompany him.
"Come on! That's just mean!" Clint complained. Natasha patted his cheek with a chiding touch.
"Next time, don't surprise the Russians. We know how to make our enemies suffer."
Clint grumbled and muttered something that might have been a racial slur. Natasha smirked the way a spider did as she reeled in her prey.
Once in the room, Pitor set Clint down. The archer righted himself and grumbled as Pitor grabbed a chair for Natasha. Studying the room, she set it close to a wall that gave her a vantage point for every corner. The room was simple, small with just enough space for Colossus to pace but not fully relax. With the addition of Clint and Natasha, they were pretty tight. Spare clothes were set by a vanity set dusted by stage makeup. This was a dress room. Based on the several pictures wedged between the vanity's mirror and frame, Natasha knew the room to be Pitor's. One picture was of the X-Men team in full gear, the image faded by time. Another was of Pitor and a younger girl, the corner dog-eared. Natasha couldn't make out the faces from the distance.
"You are a performer," Natasha said after a while.
"Now and again, yes," Pitor answered. "For the most part I keep this theater open during festival. It makes a nice break from my other duties."
X-Men business, he meant. Natasha kept her eyes from wandering back to the photographs.
"Yeah, and this theater makes a nice haven for people like . . . well, people like Pitor and me," Clint added.
"Indeed! Most normal customers don't know this theater exists!"
"I understand," Natasha said. "This isn't the first Mutant Friendly club I've been to."
Pitor shot a look at Clint and the archer made a dismissive gesture. Natasha watched him but Clint just smiled at her. She hoped she hadn't just outted him. It seemed that the two knew each other well, but then again, Natasha had only recently learned about his mutation. She could understand his wanting to keep his second set of appendages secret; especially with how non-functional they were.
Clint hopped on top of the vanity and kicked his legs. Because of the tight quarters, Clint was little more than an arm length away. Pitor propped himself against a wall and regarded the archer with his never ending grin. The two started to chat, simple things at firs, catching up on what was going on with their lives. Pitor was estranged from the old team (for reasons he was unwilling to discuss). Clint made note of Natasha being his new partner but no specifics on who she was or how they met ('this one cold day in Russia, I got my ass kicked'). Eventually the dialogue changed to remising old stories, jokes that needed to be explained for Natasha to get (but 'you had to be there') and stories that hurt at the time but they could laugh at now (even if it still stung a little). Clint tried to include Natasha but she was more content to watch, to study Clint and gleam information in this way. It felt voyeuristic but not in a way that was uncomfortable, listening in on Clint's past.
Now and again, Clint would look her way, catch her eye, and hold it. After a while, Natasha focused less and less on their conversation and closer to Clint's reactions, they way his eyes squinted when he laughed or the way his knees pointed towards her. She took note of her own behavior, calm despite being in a new location, with an enormous man who could crush her without any feasible defense on her part. None of it mattered. Not with Clint so close; Clint who honed his sight to hunt targets at distances Natasha couldn't see, Clint who sat with her in her first month at SHIELD when she was still half wild, Clint who hummed the instrumental parts of "Carry On My Wayward Son," during missions to annoy Coulson, Clint who remembered she loved ballet.
Natasha's mind drifted. She thought of the ballet earlier, how she could improve it. She resisted at first, instincts honed by basic survival to stay aware of herself. Stay alert. Stay vigilant. Death waits for weakness. She focused on Clint, talking with Pitor but still taking the time to check their perimeter and Natasha's status. Safe. It was a heavy sensation, like a stomach full of food. Safe lay over her shoulders and safe told her she could let herself go.
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"Hey, Tash," Clint said.
Her eyes flashed open and Clint was there, leaning close but with room for her to breathe. Pitor stayed against the wall and Clint positioned himself so she was obscured from Colossus. She appreciated the gesture.
"Mmun," Natasha tried to speak but her throat was tight. She'd fallen asleep. Natasha's back went ridged and she glared at the door, heat at her cheeks.
Clint chewed at his lip and she had no doubt that he would be teasing her if they were alone.
"Come on, Pitor says he can get the stage just for us."
What?
Natasha looked between the grinning Clint and her fellow Russian. Colossus nodded.
"Barton tells me you enjoy ballet. If you would like, I can close shop early and you can have the sage alone. No trouble. Promise."
Natasha's suspicious gaze returned to Clint. His grin was patient and he held a hand out for her. Natasha ignored it as she stood then left the room. Clint and the lumbering giant followed shortly after. Pitor broke off to speak with other workers of the theater.
"You still tired? Look pretty out of it."
Natasha's glare turned hot when it landed on Clint.
"Geez, excuse me princess."
Natasha turned her head and shrugged her shoulders away from Clint. He advanced forward to make up the distance.
"Oh what? Now you're not talking to me?" She could tell he was joking based on his tone, but Natasha wasn't in the mood for his bluff. Clint scratched at his head as his lips evened into a happy neutral.
"Don't worry about dancing. I have it on good assurance that no one but you and me will be in the theater, if you want that. You can dance for however long you want. . .well, within the next two hours because the fair is already closing and we were kinda supposed to leave twenty minutes ago, but Pitor is on the inside and we can just claim to be on official SHIELD business if anyone gives us a hard time. It makes a great get-out-of-jail-free-card in a tight spot. Oh, umm, do you understand that reference? It's from this game called Monopoly that's pretty boring if you can't count well, or the banker is someone like Phil who's stingy with the money."
"When are you going to ask me about it?" Natasha cut into his monologue. Clint flashed a look of surprise before he could control it.
"About what?"
"About me trying to blow my brains out."
She went for the blunt, vulgar assessment of what happened to shock Clint into being serious. It worked.
Clint flinched. His hand went to his chest and his gaze fell to her hand.
Their day together had been a fun distraction but Natasha was done playing games. She knew why Clint had come to her, suggested they go out. Things were getting too personal with Barton. She couldn't remember the last time she'd allowed herself to fall asleep in front of a stranger, ally by her side or not. She'd become disgustingly complacent.
After a pause, Clint's eyes were back to Natasha's. He leaned close and in the tight quiet of the hallway, Natasha didn't breathe.
"We can talk about that when you want to. Not before. We can't go on missions together until you tell someone about what happened but it's up to you when you want to talk. Heck, you don't even need to talk to me, if you don't want to. I just wanted to get off the base with you."
He winked. The pinch of skin between Natasha's forehead and nose wrinkled as she tried not to grin despite the serious subject. The man actually winked. She could hit him, she was so mad at him for making everything seem okay and normal.
It reminded her of their early days, when she'd broken out and Clint chased her up a ventilation shaft. He wore the same expression then, too. One of honest content at being close to her, a gaze that wasn't chiding or pitying. He understood her. Clint knew what to say to her when she didn't know what to say to herself. She'd say he was an excellent spy when it came to manipulation if she hadn't seen firsthand how poor his poker skills were. Clint was honest. It was just her he was good at reading, a fact that should have frightened Natasha more than it did.
"Look, I . . ." Clint ran a palm over the back of his neck. "Just have fun right now, okay? We can talk about this heavy stuff later. I've been waitin' months since you told me you could, to see you dance."
"Clint."
"Yeah?"
"You're an idiot."
Never one to second guess her instincts, Natasha leaned forward and kissed his cheek. It was quick and a little rough and Clint turned so the edges of their lips brushed before Natasha pulled away. Without looking back, Natasha left. Something finch sized fluttered deep in her chest that reminded her of Clint's wings.
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A/N: Title of chapter inspired by the song "Rally" by Phoenix.
Pitor is influenced by his persona in "Uncanny X-Men", the early days from the late '70s. I don't even care if Pitor isn't like this later in the series, or if he and Clint don't actually get alone. He's an adorable giant of a man who was broken from mind control because Storm reminded him that the X-Men are a family. What's not to love? And yes, I know he's "Peter Rasputin" but I've heard it pronounced "Pitor" and enjoy that much more.
Most of my understanding of fairgrounds comes from the Delmar Fair down here in San Diego.