A/N: OK, this isn't how I pictured it, but I'm semi-satisfied with how it worked out, anyway. Good thing is, there's Clintasha! I was distracted by the Comic Con stuff. And some personal stuff. I really appreciate your reviews! I apologize for the chapter's state of messiness, but I can't really do anything (believe me, I've tried) besides promising next chapter will be a lot less messy.
There are a lot of hints dropped, but you'll probably (and I'm not saying it to be mean) only get them later. Natasha kind of... breaks down; as much as she's allowed to, anyway.
The address mentioned here is random and un-researched.
Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. I don't own the Avengers. I don't own the characters or the rights.
Enjoy.
Silent Spider: Chapter 13
Interpol Headquarters, Paris, France
It was following a sleepless night of reading reports that S.I.D. Agent Clint Barton made his way through the mazes of hallways of the large civilian protective service—or, in common tongues, international police agency—unfamiliar with his surroundings, but nevertheless determined. He'd just sat through a partially nauseating briefing with Interpol Agent Leclerc—the agent in charge of the full-blown clandestine investigation of the group known as Leonum Tarpeius, or simply "L.T.". Clint had done his thorough research on the name. Tarpeius was the name of a family in ancient Rome, which had played a part in multiple myths. They were the lions of Tarpeius, but they didn't leave a calling card, no: Leclerc and his agents had had to learn the pattern of their mercenaries.
"Leipzig isn't the first time," Leclerc had admitted sourly, face deep in thought and too burdened for someone only in his late forties. "But it lacks her usual elegance."
"Her?" Clint had asked back in semi-confusion. Leclerc had mentioned no name, but he was getting a feeling that he'd know whom the agent was referring to.
"We've got no name on her, but her work's distinguishable. She's ruthless and swift but not sadistic; I'd even call her talented, as morbid as it sounds… She's experienced and one of the top officers in the organization. She's been with them for over a year—maybe even longer," Leclerc estimated, reciting the profiler's report.
At this point, Rosario—who'd been present but keeping to the background—had asked, eyeing Clint strangely: "Was she in Vienna three and a half week ago?"
"We can't say. She sometimes travels with company, sometimes alone. She's good at disappearing, even if we manage to tail and track her. Leipzig was hers, though, that's for certain."
I've always been good at tracking you, Tasha. It's always been the one thing I was good at besides archery. Never thought it'd come to this.
"Why are you so certain it's her?" Clint had inquired, unsettled by the growing sensation in his gut that this was the work of Natasha. She'd always been all of those things Leclerc said—with the exception of noticeable.
Leclerc had given him a lecture on styles and bullets that left Clint convinced that, although Leclerc knew all the technical elements that made up Natasha, he'd never come to understand and know how she operated. He had listened, along with his handler, until he hadn't been able to take it anymore. That had coincidentally been when Leclerc had finished his briefing.
"I don't know what your agency wants with the L.T., but it's always nice to have an extra pair of eyes and hands," the salt-and-pepper-haired man had finished, shaking Clint's hand solemnly.
From there, Clint had asked to be brought to and see the bodies of the Leipzig killing, which had been transported from where they'd been found. The three bodies that had left Natasha shaken, exhausted, and unable to conceal it. He'd seen her murder a dozen diplomats and their security escorts without missing a beat—emotionally, physically, mentally, professionally, personally. What was so different about these three people? He wanted the answer to be 'because they are people' but knew it wasn't.
Alejo seemed to have picked up on his solemnness. "What did Fury do to you?" he whispered, almost an incredulous hiss. When he'd received the call from the airport that they were going to pack for Paris, he'd been confused, which had later evolved to disbelief upon hearing Clint's mission orders—and how he'd come by them.
"Nothing," Clint promised then screwed up his face at the thought. "What makes you think he did anything?"
"Well, for one thing, he said you requested this meeting. You don't like people, Barton. Why cooperate and play nice with Interpol?" he asked, pointing to the visitor's pass snapped to the pocket of his suit jacket. Its holographic blue glow made his black suit seem navy.
"Maybe my assessment of L.T. changed things," Clint suggested, although he knew his handler wouldn't fall for it. Maybe it was because Clint didn't want him to.
"You've got someone," Rosario realized, still whispering. "You think you've got a shot at surpassing Interpol's team and crack this case wide open because of an informant."
"Nonsense. You know as well as I that one person can't change—or ruin, for that matter—an entire criminal syndicate," Clint stated calmly. He had no plans about grandeur. Frankly, he was just going the direction his instincts swayed.
"Depends on the person," Rosario replied casually. The insinuation was clear.
"Where's this faith coming from?" the archer inquired suspiciously, glancing at his handler.
"Your ego, apparently. Look, it's fine that you wanna actually work with people, but allow me to continue being skeptic, okay?"
"Fine, if that's how you wanna play it," Clint grunted, keeping a smile in check.
"Oh, and by the way, Lucy's still holding onto your bow for you," Rosario informed him casually, knowing his response, as he pressed the elevator button down to the evidence locker.
Clint visibly stiffened as he recalled the fact that he'd been separated from his weapon of choice—his self-proclaimed love of his life—for two weeks. He'd appreciated the separation as he'd been tossed in the river, but now experienced a want to have his hands on the beloved bow. He had several, but S.I.D. didn't share his enthusiasm for the weapon and refused to sponsor seconds and spares, making the ones he had even more coveted in his eyes. Lucy, a check-in clerk at the Riga base's shooting range, had been holding his bow captive in his absence. There were only two people who were allowed to check out the beauty—Clint himself, and Rosario by association.
Clint whimpered. Lucy wasn't a believer when it came to the bow Clint had so affectionately named 'Charlotte'. In fact, the idea of her even holding, let alone managing Charlotte made a parental concern emerge forward. "Please tell me she's okay," he begged, squeaking.
Rosario eyed him strangely. "Lucy or your Precious?"
As if that was even a question. Clint snorted and shot him a dirty look. "That reference's not worthy of comparison to Charlotte. As much as I hate to say it," he sighed, deeply regretting his decision as he felt a pang of longing surge through him, "she'll have to wait."
Alejo frowned. If there was one consistent thing about Barton, it was the love to his bow. "Why?"
"We're going to Leipzig," Clint stated firmly as the elevator pinged and the doors opened. He wasn't about to mention that he'd been in Dresden—two hours from Leipzig, probably warming the bed of the perpetrator—last week.
Schwedt, Germany
"Lioness."
The one word made her feel terribly exhausted by its mere pronunciation. Natasha stepped across the threshold and unto the tiles of the luxurious bathroom. She sat down on the edge of the jacuzzi bathtub despite the promise that it would soak her pants. She'd replaced the fancy cocktail dress with a pair of Ménage's borrowed jeans and a universal tank top, leaving her scar visible. Her wavy red hair cascaded down her back despite having been tamed into a messy ponytail, wetting the green top's fabric.
The Bastard, full name eternally forgotten and hardly used, was admittedly a large man, of height, at least. He was muscular, but it was natural and not obtained through endless hours in a gym, bench-pressing his own weight in iron. His size was imposing, but his charm dazzling. He would have been an enforcer in a normal crime syndicate. In Tarpeius, it was merely one of his functions. Currently, he was Kraus' problematic guest, simply by his personal persistence. His gunmetal gray eyes locked unto her form without sexual interest—an unusual reaction to her presence, but she knew the Bastard wouldn't touch her with an iron poker (which was ironic and tragic more than it was sad).
His bubble bath had enough bubbles for them to remain professional. Then again, neither of them were prudes. Her eyes searched his indifferent expression for a reaction. She caved first. 'Why are you here?'
"Maybe I like spas," he replied dryly, sucking on the Cuban cigar like he'd consumed every cliché in the world and didn't care that researchers had proven smoking to be the main course of lung failure. "Maybe I waited for you."
The second option was most likely, knowing the Bastard's frequent usage by and close-knit companionship to Desta, even if his tone betrayed no favor between the two options. 'Why did he send you?'
"You ask a lot of questions, Lioness. It's not smart," he remarked. It wasn't a warning.
Natasha narrowed her eyes. 'You don't like mind games, so tell me why you're here. Am I going to have an extra person with me tomorrow or are you going to frustrate Kraus further with your troublesome defiance?'
"What's troublesome about it," the Bastard said, offended. "Just because I'm not into orgies…"
'It's the least you can do for him,' she advised. She wasn't about to lecture him on manners and hospitality. It was an unspoken agreement that Desta and Kraus had, a shared understanding about payment. Desta couldn't force his operatives, though, and discourteous Leons like the Bastard, who usually didn't mind, got a free pass, disappointing Kraus. To Natasha, it appeared like he had enough troubles without involving the Bastard.
"I don't owe him anything. He's got enough people in his bed without making additions." The subtext was clear, the question hidden in a curious facial expression. Did you join him?
What Natasha could never comprehend was how the Bastard wasn't a lieutenant. At times, he seemed more capable than she did, or Alfredo did. She'd even suggested it herself, but never to the Bastard's face. She knew little about his backstory or how he'd come to have his moniker bestowed upon him. His family was from Kent, and maybe that, along with a childhood spent in Gibraltar, was what had invoked a British accent in him, a false sense of sophistication. He used it to his advantage as often as he could.
'Maybe,' she said, shrugging dismissively. 'None of us are here for his company.'
The Bastard chuckled so that his body and the bubbles quaked below the water. "It's convenient," he admitted, then bluntly added, casually as ever: "Desta sent me to protect you."
'I don't need protection,' she mouthed, sneer on her face.
"You haven't heard, Lioness. Interpol's looking for you—looking like they want you badly. Germany isn't a place to flock for you, not after Leipzig and now Berlin. Desta wanted to ensure you a safe travel. Consider me your newest friend," the Bastard grinned.
'You might not like that arrangement,' she replied darkly. She wasn't a stranger to bodyguards, but in her experience, they always seemed to be ultimately in the way when shit hit the fan. Desta mostly trusted her to look out for herself. It was harder to be overlooked when you were two people.
"I'm like you, Lioness. I do as I'm told by Desta. We're not that different," he explained.
'You'll be accompanying us to Szczecin, then?' she questioned, annoyed with the forced-upon tag-along. People had to know her really well not to be in the way. The Bastard was practically a stranger.
"And after that, too. I'll stay in the back if you wish. I'm not asking us to be friends, Lioness. This is just a job," he assured her with a far more sincere expression on his face. Natasha didn't believe it for a second.
Look at me; I'm not a threat.
She rose from her seat, crossing her arms. Suddenly the promise of an—empty—bed seemed very appealing. 'What would you have done if I hadn't come by this information?'
The English Bastard chuckled enigmatically. "Kraus is getting good at subtlety when it comes to dropping hints, no?"
'You would have followed me.'
"Yes. Don't pretend you're not to Desta what these puppets here are to Kraus. In another sense of the word, perhaps, but he's as fond of you as Kraus is of his lovers."
Natasha felt like shivering at the truth, but merely swallowed and nodded. 'Let's just get it over with.'
She departed the bathroom feeling a whole more burdened, but could do nothing about it. Few people felt more loyal towards her than they did towards Desta, and none of them were close enough for it to matter. Refusing the protection would look like rebellion, and she felt vulnerable enough already as it was with Clint.
As she walked to her assigned quarters, she pulled a phone out of her pocket; it was untraceable, as modern technology allowed. She rarely made calls, of course, and was aware text messages were easier tapped into. Regardless of this, her fingers swiftly typed a message of her future destination. Upon hitting send, she felt even more vulnerable.
I can't believe I'm asking this of you.
Leipzig, Germany
"Herr Barton, Herr Rosario. Good afternoon," the elderly German medical examiner greeted upon seeing them enter the morgue. He stood leaning over a microscope, examining a piece of evidence in a petri dish.
"Doctor," Clint grunted respectfully. He couldn't deny being just a little bit tired from the plane. They had arrived less than an hour ago after an hour's flight from Paris to see the bodies of the killing Interpol's agent had so eloquently called "lacking elegance". As if there was ever elegance in death. He hadn't liked the Frenchman's word choice, but could hardly blame the man who'd spent over year tracking Natasha with futile results.
"You're here to see the bodies of Fräulein Sobczak, Herr Braun and Herr Koppel," he said. It wasn't hard to guess. The lab looked like it rarely got visitors, and their arrival had been foretold by an e-mail sent from Interpol headquarters. "Many people are interested. The Polish authorities as well."
"Why is that, doctor…" Clint grasped to remember the name he'd read off some report mid-flight.
"Heisel, Herr Barton," the medical examiner supplied. "The…miss, you call it, Karolina Sobczak was of Polish citizenship. Shall we see?"
Rosario gave a curt nod, and Dr. Heisel went to open the slab, seemingly knowing exactly where she was to be found. Clint was already internally uneasy at the tomblike silence of the morgue. He had never liked morgues, but he hadn't minded them. Perhaps his queasiness had something to do with the fact he suspected—along with Agent Leclerc—these to have been the job of Natasha, Leclerc's unnamed enforcer of death.
The young woman on the slab was pale, made even paler in death by her dark locks. She looked like the girl-next-door, innocent and not to be harmed, like the world had a tendency to do. According to her file, she was exiting her teens, but she looked younger, no world worn maturity to brighten her eyes. "DNA confirmed that she is the daughter of Herr Franz Koppel," Dr. Heisel revealed, gesturing towards the deceased in the slab on his right.
Innocent, but already guilty by blood. Once Clint wouldn't have cared that Karolina Sobczak became a casualty; now, it angered him and made him sick. He didn't let it show, though. "Cause of death?" he inquired.
"Bullet to the head." Heisel tilted her head to the side to show the damage, removing long brunette hair. "Prior to her death she was detained. Contusions on her wrists, but she wasn't raped or beaten."
"Thank god for small mercies," Rosario whispered behind him. If Clint remembered correctly, he had a niece that age by an older sister.
"A pity, really," Heisel mused sadly as he put the sheet back on to cover her body. Death summoned vanity and courtesy, it seemed. There was nothing vain and courteous about the young girl's death.
Sensing Heisel was talking about something particular and not merely the permanent exodus of a young girl's life, Clint asked. "What's a pity?"
The medical examiner looked at him with glazed-over eyes. "She was eleven weeks pregnant. A little boy. Like I said, a pity."
Did you know, Tasha? Did you know that you killed a baby boy, too? What incentive could she possibly have had to kill a nineteen-year-old student? Was it a mistake, or preemptive murder?
Clint's voice was hoarse when he mustered the strength to ask: "And the two others? Koppel and the officer?"
Behind him, he felt Heisel and Rosario exchange gazes before the M.E. moved on to open the stainless steel slabs those bodies had been laid out on. Eventually, Clint, too, moved on, locking Karolina Sobczak's body back into its refrigerated box.
"Franz Koppel, drug lord awaiting sentence, shot to the head. Time of death is almost identical to his daughter's. High levels of adrenaline in his system," Heisel commented.
Fear. He knew you were coming for him. "Same type of bullet?"
"Ballistics came back yesterday, confirming that it originated from the same gun as the one that killed miss Sobczak." Heisel named the caliber and possible guns. "What's more interesting is the third victim."
"Officer Braun?" Rosario named, interest piqued. "In what circumstance, doctor?"
"Sobczak and Koppel were both killed medium range, whereas Herr Braun was shot close distance. In fact, multiple times. It indicates panic, as I'm sure you know, contradicting the fact that it appears to be the work of an experienced shooter. We've pulled what appear to be hair fibers off Braun but it has come up inconclusive, too many chemicals to get a viable sample."
You are not a beginner, Natasha. Why did you allow him to come close? Why did you panic?
"Where was he shot?" Clint asked, eyeing the white sheet that covered the man's torso, unstained by the blood of postmortem bleedings.
"He died within a minute. First bullet ruptured his spleen, the second bullet pierced his aorta, and the third nicked his jugular vein. His fist is contused, similar to someone who's been in a fight. Sadly, he only got off the one punch, it seems," Heisel said. "He was a mess to autopsy."
Clint's sympathy for the guy suddenly dropped as the image of this man punching Natasha—who could do fine in a fight, mind you—summoned itself, displayed across his inner eye. You make me feel bad, Nat, for being good; for trying to do the right thing.
He wondered if there even was a right thing to do. He'd taken the assignment to control the information S.I.D. and subsequently S.H.I.E.L.D. received about Natasha. He'd do anything to insure that she remained undetected, but he wouldn't cover up these murders, nor did he posses the opportunity.
Clint's phone buzzed in the pocket of his jeans but he paid it no mind. "I think that'll be all, won't it, Rosario?" he asked, making sure he hadn't skipped anything. He knew from personal experience that sticking around in a morgue wouldn't help the active pursuit of L.T.'s operative.
Rosario opened his mouth to say something, but whoever tried getting a hold of Clint grew impatient, and his phone rang, and he answered. "Agent Barton."
"Leclerc," an accented voice greeted through what appeared to be bad reception.
Clint nodded a farewell to Heisel before he exited the morgue for privacy and better reception. Rosario followed suit. "Yes? We're in Leipzig, Leclerc," he explained, dying to wait for an explanation as to why the agent he'd talked to less than three hours ago was calling him.
"One more thing you should know, Barton," Leclerc said. "Ten minutes ago, we found acharred body in a nearby crematorium that wasn't officially scheduled for cremation. DNA's identified him as Sylvio Sanchez, a prominent member of Leonum Tarpeius. We know what happened in Leipzig. Cause of death was a bullet to the forehead."
Clint's mind worked as fast as Leclerc expected it to. Koppel and Sobczak had died from a bullet to the forehead, almost symmetrical. The conclusion left a sour taste in Clint's mouth. "You sure it's hers?"
"As sure as I could ever be. I've hunted her for a year, Barton. Trust me, I'm sure."
Leclerc hung up while the archer was still processing the news, asking himself what would make Natasha turn on a fellow operatives. Frankly, there were too many reasons. Upon ending the call, he saw there was a new text message. He swiped his thumb across the glass and read it, realizing too late who had accessed his phone and enlisted a new contact.
FROM: Leona
'Palazzo al Velabro
Via del Velabro, 16
Appartamento 7
Roma'
Rome, Italy
- That evening
Nikolaevna didn't have a place to call home, but if Natasha had to choose one residence she felt most comfortable in and with, it'd be the condominium in Rome. The name on the paper trail and contract was a false identity, reminiscent of someone with a sugar daddy—a distant provider. Most important was it was hers. She came her as often as her work allowed it—a couple of times a month, rarely for long periods of time. The warrant on her person predicted she'd be here for a while, and while she didn't mind that, she wasn't satisfied with being cooped up.
Pale marble stretched across the floor as she entered. The condo wasn't audaciously large, but it was spacious. Four feet above her light streamed in through a stained glass dome in the ceiling, creating a kaleidoscope path in the middle of the hall. She'd had the orange and red glass replaced. It brought terrible memories back, but she still enjoyed the rainbow of blues, greens and yellows.
Natasha dropped what little belongings she had with her on the coffee table. French doors clashed with the Roman style decorative columns. She supposed it did look like an ancient family home, but she liked its many exits—the kitchen back door, the front door, the gardens, the balcony, and the window in the bathroom. It was simple and lovely, and she had rarely brought people here to taint it.
She changed into something more recommendable in the warm Rome weather, and redressed the wound on her forearm, which was looking more promising than it had been a day ago. The summer was growing hotter and hotter and she almost longed for Vienna's rainy weather. She was Russian—while that didn't mean she embraced torturous winterscapes, it did mean that she generally liked colder climates better than insufferable heat. What puzzled her was that she'd then picked a sanctuary in Rome of all places. Here she could fool herself into being normal, if even only for half an hour when she went browsing the shops. She never let herself fully believe it though—her speechlessness was enough to remind her that she'd never be normal. She would never again possess the silver tongue that had so often gotten her out of trouble, even as a young child. No, she communicated in Tarpeius only because Leons like the Bastard, Kraus, Vlad, and Elias knew how to read her lips.
What about Clint, then?
Clint's different, she argued. Clint would always be different. Clint was the one predictable thing she'd never been able to predict. He was the perfect gentleman one minute and then a complete asshole. She'd give him every goddamn reason to skedaddle and he'd handcuff them together and promise he'd never leave.
But I did, Clint. She caved and sat down, semi-collapsing into the pearl-colored couch, burying her head in one hand, elbow propped and supporting her, legs hooking under her, curled up. She felt the prosthetic fingers dig into her forehead and felt like crying furiously. Neither the Black Widow nor Nikolaevna sobbed or cried, so she just sat there, emotionally a mess. God, she wished she'd never left. But things had been a whole lot messier than they were now—with Clint, with Fury, with her goddamn work. She'd had to screw up everything she'd worked so hard to get by allowing maddening compassion to blur with the destructive past she'd had with Red Room. She wished she'd wished that Hill hadn't assigned her that reconnaissance mission; that she hadn't accepted, but it would have had gruesome consequences. Instead, events had lead to her disappearance. She had vowed to herself that a cold turkey would be the best—for the both of them, for the both of their sanities, if any were left. She had vowed that he'd never see her and be compromised. She had vowed to not look back.
She ran the fingers through her hair in frustration. Being alone shouldn't mean breaking down. She felt her chest tighten. She whirled the decorative pillow at thin air and felt her body quake to the symphony of soundless sobs. When did the world become so fucked up that she felt guilty for being remorseless? She didn't regret leaving Clint, and yet she wished for all things in the world that it hadn't happened. The point was—Clint could fend for himself. That had been the ultimate incentive. If Clint had been smart, he would have found himself another partner (although it pained her to envision it); he could even had quit S.H.I.E.L.D.; he could have gotten a steady girlfriend and gotten married (part of her still knew it was possible to have transpired, but not really—she liked to think she knew him better than that). Clint was smart, but, evidently, not when it came to her.
Natasha would never have wished that upon him. Her greatest secret was in Serbia and she planned for it to remain there indefinitely. If Desta discovered she was sleeping with Clint, what would he do? What could she do? The best thing would be to end it this instant. But Natasha, who'd never been particularly good at selfish—not when it came to emotions of all things, anyhow—found herself wanting to be with Clint for reasons beyond physically feeling good. She pondered the pros and cons night and day and slept poorly without him. Their relationship wasn't logical and hell knew she'd been working hard to build a place for herself in the Leonum Tarpeius. It wasn't logical to risk it by allowing whatever they'd once been to flare about up.
She squeezed the fictitious life out of the pillow—she refused to call it hugging—and threw it in the direction of the first in sheer frustration at her indecisiveness. She was risking everything, and for what? The perfect chance to wind up in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tightest security lockups, that's what. If she even was that lucky.
Only then did her fogged brain register the lack of sound as to the pillow's eventual landing. She looked up from her disheveled lap and froze, acutely aware of how she must look—eyes puffy, snotty, mascara runny, and if she was particularly lucky (which she was feeling), a two-finger red mark in the area of her forehead where the pressure of the prosthetic had alleviated her mental issues by physical discomfort.
He looked like shit. The hand that hadn't caught the flying pillow—thrown in the belief she was alone—was holding what appeared to be a briefcase with a compartment for clothes (she knew the model) and he was wearing a suit. As in, businessman suit. Maybe not the most formal, but it made her grimace. Clint didn't belong in a suit. He wasn't a Coulson; he was a hands-on, down-and-dirty spy. She hoped the phrase wouldn't offend Coulson, but the fact that Clint's suit was ruffled and the jacket thrown recklessly over his arm helped some. He'd rolled his sleeves up, probably due to the heat. His expression was what really did a number on her, though. He obviously hadn't expected to come to her apartment and see her like this.
She angrily wiped rogue tears from her face. One thing was being discovered vulnerable, another was fucking remaining it. She felt cornered. How had he even gotten into her apartment without her knowledge? She was supposed to be safe in here, and he'd gotten in without her consent or alert. He caught her panicking look, because he kneeled down and discarded his belongings. "Shh, Tasha, I'm not here to hurt you."
He looked as surprised as she was regarding the statement, but she accepted his words anyway. He hugged her, but her body stiffened and didn't respond at first, until it did, and she melted into the fuzzy comfort that was Clint, breathing in his scent. Like a scared little child—which she'd never been—she buried her head in his chest. He knew her well enough to leave her hands unrestrained.
'I missed you,' she admitted into his chest even though (or perhaps because) he couldn't possibly read her lips. She underestimated, because somehow, he knew what she'd mouthed either way.
"I missed you, too," he replied and his words sounded sincere, or maybe it was just her biased brain that let her believe it. Being addicted to Clint wasn't going to go away like ripping off a band-aid, no. Clint was infectious, and once that had meant amplifying her skills and humanity. Somehow, she knew it'd get her killed, if not them both.
He read her body language, and normally she would have been pissed but her childish tantrum had left her depleted of her usually bottled anger. When he let go of her, she was relieved, but did the best for her unruly hair hide the disheveled face.
"Had a bad week, huh?" he asked, and she nearly gave him that look that said don't go there. He must have realized, because he continued. "I'm here now, Tasha. What happened?"
The way his eyes softened and his index finger was allowed to trail her jawline was all part of why she became so fucking indecisive around him. Why did it have to be you, Clint? You don't deserve this. Neither of them deserved this, but she'd always been convinced she was lacking on the karmic scale, so maybe she did, but there was no argument that would sway her into believing that Clint deserved falling in love with someone as poisoned as her. In these few weeks, she'd seen what she'd made of him. She saw him struggle between doing the right thing and caring for her.
If I'd been strong, I would have bailed on you in Vienna. I wouldn't have waited. I might even have shot you. She reciprocated the touch, letting her tortured eyes lower themselves unto the collar and buttons of his dress shirt as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. There was no passion in her movements, merely relief at his presence. I was never that strong, Clint. I just made you believe that I was.
"What happened?" he asked, awfully soft, as his large hand traced the edge of the medical tape she'd secured the gauze with.
She looked up, adamant not to look broken like she knew she was. What did he see in her? 'Blade.'
"Your own or another's?" Clint asked with a sly smile and realized his mistake soon enough. She had never, in the time he'd known her, injured herself with one of her blades—which she had deposited and sold after leaving S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employment, mind you, some of them tracing back as far as Red Room's graduation ceremony—during training or missions. It was implausible, as she'd made a habit out of knowing every inch and gram of every knife she owned. She knew how to use her knives—and she knew how to defend herself against them, too, turning them into her weapon even in another wielder's hands. "Sorry."
She shook her head. There was no need for apologizing. 'It was dirty. It has been cleaned.'
The irony of the statement was not lost on her, as Clint pushed her into his lap. 'Pushed' might have been the wrong term, because although she was reluctant towards the movement, she allowed him to do it although she could have easily been stubborn. Her fabricated fingers pressed down on his forearm in instinctual defense and he winced, but pulled her closer anyway. Why do you collect broken toys, Clint? She removed the hand that held the prosthesis, acutely aware of how it unnerved people—hell, it unnerved her, and she'd been wearing it for almost a year. She could have lost so much more in that explosion, and yet it hadn't felt like that when she'd awoken and seen that her primary shooting hand was damaged beyond repair.
"Let me see," Clint murmured. Shyly, she kept it on her stomach. She wasn't being coy. He might be entrusted with many things, but her fingers… she wasn't ready for that. Hell, if she'd had a say in the matter, he wouldn't even have known about it yet. And yet she didn't mind.
She felt his eyes on her, demanding and yet so free of expectations and forgiving. 'There was… an explosion,' she told him, adamant not to face him as she shared her demons. Being mute was a gift now, because she was certain she would have been hoarse if speech had been available. 'I couldn't….'
Her fingers trembled, as if mourning the loss of their lost digits. She swallowed. Remembering was hard, even when she told herself it wasn't. Finding the words after being deprived of them so long, her reluctance to share just accepted, was harder. 'I wasn't supposed to be there. But I was. The bomb…'
Natasha's memory of the particular event was fuzzy. She hadn't told anybody about it, although Desta had guessed most of it. It was due to him and his dirty trauma surgeons that her entire hand hadn't been amputated. 'The fire was deafening. Nobody screamed. It was… quiet. At first I didn't register what was wrong. But then I knew.'
He listened even though it had to seem out of context and order. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, never interrupting, not even when she decided it was enough. The glimpses made her dizzy, and she didn't want him to know what had happened, finding what he assumed that much easier.
Then I heard the screams.
Then I felt true fear.
Natasha's not being forthcoming, but neither is Clint. How much will he tell her? How much will she tell him? And when will Rosario get to meet Clint's "informant".
We caught a glimpse of Nat's demons. Leave a review on your way out.
- L.