A/N: As always, thanks to everyone who's following this fic, and to my beta reader malintzin, who is also an awesome writer. If you want to see her work, check out my profile for the fic we've co-authored: Cleaning Up the Mess. It's about Coulson x Audrey, spans from Iron Man to post -Age of Ultron, and includes lots of characters from the MCU.
10. The Unemployment Line
Natasha paced the floor in front of her desk, phone clamped against her cheek. "That's everything she told you?" she spoke into it, gaze drifting over the top of her computer monitor to the bulletin board hanging above, crayon drawings pinned on with thumbtacks. Still the only personal touch in her room since Pepper Potts visited and commented on the lack of décor. She turned and made the path back toward the door. "There's nothing else?"
"Everything to the best of my memory," Pepper's voice crackled through the speaker at her ear. "Tony might remember a few more details, if you want to ask him."
Thank God this was just a regular phone conversation, not a video chat, as Natasha couldn't stop her mouth twisting at prospect of talking with Stark. It was more out of habit than dislike; she remembered what Bruce told her about how Tony took Coulson's death.
"But he partied with a record exec last night," Pepper breezed on, seemingly having a sixth sense for this sort of thing-no doubt the result of being with him so long that she anticipated other people's reactions to him, "so he's not really in the condition at the moment. If you feel you should speak to Audrey herself, then I'm sure she-"
"No," Natasha interrupted. "It's enough. Thanks for telling me, Pepper."
"I felt you should know. For what it's worth, Tony did, too. Call me if there's anything else we can do."
They must have exchanged closing remarks to end the call, but Natasha couldn't say what they were as she stood with the phone in her hand, lost in thought. Pepper's we resonated in her mind, and not in a cynical sense about someone referring to themselves as a unit that included Tony Stark. Quite the opposite, in fact. Natasha admired people who found that kind of connection with another person, even if she didn't understand it entirely. Once more, she found herself staring Cooper and Lila's Avengers portraits above the desk.
Her thumb went to the home button on her phone, pressing it until it chimed. "Call Clint Barton, cell."
"Dialing Clint Barton's mobile, Ms. Romanoff," JARVIS' voice replied from the phone speaker.
He picked up on the first ring.
"What's up, Nat?"
"I need you to get your ass to New York now."
"Avengers assemble? Isn't Cap supposed to make that call?"
"SHIELD," Natasha replied.
Without hesitation, Clint said, "I'll ask Laura if I can come over and play."
Although Bruce had been so fully absorbed in the data in front of him that he hadn't noticed Natasha until JARVIS informed him she was standing outside the lab, her visit came as a welcome interruption. Despite the multiple files on multiple screens, he was getting nowhere fast with the scepter research. He minimized the windows with a swipe of his hand, took off his glasses and tucked them into his lab coat pocket, smoothed his hair as he went to the door, which JARVIS opened to admit her.
"Natasha. Hi."
Bruce took in her outfit, the usual dark skinny jeans paired with boots-ankle boots this time, instead of knee-high-and an eggplant colored tank top. Concessions to the late spring warmth, but the sleeveless top drew his gaze to the new scars in her shoulder where the Winter Soldier shot her. He didn't have to wait for her to turn to imagine the corresponding exit wound in the back. Did she think he needed her to illustrate the point she'd made about who she was afraid of? Because this clearly was for his benefit, given the lightweight khaki jacket draped over her arm.
"Going out?" he asked.
"To JFK. Clint's on his way."
Bruce clasped his hands together, made his expression neutral, interested. This wasn't unexpected, after all; when Natasha took refuge in the Tower, he thought it was only a matter of time before Barton did, too. He was an Avenger, and he and Natasha were…close.
"To stay?"
"We have a meeting with Maria Hill."
"Ah." He unfolded his hands, laced his fingers back together the other way. "Pepper called you?"
"Tony called you."
It wasn't a question, yet the accompanying level stare made him feel he should answer.
"I mean, he didn't really give me any details. Just that apparently SHIELD's not totally gone. Though that's not really a surprise, is it, since Maria sent us to the Fridge?"
Natasha gave a slight jerk of her chin which he took to mean she conceded the point. Emboldened, he asked a question of his own.
"Clint's not…? You said about…the Toolshed?"
The corner of her mouth twitched, but she stopped the smile before it could really start, though not before Bruce felt sufficiently idiotic for attempting to talk shop with her. One undercover mission in a bald cap and fake beard did not a spy make. He unclasped his hands and shoved them into the hip pockets of his lab coat.
"No," Natasha said. "Clint's not working with underground SHIELD. Hence the meeting. If it's not us, we want to know who the hell is. Want to come?"
"Not particularly," Bruce mumbled, looking down at his shoes. At Natasha's sharp laugh, his head snapped up again. "Sorry, that sounded rude."
"I'm not offended."
Maybe not, but she didn't seem exactly amused, either. Withdrawing his hands from his pockets, he opened them in what he meant to be a conciliatory gesture. "I only mean that…I'd prefer to stay out of it."
"I thought you said you liked how the Fridge mission gave you a way to help without violence."
"It did," he replied, carefully, "and I'm glad, but…SHIELD business isn't really mine, is it?"
"Unless it's paid contract work?"
For a moment, he didn't know what she was talking about, then decided she must be referring to the Retreat, the cabin Nick Fury asked him to fit out with vibranium and other updated security measures for the protection of other gifted individuals. Containment was probably the more accurate term, and Bruce resisted the pull of his fingers to curl into fists at the memory of becoming suddenly enraged over this fact as he worked there and punching one of the new walls. Had Fury ever discovered that perfect Hulk fist embedded in the metal behind the oak paneling?
"I'll let you get back to work," Natasha's voice cut into his musings. "Just thought I'd let you know we'd have another roommate."
She pivoted to go, revealing a flash of the scar at the edge of her racerback tank before she threw her jacket over her shoulders. The exit wound.
"Natasha, wait." He darted after her, catching the door with his shoulder. "I said something wrong, didn't I?"
"This isn't a test, Bruce. There are no right or wrong answers."
Maria agreed to meet them in the conference room in the Avengers' part of the Tower, although the Avengers themselves disagreed about whether to call it that. Isn't it more of a war room? Steve had asked when Tony gave them a tour of the repurposed facilities not long after the Battle of New York. Thor voiced his hearty approval, though he had all the sensitivity of a Labrador retriever and, when Bruce blanched at the word war, suggested the more diplomatic, if antiquated, council chambers. Tony liked that and its implication of king-like authority and godly wisdom. Clint said he didn't give a damn what they called it, and Natasha agreed.
Now, they sat side-by-side at the polished table, backs to the view of Manhatten, arms folded over their chests as they eyed Maria Hill across from them. She wore the same poised, neutral expression as at the Senate hearings, which almost made Natasha feel guilty for putting her through another one of sorts. Almost. It was also exactly how Maria looked that day in her office, when she met her eyes and lied to her without flinching.
That would do for a starting point.
"Remember that case I was asking you about?" Natasha dived right in without preamble. "Before you sent Bruce and me to the Fridge?"
"Case?"
"Cut the crap, Maria," said Clint.
That got her goat. Unclasping her hands, she mirrored his posture. "You've adjusted quickly to me not being your superior."
"Have you?"
"I didn't ask Clint to fly in so we could argue semantics." Natasha unfolded her arms, placed her fingertips on the manila file that lay in front of her on the table and slid it across the buffed surface to Maria. "Light in the Darkness: Part Two. Marcus Daniels was responsible for those power outages in Portland. I have a full statement from Audrey Nathan that he approached her in her neighborhood. A team of SHIELD agents took her into protective custody and eventually stopped him. Or if you want to split hairs, they blasted him to tiny pieces. With some of Banner's tech, in fact."
She couldn't resist adding that last part, still annoyed with him about the previous day's conversation. If only he'd agreed to sit in on this meeting, purely so she could see his face when she mentioned that. Even without him here, she could imagine him looking up suddenly, gaze darting from face to face around the table, opening and closing his mouth as he cast about for a response, finally settling on something like, Is it necessary to bring me into this?
"I don't know anything about Daniels." Maria gave Clint a pointed look and added, "That's not crap."
"But you do know there's a SHIELD team operating underground," he returned, leaning back in his chair.
Maria didn't answer right away. After a moment, she uttered a soft but steady, "Yes."
"Presumably you passed the intel we gathered from the Fridge along to them?" Natasha asked.
"Yes." No pause that time, her voice at normal volume.
"And you didn't think I should know? That Clint should know? Two Agents of SHIELD?"
"Two of the best Agents of SHIELD," Clint added.
Maria's nostrils flared slightly as she drew a deep breath, as if to rein in her temper. "No. Even if I did, it came from above me."
"From Fury," Natasha said.
Maria had no response to that, verbal or otherwise. Did the non-reaction mean that there was nothing to hide, or that she was hiding something huge? Natasha glanced at Clint, but he was hung up a step back in the conversation.
"We could've helped," he said. "Damn it, Maria, I was on the team that put Daniels in the Fridge the first time."
"We can still help," Natasha added.
"No." Maria pushed backward in her chair, placed her palms on the table and stood. "You can't. You're not Agents of SHIELD anymore."
Natasha winced, the words striking true, like a bullet or a knife.
"You're Avengers. With Talbot and Ross and the whole goddamn government sniffing around, the Avengers have to remain separate from SHIELD."
That was the end, but Natasha couldn't give Maria the last word. "So separate we share a building?"
"Nat…" said Clint in a low tone, not quite his dad voice, but close. An indulgent older brother, warning her she was about to get herself in big trouble, maybe. He curled a hand over her wrist.
Maria picked up the manila folder, opened it, flicked through the pages without looking at them. "Maybe we shouldn't."
She placed the file back on the table, sliding it around beneath her fingertips, as if she meant to pass it back to Natasha. She didn't.
"Are you going to suggest Tony find a new location for Stark Industries?" Natasha asked.
"I'm going to suggest you get more distance, until the Avengers are called."
"And when will that be?"
"When we need you."
Clint reached for a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table, then settled back into a corner of the sectional.
"You know, Nat, maybe Maria's right."
In her own corner, she kept her eyes on the TV as she chewed. The twin brothers on screen looked more like they should be modeling than remodeling, but then the channel's target audience was probably housewives over thirty. And Clint. Swallowing, she swung her gaze down to the other end of the sofa, arching an eyebrow.
"You're good with being benched?"
"You know what?" Clint answered around a bite. "After the couple years I've had? I really am."
He stuffed the rest of the slice into his mouth, then slid to the edge of the cushion again to grab another and his beer. Natasha watched him eat and drink, his eyes on the Property Brothers but his thoughts turned inward. She knew he still felt guilty for being away from home so much on Project PEGASUS while Lila was little, and after the mind control ordeal it took him a long time, an extended leave of absence jetting back and forth between the farm and Andrew Garner's office in DC for therapy, before he felt that his mental space was his own again. But when he was finally cleared to resume field work, she thought he was glad to be back.
He hadn't been back for long when he learned that job, too, was compromised.
Greasy pizza and guilt settled uneasily in the pit of Natasha's stomach. She put her half-eaten slice back in the box, then curled up at her end of the sectional, beer resting on one of her knees as she hugged them to her chest.
"Easy for you to say. You've got a farm and a family to go to till you're called up for active duty."
It dripped with self-pity, and she was annoyed with herself for saying it. She wasn't sure at first if Clint even heard it, because he stayed glued to the screen where the twin who designed was currently showing a couple his plans to restore their old kitchen, which had last been remodeled in the 70s, to its former Victorian glory-but with modern updates that would impress even Stark. What kind of budgets did these people have? There was a gleam in Clint's eye which she recognized as inspiration, another item added to his never-ending to-do list.
When the show broke for commercial, he muted the TV and turned to her, stretching out his legs so he could nudge her toes with his foot.
"That's what I mean about Maria being right," he said as though there had been no lapse in conversation. "I know, you don't want to impose, but maybe you should come with me."
There was an urgency to his voice, concern etched in the lines of his face, which made it difficult for her to maintain eye contact, though of course she didn't allow herself to look away.
"And do what?" she retorted. "Help you build the toolshed?"
"Finished that. Thinking about scraping off old wallpaper next."
"I just don't get the appeal of fixer-uppers. If I'm going to settle down, I'd rather have a place that's move-in ready."
"It's about making it your own," Clint said, "through blood, sweat, and occasionally tears when the renovation process almost ruins your mar-"
He broke off when he noticed Natasha was looking past him, twisting to see at what. Bruce hovered in the doorway, his expression an apology for the intrusion. In fact as soon as he'd seen them in the room he started to go, but after Natasha caught his eye he couldn't without looking rude. Despite her lingering annoyance with him, she was glad to be interrupted as Clint had clearly been gearing up for a speech.
"Hey, Banner," he greeted, without much enthusiasm, probably disappointed at not getting to deliver it. "Been a while."
"How's it going…Barton?"
Bruce's eyes darted from to Natasha as he stepped further into the room, toward the sectional where Clint reached out to shake hands. She wasn't sure what to blame for the awkwardness. Was it Clint, whom Bruce didn't know well, or her, because of their spat?
"Well, you know," Clint replied, dropping hands and reaching for the remote to un-mute the TV. "Unemployment."
Bruce gave a nod of empathy.
"Pizza?" Clint offered.
Again, Bruce glanced at Natasha, as if asking permission to accept this invite when he'd refused her last one. "I was just going to the kitchen to scrounge something up…"
"Scrounge here." Clint slid the pizza box down the coffee table, grabbing Natasha's abandoned slice. "You gonna finish this?"
She shook her head, and he crammed it into his mouth, swinging his feet up onto the table on the other side of the pizza box. Bruce bent, squinting behind his glasses as he debated for a moment over which slice to take, finally settling on one of the small ones. After a moment's befuddlement over the lack of anything to put it on, picked up a napkin and then commenced to waffle over where to sit. Between them? Or in the club chair on the other side of Natasha? It would have been funny if she weren't irritated with him. Maybe it still was. Maybe she wasn't as irritated with him as she thought. She nursed her beer and tried not to smile.
Eventually he settled for leaning against the arm of the sectional nearest the door, and turned his attention to the TV as he ate.
"Home and garden channel?" He glanced dubiously down at Clint. "Researching potential new careers?"
"Potential new projects," Natasha replied, glad Bruce knew this wasn't her choice of programming.
He shook his head at the TV. "These guys can't actually be contractors. They're too attractive."
"People probably say the same thing about you and Stark," Natasha said.
Out the corner of her eye she saw him blink at her, then look away, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"About Stark, maybe," he muttered.
"Naw, these guys do everything," Clint said. "And look good doing it. You handy?"
"Me?" Bruce barked out a laugh. "Demolition's more my thing."
Although Natasha smiled slightly at his self-effacement, Clint's face was set in the same blank expression as the rare occasions he watched Leno when nothing else was on, or when Cooper was on a knock-knock joke kick.
"Riiiight," he said, and turned back to the TV.
Natasha did, too, nursing her beer and trying to release herself to the mindless distraction of the unnaturally handsome twin contractor and realtor, but she'd never been good at escape, unless life or death situations were involved. Her brain was working overtime to process her conversations with Clint and Maria. Maybe they were right, both of them, as much as she hated to admit it, especially in light of Maria's subterfuge.
As she watched the Property Brothers help upper-middle class couples create the homes of their dreams, there was one thing she was sure of: scraping wallpaper at the Barton farm might give her something to do, but it wasn't going to help her wipe her ledger clean.