Author's Notes at the end.
Chapter Four: Water Child
Balkans and elsewhere, 2005 to 2011
There's a game they played, the two of them, when it was only them and the cold hours of the night, the long golden afternoons and the pale sky before dawn; when the readiness is all and the fate of the target has been determined but is still yet to come. In those endless non-moments of Schrödinger-time, while the dead still walk and smile and breathe, a pair of master assassins found amusements to keep their sanity.
It began with Clint, as did most of their worst habits – including their partnership. In the chill air of an unlit warehouse in Minsk, tucked close to his bow to keep the shivers manageable and his voice pitched for her ears only, he said, "I say we blow this popsicle stand, sweetheart."
Natasha's silhouette – one shoulder and a knee and three gloved fingers – shifted against the window. It was no more than a deep breath, but Clint took it as assent and grinned to himself. Waited.
Her breath was a shadow of white against the streetlamps. "Where would you have us go? And how will we earn our bread?" More than assent – she's far worse at patience than he, for all that she's practiced longer, and that night, she wanted to play.
"Oh, we'd figure something out."
"Surely, my man with the plan, you already have something in mind."
"We could move to Mongolia, and raise little winged ponies to sell to the Chinese tourists."
"No way. Too much sun."
"Argentina, then, out on the plains where it's always cloudy."
"Too wet. My hair would frizz."
"But you like the little winged ponies."
A gleam of eyes and teeth in the darkness. "Maybe. How are they with ginger and mustard?"
He stuffed his fingers in his mouth to keep from snickering out loud. Natasha made a motion with one finger, a tick in the air. It was enough to keep him warm the rest of the night.
Seven months later, in Cordova, west of the Rio Plata, he had to agree that her hair did not love the humidity. "So you pick."
January below the equator, and all their clothes clung to them as they waited in the airless apartment. Clint had been on watch for an hour while Natasha sprawled on the bed, not sleeping. Three trucks and five bicycles passed before she answered, long enough for Clint to decide she was ignoring him. But she drew in a breath and said, "Montana. We can plant potatoes, brew good vodka and flavor it with wild strawberries."
"Idaho is where you grow potatoes."
"Which is why we go to Montana. SHIELD will look for us in Idaho."
"What about HYDRA? They'd look for us in Montana."
"Not very hard."
"Global Nation would, though, tight-wound territorial inbred bastards that they are."
"True…" Natasha flipped over on the bed, a faint squeak of ancient springs, and propped her chin on her hands. "Remember that cute little compound they had by the Canadian border? The one with the black oaks?"
Clint snorted. "I remember those trees leaked like hell in the rain and had really annoying magpies. Almost as bad as whatzname, that handler with the sniffles."
"The magpies were also cute." Her voice was meditative. "We could look there, see if GN would let us join up."
Clint actually took his eye off the scope and turned halfway around to look at Natasha. She gazed back, guileless as a cloud. Clint bent his head back to the eyepiece. "Okay, you had me going there."
"Come on. They thought us both outstanding genetic material."
"Nat. Seriously. They bathed once a week. In ice water. Which, yes, was attractive on you, but not my ball of wax."
"I don't remember your balls having an issue with the cold."
"That's mean. And here I was being complimentary."
Natasha rolled over again. "We could plant junipers instead, for gin."
"In Montana?"
"Yemen. Find some hilltop town, correct the water distribution system-"
"In Yemen? What would that take? This is beginning to sound like work, not retirement."
"Fifteen kilos of semtex should do the job." She inspected her nails. "Maybe twenty."
"Definitely sounding like work. And the distribution would be even more work. Hows about we stick to non-Muslim countries if we're going to be producing hard alcohol."
"Thought you liked challenges."
"I could deal with a boring retirement."
Natasha launched a pillow at the back of his head. "Liar." Clint batted it away without looking. "False, cad, lgoon, lgoon who vends hornless cattle. You would mope and sulk and grow annoying."
"Maybe you've got a point. But I got sand in a lot of not very fun places in Yemen. How about Taiwan?"
Whatever Nat thought of Taiwan, it took her too long to think of it, and she dozed off before replying.
Six hours later, the hit squad showed up, finally. After the dust settled, Coulson wrangled them a fast flight out, and it was back home to SHIELD and hot showers and lousy cafeteria food and another set of electronic toys.
A month after that, during the first field test of the toys (subsonic neural disrupter that doubled as a ranging beacon [mostly worked], and another attempt at a secure-coms earring-mike that would survive a trek in the woods [mostly didn't]), Clint slipped off a wet rock and down fifteen meters of Canadian granite. While she sat with him, waiting on the extract team to haul them out – because it was a training exercise, and by the time Nat got down the cliff and finished cursing Barton for not having the integrity to break his neck instead of spraining his ankle, it really had started raining, and the chopper declined to do a non-priority evac during a thunderstorm - Natasha grilled Clint on specifics of their income generation in Taiwan. Clint shrugged it off. "I changed my mind. Zimbabwe. Booksellers. You can run the printing press, I'll mind the book store."
Which made as much sense as any of it ever did.
The first step she takes out of the pension, he knows something has gone wrong.
Natasha looks the other way, half-skipping down the steps, mink-brown hair waving in the wind, sunglasses on against the bright sun. She has on the blue scarf and the larger bag, the white one, slung over her left shoulder, and those two together mean mission accomplished, time to skip town, and all he should feel is relief. Instead, something's wrong, a sinking feeling in his gut; it taints the satisfaction that should be running through him. They were done, they were going home, and he was actually going to have Natasha in visual range and under proper cover for the first time in six weeks, but Natasha walks away down the street and something is wrong.
Clint pulls the curtain closed, snatches up the bags, and runs for the stairs.
Zagreb in 2011 was a long con, and he hated them worse than even the tux-and-jewel affairs. Hated them worse when it was Nat going under alone, twice as much when they couldn't use hidden coms, three times as much when he was running over-watch without permission to shoot when he got the chance.
Six weeks – forty-seven miserable days of sitting and watching, waiting as Nat worked her way into the confidence of the Bosniak gangster boss's under-achieving son, and from there to get an angle on the old man himself, with nothing for Clint to do but maintain the lightest of contacts – to be seen, every other day, in one of a series of cafes, and to keep watch, during four irregularly spaced periods during the day, for any signal from Nat. Nat was running the op. Nat was making the hit. Nat was signaling with fashion accessories, and Clint could kill the person who thought up the idiot scheme, except, hey, that was Clint.
And Nat was a professional at this. Nat was so good it was terrifying. More than once, in those brief seconds of contact – a brush of eyes across each other, a dropped note, a shrug of the head as the other one turned away – Clint was left with a sense of wonder, a half-familiar sense of awe that Nat was that good – she could smile, and flirt, and lean in close, and make any one believe. Not just batting the eyes and being sweet, but frowning, and taking offense, and (in one memorable scene early in the second week) jumping straight out of a vehicle as it came to a stop at a traffic light.
The boss's son had stopped the car and climbed out, shouting after Natasha, and then at her back. She'd kept walking. Clint, watching over a newspaper and a coffee, had stared as the guy reached back in the car, bringing out Natasha's black purse and shaking it at her. She'd kept walking.
The gangster's boy had shouted again, then leaned back like a pro pitcher and hurled the handbag in to the river.
The gangsters owned a pension facing a plaza, south of the Gornji Grad. Barton took an apartment facing north – the damp side of the street, with lichen on the moldings and dark streaks eaten into the wall. From the window upstairs, he had a clear line on the pension's front steps. For thirty-eight days, Barton traced the line of the afternoon shadows across the plaza. The first week, the dark edge lay beyond the fountain's lip. The next, it touched the rim. He watched the shade lap over the green-tinged water daily, drinking deeper every day.
Then it began to creep back.
Coulson was with him, on and off, for the first three weeks. Then Fury called, and Coulson slipped back down the river to the Adriatic, and left Clint alone to stare down the street at dusk and midnight and half past ten and at three in the afternoon. Which was good enough as it went, because even Coulson got on Clint's nerves after two weeks of over-watch. And, yes, there was a point where it was good that Clint wasn't by himself – like right after the purse-throwing incident, when Natasha went on a road trip with the gangster's boy, and didn't call, and didn't show, and didn't show for four days – then it was good that Clint had someone to argue with, and tell Coulson no, she's got it, she can handle it, wait, don't be stupid. Because left to his own devices, Clint wouldn't have waited that long. And Nat would have carved strips off him with her tongue, if he'd jacked up her op.
On the fourth day, under duress, Clint made a wrong number call to Nat's cell, and it was like spring birdsong to hear her voice on the other end saying, sorry, no one here by that name, no, no problem, good day – it was great to have Coulson around then, too, because Clint got to say, I told you so.
It would have been better, if the little niggling worry hadn't started then, and refused to go away.
Coulson went, leaving Clint alone and with far too long to think about that bit of worry, waiting and listening to Coulson's requests for progress reports. A bird in the hand is worth a hand in the bush, he told Coulson, and it was worth it to hear Coulson roll his eyes over the satellite phone. He was reduced to breathing down Clint's neck via coms, because Strantov just popped up again in Kiev, and they needed Natasha back up there, and something was going on in New Mexico, and they need Clint there, and both of those projects should have taken priority over a two-bit gangster whose primary sin was laundering money for a mass-murdering dictator a decade back. Well, and assassinating local mayors since.
"We need to make a delivery next week," Coulson finally said, and he meant, pull her out, close it down. "Remember that we have other clients."
"This job's almost done," Clint said, just as he had for days, and kept that little ant of worry out of his voice. Because he'd seen Natasha every day for nearly a week, and he knew she was making progress. She went out to dinner the night before – she, the gangster and his chubby son, her arm tucked in the son's flabby grip. A happy family.
Coulson sighed. "We can't afford to miss this deadline," as if he were telling Clint something he didn't already know. Clint was confident in the plan, and he was more confident in Natasha, but damn, this was cutting it close.
And then Natasha walked out at eight pm local, a dark hat in her hand, and it meant, get ready.
Ten hours later, the gangster's son goes out for his morning jog. Six weeks with Natasha has been enough to turn the corpulent sluggard into an overweight jogger with comical over-propagation and a tendency towards a florid cast after five minutes of cardio. In the days of watching, Clint's had time to wonder what the kid would have been like under some decent influence. Ten minutes after the boy leaves, the old gangster is laid out on his bed with ten milliliters of insulin crashing and burning his body, and Natasha is jogging down the steps, and Clint has his bag ready, and the heavy case, and Natasha's backup bag, and runs for the stairs.
He catches her halfway to the station.
They pass a chemist, green cross on a white square, and Natasha breaks stride, as though one of the cobblestones broke under her boot. He bumps her elbow, holds out a hand. She passes her bag without comment and doubles back to the chemist.
Stomach bug, he tells himself. But he knows what Natasha looks like, loose at both ends and miserable. This is something different.
She joins him at the train station three minutes after he arrives, knotting a plain scarf over her hair.
They wait for the train together - she seated on the bench, hands folded in her lap, one bag at her ankle and the other beside her on the bench. He leans against the pillar, staring back at the central station. Twice he decides to swap their tickets for the connection to Budapest, and twice he changes his mind and holds to the plan.
On the Belgrade train they take separate seats. Only his personal bag goes in the luggage bin by the door.
He gets off at the suburban station and hails a cab. Half an hour later, it deposits him at a downtown hotel in the white city.
He's still in the lobby forty-five minutes later, keys in his pockets, and the heavy bag digging at his shoulder, when Natasha pushes the door open.
The lobby tv station is tuned to national news, running the same clip over and over. They are reporting multiple deaths in Zagreb – the mobster, by natural causes, plus others in an escalating power struggle. As she comes through the door, the tv flashes a picture of the gangster's son and reports that he, too, is dead – shot by his own guards.
Because Clint has seen the clip, he watches Natasha. Her eyes shutter and turn away, flick back to meet Clint's, and then are dragged back to the tv screen. Natasha has a bag of take-out in her hand, a bottle of water in the other, and a quarter liter of vodka in her coat pocket.
There is little to say to that. "I'll find some ice," Clint says. Natasha turns away from the tv and makes a face. In a way, this is encouraging, because she still has enough humor to be picky about how she drinks her vodka.
They find an ice dispenser on the back stair, interior black with mold. Over the grind of the ice hopper, he says, "He seemed an all right sort. Just lousy luck in parents." Nat does not laugh, only shakes her head and follows him up the stairs.
He goes carefully though the room, pulling back curtains, running his fingers along the base boards, up-ending the phone, the lamps, the ashtrays. Natasha's behind him, climbing on a chair to reach the ceiling lamp and the smoke detector.
"Well, at least the bathroom has a door on it this time." He pulls it shut, but the door pops open again as soon as he releases the handle. "Dammit."
"Light works," Nat said, and drops down off the chair. "How's the phone?"
"Dial tone, maybe it works." He reaches into the bath, attacks the water fixtures. "Water heater's electric, looks new. Might not change our hair style. Electrically."
"Clear then?"
Clint shrugs. "Clear."
"Dibs on bathroom." She pushes past him, a brush of her fingers over his flank. The vodka is in a trash bucket of ice and the take-out is getting cold.
"Fine, be that way." He flops down on the bed and considers the ceiling mold.
The bathroom door creaks open. Nat mutters something in Russian, kicks the door. The toilet flushes. The bathroom door swings open again, creaking over the sound of running water. Clint groans, levers himself off the bed, and picks up the vodka out of the ice. His elbow knocks his backpack off the table, spilling everything out. Including Nat's backup cell. Clint drops the vodka back in the ice, snatches up the cell and puts a hand on the bathroom door to shove it closed again. "Nat, I got your cell -
Natasha stands in the doorway, staring at something in her hand. Not her cell. Clint looks away, then back again, and Nat still stands there with a long plastic rectangle in her hand. She cocks her head at him, considering, then gives permission – a dip of the shoulder – come here, if you want.
He eases closer. She sets the test down on the counter with a click, stands staring at it. Clint leans against the doorframe. A pair of footsteps pass in the hall, turn the corner and are gone.
Natasha turns her wrist up to check her watch, sighs. Puts her hand on the white plastic rectangle and pushes it away.
Clint reaches out and lays his hand over hers. He draws the test to him, together with her hand, lifts her fingers away. She let her hand grasp his, long, cool fingers tucked in his palm.
Three minutes. He's had no time to think, to start to work a plan.
She's had days – weeks.
Close. Too close. No perspective. No clear line on a target. All the angles run through Natasha.
"So." She meets his eyes in the mirror. "That satchel he threw away, the first week."
"Yes." He's never heard her voice this quiet. It could be only a thought, it is that voiceless.
Clint lets her fingers slide through his hand. He shoves himself off the doorframe and sets the cell phone down by the vodka, the plastic case gritting over the dust on the table. With slow strides, he crosses the room, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. At the window he runs his fingertips up the window frame, touches the heater, turned and marches back. Stops a handsbreath from Nat.
Natasha is still folded against the bathroom counter, looking through the wall at Kiev. He reaches for her, lets his hand drop.
"We can go."
She straightens, stares at him. She blinks as Clint moves closer, hands fisting at his sides, words tumbling over each other.
"Trains leave every hour. Ten hours, we can be in Berlin. Or Estonia. We can dump the gear along the way, sell it for cash. I've got a list of buyers – you've got more. Papers – papers are easy. We can lie low, find a place out of the way. Eat beans, drink cheap wine. Find something to do – janitor, streetsweeper. We can…" He stops, draws a shuddering breath. "There's always Mongolia. And the ponies." Another breath. "If you want."
She keeps her eyes on his. He stares back, breaths still coming fast. She waits, and the silence wears thin, begins to fray, and finally he looks away.
"Or. Or. Not. Later. Maybe. Or Montana." He brings a hand up to his head again. "God."
"Clint."
Without turning back to her, he reaches out, blindly, and she steps in close. His arms curl around her, his hand cupping her head, callused finger tips scratching the skin behind her ears. She slides her palms around his waist, under the open jacket.
She lets out her breath in a long shudder. He can feel her breathing – quick, light, the slight catch that means she's upset. His arms tighten around her, then relax, still holding her close. "Here?" he asks. "I mean, now, or do you want to wait until we hit CONUS? God," he says again, around a thickness in his throat, "Serbia, but better than Bosnia…"
"SHIELD," she says against his chest. "It can – I can wait. I'd rather – Sanchez has a list. Cleared facilities. I've talked… talked with her about options before. Two days, maybe three. It's okay."
He sighs, tucks her head under his chin. "It's okay," he repeats, voice thick with misery. "You're going to be okay. We got the mark, we're clean, we're good. It's okay."
She nods, a brush of hair against his face. "We're good."
[end]
Title: Learning Lilith, Claiming Kali - Chapter Four: Water Child
Summary: Biological implications of being a hetero-normative homozygous-X hero – fluff, chocolate, heartache, and blood.
Characters: Natasha Romanoff. Movieverse canon relationships.
Author's Notes: lgoon = liar, in Russian. Set in movieverse, pre-Avengers, pre-Iron Man, pre-Thor. The reader would be well-advised to avoid assigning any particular political stance to the author based on opinions or choices of characters in this story. Thanks to Flora and Kernie for beta.
Disclaimer: Not mine; they were broken when I found them, I swear.