Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and everything else associated with Marvel.
Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.
Chapter 2
Natasha squeezed between a group of champagne-holding businessmen, not bothering to apologize when her shoving almost spilled someone's glassful. She looked behind. The reporter that had been piling questions on her was out of sight, lost among the hundreds that had gathered in the Monacan hotel's immense lobby, the bodies packed so close together than when she rose on her tiptoes all she could see was an ocean of bobbing heads.
She checked her phone for the time. Another fifteen minutes before Stark's scheduled arrival, and that still depended on his punctuality. He had better be punctual. Two hours of nonstop interviews had long fouled her temper so that she no longer excused herself from questions, but rather glowered and turned her back on them. Her throat stung from her constant talking. When she breathed the suffocating mix of perfume and cologne and cigar smoke scored with tiny needles pass her nose.
An empty chair—fit for a mirage—tucked hidden between two tall ivory vases against a purple velvet wall. Natasha hurried towards it and plopped down with a huff. It wasn't anything comfortable: a bar stool dragged over from the adjacent dining room.
A flicker of something caught her eye. No, it was someone. As soon as she saw the face she reached for a book someone had left on the rim of the vase. Monaco Grand Prix: A Photographic Portrait of the World's Most Prestigious Motor Race. She flipped to a page of a red and white Marlboro racecar and propped the book over her face.
Something knocked her shoe. She snapped the book closed and dropped it on her lap. "This is your idea of a vacation?"
"What's wrong with it? Comin' to see the Prix, just like everyone else here." Clint raised his glass of champagne and took a sip. "Thought you should be tagging along Stark?"
"Not here yet, he scheduled for ten-thirty, though, should be any moment now."
"Hmm." Clint swished the champagne in his mouth.
"Did you save your seat in the stands outside?" Natasha asked.
"Huh? What seat?"
"You said you're here to see the Prix."
"Oh, well..." He grew restless on his feet.
Natasha rolled her eyes and smiled, then rose from the stool and took his champagne glass to her lips. She swallowed enough of the liquid to soothe her throat and returned the drink. "See you 'round. I'm gonna double-check Stark's reservations."
Clint hogged her seat as soon as she left, tossing her a light "have fun" that she barely heard over the noise in the room.
She confirmed the table Stark had booked in the dining room and his meetings for the day, then gave in to a quiet, meek photographer's request to take pictures of Stark. He asked so nicely, so softly midst the sharp yaps and demands that she couldn't help but comply. The little man tailed her, his camera in hand.
Stark and Potts whisked into view before she had even re-entered the lobby, chattering away while Hogan shadowed them with a gray and red metallic suitcase in hand.
"Mr. Stark," Natasha greeted.
"Hey." He tore the sunglasses off his face and beamed.
"Hello, how was your flight?"
"It was excellent. Oh, it's nice to see you." Stark's courtesy slipped on like a well-worn coat. He and Potts accepted the drinks an eager waiter offered.
"We have one photographer from the ACM, if you don't mind, ok?" Natasha took the drinks from their hands before they could raise them to their mouths. She nodded a cue to the cameraman behind her and stepped aside as he snapped the photos.
"Stop acting constipated, don't flare your nostrils," Stark ground through his teeth to Potts while trying to retain the forced smile on his face. Potts ignored the photographer altogether and kept right on talking to Stark. They talked over each other, their conversation's objective no more than to dominate, in both volume and sarcasm.
"Right this way." Natasha guided them to the table she had reserved.
"Thanks." Stark walked off on Potts to follow her. "You look fantastic."
"Why, thank you very much."
"But that's unprofessional. What's on the docket?" He threw a wary glance towards the table she'd reserved. A flock of people gathered in the adjacent bar, squabbling like geese. He must be avoiding someone.
"We have a nine-thirty dinner," Natasha said.
"Perfect, I'll be there at eleven." He pointed to the table at a quiet corner. "Is this ours?"
"It can be," she replied.
"Great. Make it ours."
"Ok."
While she arranged with a nearby waiter for the switch, Potts caught up with them. Stark offered to have "Natalie" fix a massage appointment for her, but she declined with a muttered "I don't want Natalie to do anything." He went on to jab at her a few more times before a new voice perked up:
"Anthony, is that you?"
"My least favorite person on Earth, Justin Hammer," Stark grumbled.
"How ya doin'? You're not the only rich guy here with a fancy car!" Hammer continued, landing a hand on Stark's back.
Hammer pulled over a girl from Vanity Fair to chat. The girl's presence muddied the already toxic atmosphere, and it was but a few exchanges later that Potts made to leave, leaving behind her a wide-eyed, helpless Stark. As soon as Potts left Hammer threw an arm around Stark's neck, almost knocking their heads together, and a cameraman shot forth for his opportunity. As if torture hadn't a better representation, Christine Everhart, the Vanity Fair girl, decided then to shove a voice recorder under Stark's nose, and out she dribbled a bombard of questions.
"Is our table ready?" Natasha asked a passing waiter.
"For Mr. Stark? Yes it is."
Stark looked like he needed an escape. She approached the table the trio had just settled in. "Mr. Stark?"
He shot up at the sound of her voice. "Yes?"
"Your corner table is ready."
"Thank God," he said under his breath and left to join her. "Hammer needs a slot!"
Stark headed off to the bathroom without so much as a glance at his new table, rubbing his forehead as he went. His other hand fumbled with a small metal box in his pocket.
Of course, the headaches that accompanied his palladium poisoning. She'd need to get her hands on that box soon, or she'd have nothing to report to S.H.I.E.L.D.
When he came back a few minutes later, Natasha bumped into him and flicked the box from his pocket with a deft hand. He didn't notice, apologized, and hustled away. His eyes glowered with an unnerving sense of purpose.
Natasha locked herself inside a bathroom stall and turned on the blood meter she stole, stiffening at the display screen.
BLOOD TOXICITY: 53%
Stark was pretty much half dead.
She adjusted the settings on the side of the scanner to a few days prior, and another percentage appeared.
BLOOD TOXICITY: 19%
He's dying quick, too.
Natasha tucked the box into a slip pocket on the inside of her dress hem and turned her comm on.
"Coulson."
"Romanoff."
"I have information on the rate of the palladium diffusion," she whispered. "Stark's contamination level has increased by over thirty percent in less than a week. If Director Fury plans on interfering, I suggest he do so within the next few days or Stark will run out of time."
When she came out of the bathroom the crowds had flocked to the TV screen on the walls. Gasps mixed in with criticisms and whispers, and a few jeers rose above the noise. Natasha joined in, craning her neck to see what all the commotion was about.
Stark had changed into a blue racing suit, his last name slanted white across the fabric. The circuit for the Prix draped behind him like a show about to start.
"Well what's the use of having and owning a race car if you don't drive it?"
The crowd spewed into chaos.
Tony waved the original driver to his car off with a cocky flick of his wrist, and the other man flung his helmet to the ground in anger and lumbered out of the camera's view. Stark stepped into the Formula 1.
"Natalie, Natalie!" Potts beckoned her from two tables away.
Natasha scampered to her. "Yes, Ms. Potts?"
"Did you know about this?" Potts' stare bore into her face, blame lurking just below the surface.
"Uh... This is the first time I've known of it."
The drivers' list on the screens refreshed, confirming Tony's spot in the race.
"This...this cannot happen."
"Absolutely I understand how can I help you?" Natasha asked. Potts' frantic behavior was rubbing off on her.
"Where is Happy?"
"He's waiting outside."
"Ok, get him. I need Happy."
"Right away." Natasha turned to the direction of the exit. As she hurried along a different voice called out to her.
"Nat, where're you going, what's going on?"
"Getting their bodyguard," Natasha replied. She glanced at the screen again. Stark had his helmet on. It was now or never.
Hogan wasn't by the door.
She cursed and wedged between a group of women to return to the lobby. Clint trailed closer behind. "Is that him?" He steered her to the right, where a man stretched out, asleep on an armchair with his sunglasses on. The red and gray metallic suitcase hung off his hand by two fingers.
"Thanks." Natasha pulled Clint along with her. "Hogan!" She shouted.
He didn't stir.
She stomped on his foot with the heel of her shoe. Hogan shot out of his seat. The suit in his hand clattered to the ground.
"Yes, Mr. Stark!"
"It's Rushman. Ms. Potts wants you right away," Natasha snapped.
'Right away' turned out to be too late. When they returned, Potts had slouched over in her seat, a hand on the bridge of her nose. Natasha looked to the TV. The race had begun.
She approached Potts slowly. "Would you like me to speak to a superintendent or...?"
"No, no." Potts shook her head. "I don't want to disrupt this race any more than Tony already has."
Sensing her dismissal, Natasha left her. With Clint by her side they sat down on a couch—the seats had cleared now that everyone surged toward the screens—eyes on the live stream ahead. The racers glided over the narrow circuit, rounded blood-curdling tight corners, and packed next to each other with a mere coat of paint's distance in-between. Stark came whizzing out of a tunnel and gained on the yellow car to his right, advancing to the fifth place. The cameras switched to close-ups of the other racers for a few minutes, then stayed at the leading car.
A sudden angle cut. An intervention personnel, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, pushed aside the fencing bordering the racetrack. Off came his helmet, tossed onto the ground. He strode down the track, unflinching to the leading cars that sped past him, going against the traffic, down and down. The camera zoomed in on his face.
The crowds leaned forward. The noise level multiplied ten-fold in a matter of seconds.
Natasha got up without a word and left.
"Hey, Natasha?" Clint called behind her.
She kept walking.
He was up now, his steps choppy and quick to catch up to her. "Nat?" He reached for her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. He took her hand next and she yanked it out of his grasp. Her palms had dampened. He didn't need to know.
Clint followed her into the elevator, barely missing the closing door, and she turned away from him and faced the glass wall. Her expression stared back at the both of them. In the reflection Clint shifted his stance, about to speak, and just then the elevator door spilled open. She slipped out pass him and set out to find her hotel room.
The room was dark. She swung the door behind her and waited for the slam. It didn't come. Replacing it was a soft click of the latch, of a door properly closed; again he had made it in just in time. He just wouldn't leave her alone.
Natasha kicked off her high heels and stretched out along the length of the couch in a corner, knees unbent to occupy the largest sitting area possible, and turned on her phone to hold it close to her face, scrolling and shuffling the app pages without interest.
"Too stuffy downstairs?" Clint asked from next to the door.
"Yeah."
"Got kinda loud, too. Louder. What with that guy walking into the racetrack. That can't be good."
"That's nothing. I've seen worse."
The lights overhead snapped on then, harsh yellows and whites that fluttered close her eyes, and when she blinked them open Clint had stepped closer, so that if she turned her head toward his direction she'd catch a whiff of the pressed-suit smell on him.
"Say it." His tone changed. "Tell me what's wrong."
Natasha placed her phone on her stomach, and her hands on top of it.
"Natasha."
She traced a finger along the creases on the cushion under her body. Then her movements grew with force, and her nails scored the red velvet hard enough to make a scratching sound. In her position there wasn't anything to look at save the bright tinted ceiling, and if she looked just the slightest to the left she'd see Clint frowning down at her, so she didn't.
"Tell me."
"It's not important."
"Yeah, right."
"It's not important as in it won't change anything."
"It's important as in I still want to know."
She laughed quietly. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"And why is that?"
Natasha picked up her phone and toyed it in her hand, then pushed off the couch. She walked to the two-counter kitchenette and swirled a plastic cup under the running faucet. The foaming water spewed over the top with a sigh and left a layer of tiny, popping bubbles on her hand, like wrenching open a shaken-up bottle of soda. She turned the faucet off with a slap and, holding the dripping cup, leaned against the counter and sipped the water.
"You should go back down," Natasha said.
"Maybe I will." Clint moved to stand next to her, a hand on the counter next to her body. "But after."
"No."
"Who is he?"
She smeared the bead of water trailing down her arm, then scratched the skin there crimson.
In a whisk he placed his other hand next to the other side of her body so that he forced her against the counter. She stared back at him and narrowed her eyes. The red plastic cup crackled under her grip.
"Who is he?"
Natasha pushed past his barrier and tossed the cup, along with its contents, into the sink. "Race is over. I need to check on Stark."
He grabbed her arm and yanked. "Tell me." He tightened his hold. "Or you can't leave."
She could turn this into a fight, an ugly, head-ringing fight that her hands shook for, but Clint shouldn't be caught in the middle of this, whatever it was. Maybe he'd understand if she told him freely, shallowly, like the quick flick of a damp brush over paper and up again, and he'd make himself forget it and then she could forget it and he would let her go and she would dip downstairs and find Stark and Potts. Potts. Potts would fire her. Potts would definitely fire her.
"Ivan Vanko. He used to work under the Red Room."
As quick as the brush had skimmed, it flew, hovered with expectation for the page to dry. Clint's hand around her arm loosened.
He didn't follow her out this time.
In the lobby the commotion had doubled. The noise level had peaked to squalls and high-pitched yells. About a dozen police officers mixed among the guests, barking orders and pushing the people back every which way. Natasha grabbed a nearby cop. "Sir, what's going on?"
"You didn't see?" The cop shouted.
"I didn't feel well, so I was away."
"I don't have time for specifics, miss." He paused to throw back a man charging at another. "There was a guy with some kind of electric whips on the track; smashed like four of the cars."
"Fatalities?"
"Yeah. One dead driver. Two in critical."
"Any word on Tony Stark?"
"Tony Stark?" He snorted. "He brought out his suit! Iron Man! The whole deal! Saved half a dozen cars because of him!"
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know. Saw his CEO outside just now, though."
Outdoors the smell of car exhaust consumed the air. More police cars. She asked around a few more times before getting substantial information from a sergeant: Potts, along with Stark, had gone with the police: they were seeing Vanko, who had been put in prison.
Her intentions wavered. Should she go after them or not?
Around her the currents of people continued to tug, in and out, left and right. The congested traffic stretched over what looked like a quarter-mile. It would take her long, if she did follow Stark.
Natasha dove back indoors.
The cops ushered her to the elevator when she tried to linger by the lobby. Reluctantly she complied, taking extra time with her steps back to her room. Clint would still be there no doubt. He'd be there with an onslaught of questions that she didn't want to answer, didn't want to think about.
The lights were still on. He hadn't moved from where she had left him by the sink, but he did look at her with surprise, and that surprise washed off his face within seconds as he strode to her and grabbed her shoulders.
Clint shook her. "What the hell, Natasha?"
"I told you. What else do you want?" Her voice wouldn't louden whatever she tried.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
He let go of her, crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked away. "You can't just... drop something like that for me."
"I didn't drop anything. You asked me."
"It's like I never knew you." His voice dropped.
How dare he said that? She looked at him, at her wrung-together hands, at the sink leaking rhythmic plunk, plunk drips of water. The air here was so still she missed the turbulence in the lobby. Empty and expectant, the silence forced her to speak, and once she did the words rushed like water between her fingers; she couldn't get them back:
"It's like I don't know myself."
Clint's gaze returned to her. His expression didn't change, but he drew her to him by the wrist and put his arms around her. He muttered something incomprehensible. The heels of his palms massaged slow circles into her back, and she squeezed her eyes closed and breathed with her nose mashed against his shoulder, and only then did the tension leave her body, taking with it a sliver of the shock and rage she had suppressed; leashed. She sighed to the release. Perhaps this was better than having him forget...
"I'm sorry..." His voice came through now. "All I thought about was myself..."
He had nothing to say after that. She had nothing to say to him.