Same disclaimers as chapter 1.
AN: Hey guys! New chapter! Hope you guys didn't mind the wait too much! Please enjoy! xxx
Gorgeous. The word reached me as if from very far away, weaving lazily through the space around me before slowly seeping into my ears like water and then fading to silence. I listened for it again. Gorgeous. It wove around me like a veil of satin, embracing me sweetly with its vague familiarity before again dissipating into silence like vapor. Gorgeous. I listened to it fondly now, appreciating the rise and drop of the word, the peaks of the vowels, the lingering of the last consonant.
"Gorgeous."
The noise was closer now, and sharper. And in the same moment, I became aware of color that hadn't been there before. Red. A dull flickering red. I realized what I was looking at. The back of my eyelids. They fluttered weakly as I opened them, my eyes shying away from the brightness of the oil lamp dangling in front of my face.
"Ah, she lives," Clint said to no one in particular, balancing the lamp on his stomach while he pushed back my hair with his free arm. His other one, I realized, was cradling my head. I snapped up, wary of hurting him, muttering a groggy apology.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm—were you calling me gorgeous?"
He grinned crookedly. "I tried 'pain in my ass' and 'life-ruiner' but you didn't respond to either."
I huffed, resisting the urge to smack him because he was already wounded. And even his smile couldn't mask the sweat on his brow or the red seeping his bandage. I stood, taking the lamp to retrieve the first aid kit from the dark. I brought it back to Clint's bedside, but he stopped my hands as I approached him.
"No, you first."
"Clint—"
"You left yourself entirely untreated. That's irresponsible."
"I'm not that bad—"
"Prop me up, Tasha," he said, holding my hands firmly. I pursed my lips before coming around to help him sit up. He drew the kit toward him as I sat beside him on the edge of the mattress. He cleaned the scrapes on the side of my face gently, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. I stared at him anxiously, eager to change his bandage. I noticed a cut on his lip I hadn't seen before.
"Your shirt, Tasha," Clint tugged gently on my tank's hem after spreading ointment on my face and wrapping several cuts on my forearms. I looked down in confusion to see red smudging on the right side of my white tank. I frowned. I didn't remember getting that. I pulled the tank off slowly, wary of my sore muscles as I pulled it over my head, leaving me in my black bra and revealing a nasty scrape on my side decorated with a dark border of purple bruising against my pale skin. Clint frowned, his fingers trailing over the bruises delicately. I had to clench my fists to stop from shivering.
After Clint was finally convinced all my wounds were properly treated, he let me attend to him. When I finished, I laid him back down while I planned to go find us some food, which we hadn't been able to stock our hideout with in time. But he was adamant I stay with him.
"God damn, I've just been shot. Can you just wait until I fall asleep before disappearing again?"
He meant it as a joke, but it stung. I was glad just then that it was dark and he couldn't see my face.
"The world doesn't cater to you, Clint Barton, and neither do I," I replied coolly, even as I laid down next to him, dressed in one of his old shirts, the first article of clothing I'd been able to find.
I heard him chuckle. "Don't I know it."
I squeezed back into the spot I'd occupied the night before, his arm welcoming me unquestioningly. His hand stroked back my hair, and I let my eyes close. Not so much because I was tired, rather than because I couldn't stand to look at him just then. I didn't deserve to look at him. How did he do it? I wondered. How did he keep opening his eyes every day without despising the sight of me? How did he manage to hold me after I'd abandoned him with a kiss still hot on our lips?
Clint's hand continued its rhythmic stroking, but soon slowed before stopping altogether. I opened my eyes to see Clint's face gone slack, his chest rising and falling evenly. I stopped only long enough to snuggle against him for a moment, taking in a deep breath of him and wishing I'd been as brave as him the night I'd disappeared. I allowed myself only a moment before wiggling out from next to him and sneaking up into the small apartment above the wine shop. The wooden stairs creaked often, making me feel vulnerable even though I was alone.
I stumbled into several rooms before finding the small kitchen. The small window above the sparkling white stove showed a bright stream of late morning light. The refrigerator was almost empty, but I found the pantry still fairly stocked. And not surprisingly, there was no shortage of wine. I found two loaves of bread, still whole and unsliced, smelling deliciously of fresh bakery bread, not like the stuff you bought in supermarkets in America. The smell reminded me of my childhood, if I could be said to have one. Among the few things in the fridge was a small tub of cream cheese, which I took along with some dried peaches from the pantry and a few fresh apples I found in a fruit basket on the counter. I tucked a bottle of wine under my arm and headed back downstairs. I considered taking plates and utensils, but it seemed too invasive and personal. And that was saying something, considering I was already stealing food and roosting in the basement.
I waited quietly until sometime around mid-afternoon for Clint to wake up, continually wetting a small terry cloth and placing it on his forehead if he started to feel warm. I sat him up when he woke up and placed the food between us on the mattress. We tore pieces of the bread and spread it with cheese, taking turns to take sips straight from the wine bottle. I left the dried peaches to him and took an apple instead. I'd never been a fan of dried fruit.
"How old do you think this wine is, Nat?" Clint asked when we were halfway through with the bottle, swirling around the remaining contents. I scraped another piece of bread against the cheese.
"I don't know, why?"
"Does wine's age affect its level of alcohol?" he asked, eyeing the wine shrewdly. I looked at him.
"No?"At least, I didn't think so. I took a last bite of apple and let my back fall against the wall behind the mattress.
"Hm. How drunk do you suppose we'd be if we finished this bottle?"
I turned, an eyebrow raised. "You're not serious," I said, even as I felt a corner of my mouth lifting. Clint grinned without looking at me, continuing to swirl the wine.
"I propose we find out," Clint said, taking a gulp and offering the bottle to me, still staring straight ahead. "Unless you're afraid you can't handle your alcohol," he added when I hesitated.
I scowled. "Give me that."
"No, I'm just saying, if animals had religions, I think cats would be atheists. Don't they just look like atheists? They look like atheists," Clint mumbled, his voice catching at strange times in his sentences. He was standing, but hunched over awkwardly, with his cheek pressed to the wall. And he was upside down.
No. I was upside down. I was hanging from a low rafter by the knees. And I wasn't entirely sure how I'd gotten here or how long it had been, but the wine bottle was finally empty and I could swear I could hear a buzzing in my head, like bees has suddenly roosted in my brain. Maybe that was all the blood that had gone to my head.
Across the room, Clint was still muttering about cats when I straightened my knees to dismount. But time seemed to speed up much faster than usual, and before I could get my feet below me, the floor reached up to meet me. I grunted, landing on my back. Clint, who had finally turned around, snorted.
"I—I give that a eleven," he said, falling back on the floor to laugh.
"Fuck off. You sound stumb," I said, only vaguely registering I'd just made up a word in my struggle to decide whether to call him stupid or dumb.
Clint didn't notice. He sat up suddenly, his eyes alight. "You know what we should do? We should, we should just, we should totally just throw wine out the window at people. I mean, we have so much wine, you know? We should share, we should totally share," he laughed, sitting as if in awe at his own generosity. He took two bottles from a crate and ran shakily up the stairs, trailing me behind him.
He slammed into one of the bedrooms, and ran across it to the window that faced the back alley, setting the wine down and trying to wrestle the window open. I stared at him from the bed.
"Clint, maybe that isn't such a good idea?" I said, my head swimming. He finally threw the window open, then came and put both his hands on my shoulders.
"Are you kidding me? It's bullet proof, Tasha," he said. I squinted at him, confused, and thought idly that the phrase he had probably meant was 'fool-proof'. I thought about telling him, but it seemed too much energy to spend.
Clint stuck his head out. "Natasha!" he yelled out into the alley.
"What?"
"Natasha! There are no people!" he yelled before bringing his head back in and looking deflated.
"I'm sorry," I frowned, wanting to hug him. He turned around and I saw a lick of hair on the back of his head sticking up. He looked back out the window and made a sudden screeching noise.
"Natasha, look, a person, look!" he said, dragging me over to see a man taking out his trash. The rest of the alley was empty. Clint reached blindly for a wine bottle and threw it towards the man. His aim was awful, and it exploded on the wall a good five feet above the man. He turned, startled, before starting to curse rapidly. I tackled Clint to the floor, away from the window, but he wriggled below me.
Even from below me, he grabbed the other wine bottle and tossed it out the window, screaming, "God bless America!"
I covered his mouth, hearing more cursing from below. My instincts seemed unaware that I was incredibly drunk, so when I meant to shut the window with my foot, it veered off and brought the curtains crashing down on us instead. Clint stiffened under me, seemingly shocked. I stumbled out of the curtains and finally shut the window, catching a glimpse of the man pacing angrily up and down the alley.
I turned and Clint was crawling to the door, trailing the curtains and hanging bar behind him. The bar got caught on the door, and I heard Clint grunt from around the corner. I peeked around the door frame and saw Clint was sprawled in the hallway, seemingly unable to go any further, a curtain still wrapped around his shoulders. I lay down on top of him, my cheek pressed to his.
"I think cats are atheists, too," I said in way of comfort. Clint sneezed in response.
I sent Clint to put the curtains back while I found us some more food. We were suddenly ravenous again, and my head felt suddenly hallow and all floaty-like.
We met again in the basement and we feasted on granola bars and cooked Spam before falling back on the mattress, exhausted. I felt like one huge noodle, and ten minutes later, the Spam seemed like a bad idea. I could feel the alcohol start to dissipate from my body, but I still felt in danger of throwing it all up.
"Clint," I said, putting my hand on his face to get his attention. Instead of responding, he rolled away, literally rolled off the mattress and across the room until he bumped a wine crate and stopped. I got up on my elbows and stared. The room seemed to stretch suddenly and I thought maybe I wasn't as sober as I thought. I lay back on the mattress, watching the ceiling undulate. I vaguely heard Clint roll back and I felt him lay his head on my chest. He looked up suddenly and kissed me. I stiffened, shocked, but kissed him back almost automatically. He swung himself over me and I wriggled beneath him. Sex, I realized. He wanted to have sex. I frowned against his lips.
"You're drunk," I muttered, pointing my face away.
"So are you. We're both drunk. So, if we're both drunk, it's like it cancels out and we're both sober," Clint grinned. I stared, trying to make sense of his logic.
"No?" I finally said, still feeling confused. But Clint understood and rolled off me, taking his place next to me on the mattress instead. I looked at him, biting my lip, suddenly guilty.
"Sorry," I said, not really knowing why except that I was because I liked having sex with him, sex with him was great, I loved it, I loved his body, I loved us together.
"It's 'kay, 'Asha," he whispered, planting a wet kiss on my forehead with a sappy smile. I faced the ceiling and closed my eyes, suddenly very sleepy. We lay silent for a while.
"You're my scallop," I said suddenly, my eyes popping open at the genius of my own thought. Beside me, Clint laughed, sounding a little more like himself.
"Your scallop?" he repeated, amused. I nodded against his chest.
"Yeah, 'cause look, me, just me, I'm like a shell, you know? Like, that's what I'm like, when you're not there…" I trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. I turned towards the wall. Clint remained silent for a bit before placing his hand lightly on my waist. He turned me onto my back again.
"Go on."
"I'm like all empty, like a shell, right?" I started slowly. "And you, you're like the filling. What belongs there, you know? Like the scallop."
I expected him to laugh, but he seemed stunned into sudden sobriety. I looked at him and he was blank for a few moments before grinning.
"You are so drunk," he pointed out, much like I had. I made an indignant noise and tried rolling onto my side but he stopped me with a chuckle. He nuzzled his nose under my ear and was silent. I stared at the ceiling thoughtfully.
"But shells and their scallops, they belong together, you know?" I said quietly, feeling braver. "Shells shouldn't leave their scallops… I shouldn't have left, I'm sorry, I was a coward, I was scared because I—I" I turned to look at him, emotion welling up inside me. But Clint was already gone, snoring quietly beside me. I deflated, the words dying in my throat. I kissed each of his shut eyelids slowly, feeling more despicable than ever.
I awoke some time later, the basement dark and my head ringing with a dull aching pain. I shivered and turned to see Clint turned away from me, wrapped up to his head in the thin blanket we shared. Or rather, were supposed to share. I couldn't help smiling at his prone figure, one of his arms sprawled wide and the other tucked beneath his pillow. The lick of untidy hair was impossible to ignore while he was face-down, and his sleepy face made him look more boyish that ever. I thought about wrestling the blanket away from him, but my throbbing head decided against it. It wasn't so bad, though. I wiggled closer to him to get under the covers. As if sensing my struggle, he shifted in his sleep, opening a small space beside him. I wedged myself in, immediately enveloped not only by the blanket but by his radiating body heat. It alarmed me at first, and I stopped to make sure he didn't have a fever before lying back down. I settled in, deciding losing the covers to him wasn't very bad at all.
I slept uneasily, the headache never quite leaving me, not even in unconsciousness. My eyes opened, but I didn't see the ceiling of the basement like I expected. I saw a dark stone ceiling, unexpected but undeniably familiar. I didn't think twice about it.
I closed my eyes again and lay still for a while, debating the pros and cons of getting up. As usual, the cons seemed to outweigh the pros, and I seriously considered laying there until someone came to get me or I died. Whichever came first. Anything was better than getting up to face hell. Anything.
But I wasn't going to die, and being found lying in bed would only get me a beating. I sat up slowly, swinging my thin legs off the thin cot. The room was small and dark, made of rough stone. The only source of light came slanting in through small slits in one wall, a miserable imitation of an actual window. The room was cold and contained four bunk beds, each pushed into a corner. And they were all empty. I was late. I was done for.
I stripped from my nightgown quickly, the morning chill coming through the slit windows raising bumps on my skin. I changed into a black long-sleeve, black jeans, and black sneakers, our usual attire. The shirt was a little too big for my skinny frame, making me look even smaller than I was. I ran out of the room, the laces of my untied sneakers flying.
The halls were dark and cold, the only light coming from dim lanterns placed at even intervals on the walls. Up ahead was the glow of the mess hall. Dark figures moved in front of it. I slowed to a fast walk as I approached.
"Tell me, Romanoff, are you important?" a voice asked me from the darkness in rapid Russian. I stopped just inside the circle of light coming from inside the mess hall. Inside, I could see rows and rows of tables filled with girls, each table consisting of a different age, from seven to eighteen. Their quiet whisperings created a dull hum, barely audible over the clinking of plates as they ate.
"Well?"
"Important, ma'am?" I answered, my voice thin and high. She stepped from the darkness, a tall, imposing woman with dark hair and dark eyes, and dark soul, probably. Everyone called her Miss Superior. I didn't know her real name. She came toward me and slapped me with the back of her hand. A high pitched yelp escaped me.
She kneeled so as to be eye-level with me, and turned my chin roughly to face her. "Do you think, Romanoff, that you are so important that you can wake up at any hour you want and stroll into breakfast whenever you please? Should we change our schedules to accommodate you? Would you like that very much?"
I remained silent, my eyes expertly trained on a freckle Miss Superior had on the very middle of the bridge of her nose. It made it seem like I was looking at her eyes without actually doing so. Looking at her eyes made me feel like I was sinking. But not looking would certainly get me another smack across the face.
"You are very lucky, Romanoff, that you have bigger plans for today, or I'd have you scrubbing the halls with a toothbrush. Now get in there," she said, straightening and pushing me toward the entrance. I ran into the hall and to the left, towards the younger tables. I blinked rapidly, a trick I'd learned to keep from crying. I could feel a welt starting to form on the side of my face, but tears, those were suicide.
I grabbed a plate and shoveled food quickly onto it. I knew not much time was remaining for breakfast, but I needed my strength for today. No one greeted me when I sat down. In fact, the girls nearest me tensed, some even scooted away. I didn't care. I focused on eating, and eating only. Miss Superior was right. I had bigger plans today.
A bell was rung and everyone stood and began lining up routinely to drop off their dishes. I stuffed one more bite of bread into my mouth and joined my place in line. I didn't need much to fill up, thankfully. I dropped off my dish and followed the line out. A group of three fourteen-year-olds up ahead looked back at me and sneered. At our last group training session, I'd pinned one of them to the ground in front of everyone. The match was supposed to be a chance to "toughen" younger girls, but really it was just a chance to humiliate them. No one ever expected us to win. I was tiny, so I'd been matched with the thinnest of the girls, but she was still a good foot taller than me. But people often underestimated my speed, and I brought her down. And now she and all her friends hated me. But to me, they were just a few more names on an already very long list.
We were led toward the bathrooms, as usual. We each filed into a room with our own age to undress, which I thought was pointless, given we were thrust into a bathroom with everyone right after. I undressed, past the point of embarrassment anymore. Years of the same thing had made us all immune. When I was completely naked, I walked out into the shower room, which was already steaming. Hot showers were one of the few luxuries we were given. It was a single large room with numerous shower heads. Everyone showered together. No walls, no curtains, no privacy.
I slumped my tiny shoulders over my thin body as I made my way to an open showerhead near the back of the rapidly filling room. I ignored everyone. Everyone ignored me. The usual.
Soap had fallen into my eyes and I was trying to wash it out when I felt myself pushed suddenly into the cold tile of the room's walls. I opened my eyes instinctively, but the sting made me shut them again quickly. I was again pushed, making me lose my balance and fall. I rubbed the soap from my eyes desperately and saw three figures towering over me. The three fourteen-year-olds from before, all of them thin and stark naked.
"Not so tough now, huh, Romanoff?" one of them said, the one I'd beat.
"I can take you down with my eyes closed!" I sneered valiantly. She reached down and slapped me, her wet skin stinging awfully on my already welted cheek. I tried to regain my feet but slipped on the wet tile. Around us, girls looked but then turned away guiltily, no one saying a word or interfering. All at once, I saw the three girls all draw back their legs and then swing them toward me. Two slipped off me harmlessly, but one caught me on the nose and snapped my head back against the tile. My entire head seemed to reverberate, disorienting me with a flashing pain. They kicked again, one catching me in the stomach and the other in the back with terrible stings and leaving me breathless. I wasn't entirely sure how long it lasted, except that the stinging pains kept coming one after another until the bathroom started to empty, our time to shower ending. The showerheads began to flicker off, leaving only uneven dripping. And finally, there was a reprieve in the pain. I opened my eyes to find myself alone in the shower room, my body already starting to bruise.
"I would think, and tell me if I'm wrong but, I would think, today of all days, you might be a little more… focused, Romanoff," Miss Superior hissed when I ran into the training room late, my hair still wet on my back.
"You are right, ma'am," I whispered. The training room was a large circular room where we trained for everything from combat to shooting, given the day. The trainer for my age group, known only as Miss Z, stood behind Miss Superior. She was strict, but nowhere near being as cruel as other trainers.
"Then please explain why you have been late on two different occasions today?"
I held my hands behind my back, making my bruised shoulders ache. My mind raced for a lie that wouldn't get me such a bad beating. But a millisecond of hesitation was all Miss Superior needed to tell that I was lying.
"The truth, if you please, Romanoff. Unlike you, I haven't time to waste."
I still hesitated. Snitching was the highest shame, the most sacred rule every single girl on base wordlessly agreed not to break. I gulped. I was already a pariah for my prodigious skill. What difference did it make?
"Alkaev, Krupin, and Bisset hit me in the bathroom, ma'am."
This didn't seem to be what Miss Superior expected. She raised an eyebrow. "That is a serious accusation, Romanoff. Why would Alkaev, Krupin, and Bisset do that?"
I raised my shirt to show her the dark purple already showing on my side. "Bisset hates me for beating her at our last group training, ma'am." Despite my best efforts, my lip trembled. That, more than anything, seemed to upset Miss Superior. She bore down upon me, again taking my chin.
"Someone will always hate you, Romanoff. Are you going to cry every time someone does?"
I locked my jaw to stop the trembling and balled my tiny fists. "They're fourteen!" I said, louder than I had intended. I controlled myself before adding as a tiny whisper, "I'm only seven, ma'am."
I don't know why I said it. I don't know what I expected. A word of consolation? A promise of justice? A hug?
Miss Superior let go of my chin and straightened. "Then it's time you grew up." She walked around me and left.
Miss Z didn't waste any time on hugs either. She pretended as if the episode hadn't just happened and got straight to business, motioning me toward a table. I approached, looking at my feet.
"Do you know what this is, Romanoff?"
I looked up and felt like rolling my eyes if I didn't know I'd get whipped for it. "A gun, ma'am," I told her. Any seven year old boy in the world could tell her that. Then again, I wasn't a boy and this wasn't something I'd learned from a video game. She set it down and moved on, showing me several more guns, a few knives, a couple of poisonous darts, and a single pill.
"Do you know what this is?" she repeated for the millionth time, holding up the tiny orange capsule.
"Instant death, ma'am. I'm to take it only if I'm compromised," I recited. She set it down, satisfied.
"Well, you know what all of these are. And I've seen you use them all well enough in training. Pick the weapons you are most comfortable with."
I didn't hesitate. I took the smallest of the guns, the one that fit in my tiny hand most comfortably, two knives, all the darts, and of course, the pill. Miss Z nodded.
"Go get ready in the launch room. A taxi will pick you up at seven. You will find your way back on your own…" she paused. I looked up at her. "Godspeed, Romanoff."
Godspeed, may God cause you to succeed. I bit back a snort. If God cared about me at all, I'd be killed tonight and never come back. But God had never favored me. I knew that now.
I dressed in our usual black attire, the only difference being the weapons strapped to my body underneath it all. I put on my black jacket, and carefully placed the pill in the tiny pocket on the inside lining specifically for it.
I went to lunch all geared up. Usually, people would wish an initiate good luck on her first mission when they saw her geared. There was always the underlying thought that they might never be seen again. No one wished me good luck.
I ate and went back to the launch room. At seven, my taxi arrived and I boarded it wordlessly, balling my fists to keep my hands from shaking. I was dropped off outside a large house and I was alone. I took a breath to calm down and started without thinking, following each step outlined for me as I had memorized them. Everything was too easy. Left, right, left, left. Tree, roof, window, vents. Right, right, left. I felt heavier than usual with all the weapons strapped to me. But the weight kept me moving. Stopping made me feel like they would start dragging me down to drown.
I didn't know his name. I didn't know why he was given this sentence. I didn't know if he had a job or a family or a dog he really liked. All I knew was his face and all I was told was that he was a bad man. I crept into his room silently, and he was right where I was told he would be. He lay sleeping silently in a ridiculously large bed that seemed to force me to remember the soreness in my back thanks to my thin cot. Across the room, a large ornate mirror faced me. I looked at it, momentarily distracted. I couldn't see much, only dark shadows. But my white face stood out like a light bulb in the darkness. I was tiny in the jacket, my legs nothing more than toothpicks. My dark red curls lay wildly on my shoulders. And my face was a pale ghost, my enormous green eyes overpowering every other feature and making my proportions seem slightly off. I was just a tiny little kid. A tiny little kid with a gun in her tiny white hand. It looked odd, out of place, unnatural. I'd held it plenty of times, but this time, it was heavier. It weighed me down with responsibility, seeming to ask if I would really go through with this. Would I? I could leave now. Disappear. I looked at my reflection, seeming to ask the girl in the mirror if it was possible. I saw myself grimace. No, I'd be found. I'd be found and dragged back and punished. I looked away from the mirror. There was no turning back.
I sneaked to the other side of the bed, feeling my face get hot. The man slept on, peaceful, completely unaware. I extended my arm, aiming for his ear. I faltered. This wasn't a video game. This wasn't practice. This wasn't training with a dummy. This was reality and he was a real, living, breathing person with maybe a job, and maybe a family, and maybe a dog he really liked. I couldn't do this. I couldn't. The gun seemed to grow heavier and heavier, bent on lowering my arm. I blinked rapidly. One deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three deep breaths. I held in the last breath to steady myself and closed my eyes.
The shot echoed louder than anything I'd ever heard before, shaking every bit of my tiny body to its very core.
I gasped, sitting up and causing Clint's arm to fly off me and hit the ground. My heart raced, my breath caught, and it wasn't even two seconds before the tears erupted, raw and unstoppable, and my chest heaved with sobs that seemed to stretch my ribs to their breaking point. My hands shook, one feeling heavy as if it still held that gun, and my entire body aching as if I'd been beaten in the bathroom only yesterday. Clint was startled awake when his arm slapped the ground, and he jumped awake, alarmed. He pulled a gun I hadn't even known he'd been hiding from his calf strap, half-covered me with one arm and scanned our surroundings with the gun outstretched in the other. It took him a moment to realize we were alone before he let the gun drop and turned to me.
"What is it? What is it?" he begged me, pushing back my hair from my sweaty forehead and bringing me to him as best as he could with his wounds. His arms around me, more than anything, made me feel like being taped back together. I tried to catch my breath, but ragged hiccups kept jerking out of me.
"My—my first, my first, my first!" I yelled, my voice screeching awfully. He shook his head, confused.
"Your first what? What is it? Tasha, Tasha, please!" He began rocking me, holding my head to his chest.
"My first—my first k-kill," I gasped, hot tears making my face sticky. He seemed to sag under the weight of understanding. Of course he understood. He knew. He had experienced it too.
"Oh, Tasha," he sighed, tightening his grip. We were silent for a long time except for my raspy breathing.
"How old were you?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Clint continued combing through my hair with his hands. He didn't need to ask what I was talking about.
"Sixteen. Special circumstance. It was just supposed to be recon. There were three of us and our supervisor. We were given away and our supervisor was attacked. So I took her weapon and defended us. Three dead. I didn't even think about it," he said tonelessly. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine sixteen-year-old Clint, a lankier version of the 20-year-old I'd first met, taking up responsibility without being asked, to defend his group. It wasn't hard. Of course he would.
"I was seven."
I felt his muscles tense around me as a fresh wave of sobs overtook me. "Oh, Clint, I was seven. Just seven. And there was blood. So much blood. They never tell you about how much blood there's gonna be. It was everywhere!" I clenched my fists in my hair, trying desperately to see something else, anything else, except all the blood in my memory. In his hair, on his pillows, on the thick plush comforters, dripping from his ear onto the glistening hardwood floors.
"It's okay, it's okay, it's over. You're here now, and you don't have to go back, okay? You never have to go back. You can be here with me. We'll stay here. You can stay here with me, okay?" he said in a rush, tilting my face to look at him with careful hands.
"You won't make me go back?" I asked shakily, a shadow of my seven-year-old voice, thin and high. A childish question born from a childish fear I thought I'd forgotten.
"No! No, never!" he said, kissing my forehead forcefully. "Never, you hear me? You're staying here."
He lay me back down gently, cradling my head with one arm and draping the other across my body. I shivered even within his sphere of warmth. I wasn't shivering from the cold. We lay still and silent for a long time, Clint's hand never pausing in its repetitive route through my hair. I would be still for a time, and then another shiver would crawl up my spine, from the small of my back to my shoulders, and Clint would know I was still awake. I didn't need to look at him to know he was frowning.
He started talking suddenly, his voice a quiet murmur in my ear. "Did I ever tell you about the time I punched a shark?"
I wiggled a little to look up at him and shook my head. He grinned, pushing back my hair. "Well… it all started with hardcore deep-sea fishing…"
He talked quietly, but with animation in his voice, and told me stories of his youth. Days that were important to him, silly things he had thought about as a kid, stupid decisions of his adolescence that made good stories years later. He talked and talked, always brushing my hair back, until finally, I drifted back off to sleep.
I slept calmly but it seemed to me a very short time when I woke up. I opened my eyes slowly, warily, afraid of what I might see. To my relief, I saw the familiar brick wall of the wine cellar. I blinked slowly, enjoying a gentle stroking of my hair. I looked up and saw Clint sitting up against the wall, my hair fanned out next to him. He stroked it gently, piece by piece, his eyes a bit vacant but a small smile pulling his mouth.
"Clint?"
He jumped, seeming to snap from his reverie, a lock of my hair still in his hand. He dropped it suddenly, offering me a sheepish smile.
"Uh, good morning. You, uh, you have soft hair," he said lamely, refusing to meet my eyes. I looked down, also feeling sheepish for no apparent reason.
"Thank you." I stretched slowly as I began to sit up. "Why are you up so early?"
"Oh, well, you had a rough night, so I went to get us breakfast."
I turned and noticed for the first time the small napkin set out in front of Clint with two cups of coffee and two breakfast sandwiches lying on little coffee shop bags.
"This one's yours," he said, handing one of the large cups to me. I sniffed it hesitantly; I was picky about coffee. "Oh, don't insult me," Clint said when he noticed. "I know your coffee order, I'm not an imbecile. Cappuccino with two shots of espresso. And you like to sprinkle vanilla powder on top when you think no one's looking."
I looked at him, wide-eyed, as the delicious smell of vanilla wafted up from my coffee. We'd gotten coffee together plenty of times, and of course I knew his order. Black, but drowned in sugar. Seven packets, to be exact. I'd just never really considered that he'd been paying attention, too.
I took a sip, and it was perfect. I smiled slowly. "Thank you, Clint." He surprised me by leaning over and kissing my temple gently.
We ate quietly, both our hangovers keeping us silent and slow. I caught Clint giving me wary looks various times before he finally asked, "How are you feeling?"
I took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee before replying. "Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Just fine." I finished my sandwich, rolled up the wrapper to throw away, and slowly lay on my side with my head on Clint's lap. Partially to be close to him, but mostly to appease him into silence. It didn't work.
"You were really upset last night…" he began cautiously. I blinked slowly. "Would more vanilla in your coffee make you talk? Because I stole the dispenser, just in case," he continued, pulling what looked like a salt shaker from his coat pocket. Instead of salt, however, it was labeled "vanilla" and had white powder inside. I couldn't help grinning. I sat up and Clint offered it to me with his most boyish smile. I closed my hand around his, slipping the makeshift vanilla shaker out from between them and letting my fingers intertwine with his. His eyes darted from our hands to my face, obviously surprised and a bit confused. I wasn't usually big on displays of affection. But I needed his touch to keep me from the nightmares if he wanted me to talk about them.
"The past… never stops haunting me. I used to think I'd forgotten, but… well, I guess not. I don't forget anything. I remember when I was a girl. I remember all the faces of people I've met. I remember every person I've killed." I put my head back on his lap, and he started playing with my hair automatically.
"When did they start? The nightmares?" he asked tentatively. I looked at him, debating on how much to tell him. He looked back at me with clear eyes, open and accepting. I knew he would believe whatever and however much I told him. He wouldn't push. Of course he wouldn't. But I knew he, more than anyone, deserved the truth. I closed my eyes.
"When I left you."
There was silence. I kept my eyes closed. I felt only the continued stroking of my hair. He cleared his throat, and I chanced to look at him through my lashes. He wasn't looking at me, but his eyes were troubled. His mouth opened, as if on the edge of speech, but closed it again with a sigh.
"I know I've asked a million times, but I know I'll ask a thousand more if I have to. I can't help it…" he paused. "Why did you leave?"
He finally moved to meet my eyes, but I looked away. I thought of last night and wondered how much he remembered. Obviously not much. I bit my lip, guilty that I'd only been capable of telling him while I was in a drunken stupor and he was passed out on my shoulder.
"I was scared because…" I cleared my throat and forced my eyes to meet his. "Because I care about you. Everywhere I'd ever been in my life, I'd never cared about anyone. I never had to."
I sat up, my hair pulling from between his fingers. I looked blankly at the brick walls, feeling the weight of Clint's gaze on my back.
"And then… and then you show up. You show up and whisk me away from the only life I'd ever known because somehow, you made me trust you in seconds. Seconds! And you made me care and I wasn't used to caring and it was like being twice as heavy as normal because I had to worry me and you now and I didn't know how to deal with it because suddenly there was no me, there was only you, only you mattered, you were what I had to protect and take care of, and I was scared."
The words flowed out of me in an unbroken train, only allowing me to catch my breath when it was over. I put my head in my hands, my blonde mane falling over my face like a curtain. I felt Clint come over to sit by me, his warm hand covering the small of my back gently. He pushed back some of my hair behind my ear and laid his head on my shoulder.
"You know I forgive you, right?" he said into the silence. I didn't look up. "I was so… pissed off at first. You…" he gave an breathy laugh, "you're a real blow to the ego, Natasha Romanoff… But the—the moment I saw you, I forgave you. I had to, I—"
I looked up and pressed my mouth to his hungrily, swallowing the remainder of his words, breathing in his forgiveness, wishing that would make it any easier to forgive myself. He seemed shocked but responded instantly, his other hand framing my face. I pushed into him, my hands coming up to wind around him. He twisted his body to better face me but broke away suddenly, his eyes wide, a gasp escaping him. I looked at him, alarmed, his face reminding me horribly of all those times I'd seen him die in my nightmares. Clint twisted away from me, his hand grasping his side.
"Clint, what is it?" I looked down and saw red staining his shirt, spreading out under his hand. "Shit!"
I forced him to lay down and ripped open his shirt, revealing his bleeding bullet wound freshly opened. I sighed with relief, quickly moving to treat it. I'd half expected to find Clint's chest torn open in another nightmare.
I wiped away his blood and cleaned his wound again, ignoring the red stains on my hands. Clint remained silent, only staring at me. "Are you okay?" I asked when I finished patching him back up. He smiled up at me.
"I'm perfect. I did like this shirt, though," he said, looking down at the tattered remains of his torn shirt. I wiped my hands nervously.
"Sorry. You scared me."
He grinned wider. "Because you care about me." I rolled my eyes, getting to my feet. "Because I'm your scallop!" I whipped to look at him.
"You remember that?" I asked, my voice uncharacteristically high. He smiled crookedly.
"I wouldn't have allowed myself to forget that. I quite like drunk Tasha."
I turned and tried not to run from the basement, my face flaming. If only he knew.
I kept Clint resting for most of the next couple of weeks, much to his annoyance. I didn't let him exert himself much, and I never let him go out when I ran errands. He began to stick mostly upstairs, looking for ways to relieve his boredom. But he was weaker than he let on; I could tell. Going up the stairs winded him sometimes, though he pretended otherwise, and I would sometimes catch him clutching his wounded side when he thought I wasn't around to see. But whenever I asked if he was alright, he would puff out his chest and say he was fine.
After a while, I'd come upstairs too. The basement was dreary alone. And I didn't like to leave Clint by himself after he'd opened his wound again having an accident while skating on the hardwood hallways in his socks. He still refused to tell me exactly what had happened but I had a hunch he'd slipped down the stairs given by the amount of banging I'd heard.
I called base several times, mostly when Clint was asleep, to check in. They told me first thing our job here was done, but I didn't want to hurry Clint into another mission. I knew Clint would jump at the first opportunity, and that was the problem. This wasn't about taking care of himself. It was about devoting himself to his job, to taking care of others. Not thinking of the individual, but the whole. That was Clint. But I was me, and my responsibility was Clint. I could give less of a fuck about "the whole." But Clint thought differently and it was making him angsty.
"Tasha?" he said one afternoon, his tone giving away what he was going to say. He'd tried plenty of times already. I looked up from the book I'd been reading. We were in the same room he'd thrown the wine bottles from.
"Yes, Clint?"
"Do you want tacos? I feel like some tacos."
I raised an eyebrow. "Tacos? Clint, we're in the capital of Hungary, where are you gonna find tacos?"
Clint shrugged, coming over to lay next to me on the bed, letting his hand run lazily up and down my leg. I saw him eye me hungrily, but pretended I hadn't seen when he looked up to meet my eyes. We hadn't had sex in three weeks. The first time he'd tried, he ended up pulling a muscle in his back, so I'd kept him at bay, worrying he'd get hurt again. I'd never seen him in worse shape. But I knew his ego was hurting more than anything. I wish he knew I missed it as much as he did. His slightest touch made my pulse jump.
"Well, it won't be easy, but there's gotta be a taco joint somewhere. Bit of an adventure. Nice little look around the city."
"Clint, I—" I began, and he rolled his eyes at my tone.
"Ugh, Tasha, you're not my mom. Lighten up, I'm fine," he said testily, turning to sit on the edge of the bed.
"You're injured, Clint! I'm just worried ab—"
"Don't be, I'm perfectly okay!"
"You break a sweat coming up the stairs!"
He groaned. "That was one time, and it was weeks ago! I'm fine now! You're being selfish!"
"Selfish?" I gasped. "Selfish? I'm taking care of you! Selfish how?"
"Keeping me holed up here! Not doing our jobs. We should have been gone by now!"
"Well, no one planned on you getting shot!"
He stood and I did too, feeling irrationally enraged. How could he be mad? I was trying to take care of him! He couldn't take that away from me.
"Well, I did," he said, "and I'm fine, so why are we just wasting our time here? Wasting time, that's selfish. Hiding here, that's selfish. Selfishness isn't part of our manifesto."
Our manifesto. The set of beliefs agents were supposed to uphold. There he went again, caring more about the work he was supposed to be doing than himself, as the manifesto claimed. The whole above the individual.
"Yeah, well, taking care of you is part of mine!" I screamed angrily at him. He faltered, as if confused on what to throw back at me, but he suddenly jumped over the bed between us and rammed into me. I grunted, pushed back by his weight, my feet tripping over themselves as I tried to regain my balance. He took my face brusquely, continuing to push me until we slammed into the wall, and pressed his lips hungrily to mine. I responded instinctively, forgetting that this might very well injure him even more. My lips opened for his without hesitation, letting his tongue trace my mouth before meeting mine. He leaned down to hook his hands under my knees and pushed me up easily, as if to showcase his supposed restored strength. I wound my legs around his back and his hands slid down to cup my butt and press me to him.
My hands, previously busy with pulling his hair, slid down his back to pull up his shirt insistently. When it caught on his shoulders, I hugged myself to him so he could raise his arms and take it off. I gripped his strong shoulders hungrily, the muscle beneath rippling like waves. I trailed kisses from his mouth, down his neck, and onto his collarbone, leaving red smudges of my lipstick on his warm skin.
He wound one strong arm around me and had zero trouble lifting my thin v-neck from the hem. I lifted my arms, reluctant to remove them from his skin, while he tore the shirt off and flung it away. He pressed me with enough pressure to the wall to hold me while he ran his hands up to unhook my bra. I wiggled out of it and he let his hands rove over my breasts with an almost boyish amusement. His lips again found mine and he kissed me deeply, stealing my breath and making me dizzy.
My hands slid over his stomach to unbutton his jeans. I fumbled with it for a minute, pushing them down as far as I could reach. Clint whirled me around suddenly, making my head spin for a moment, and dropped me gracelessly on the bed. He bent over me to suck on one nipple and then the other. I groaned, holding his head there while his hands worked on my own jeans. When he'd gotten them far enough down, I kicked them off myself. I linked my arms around his neck as he straightened, pulling me up into a sitting position on the bed. My hands slid down to his hips and I pulled down his jeans and boxers at once. I got onto my knees, only my underwear left to clothe me, my lips finding his as my hand closed around his penis. I rubbed it quickly, not wasting any time with gentleness. We were both beyond the point of tenderness. We were rabid and we were powerful and we were hungry.
He kissed me with force now, groaning into my mouth, his strong arms around my back squeezing me to him. His force made me involuntarily squeeze his penis and he gasped, biting down on my shoulder. He dropped me back on the bed and began fumbling with a condom I wasn't entirely sure where he'd gotten while I pushed down my underwear. He pulled me up just as I kicked them off only to turn me around and bend me over the bed. I gripped the sheets, my heart beating in throat in anticipation. Clint placed one hand on my hip and the other crawled up my back into my hair, making me tremble. And he slammed into me. Without timidity or hesitation. I let out a startled scream, my back arching and somehow pushing him in further. My vision seemed to go out of focus for a moment while he pulled out and pushed back in again, up to his hilt. Again and again, in a rapid rocking motion. I moaned loudly as he bent over me, the hand that had been on my hip sliding under me to cup my breast. He groaned into my ear with each push, making me wetter with each passing breath. The hand Clint had in my hair tightened suddenly, pulling my head back. I moaned, biting my lip to keep from crying out. And still, I found I didn't mind. I only wanted him to pull harder, to push harder, to make me his harder.
His pace quickened as he straightened again, both his hands drawing back to my hips, pushing me harder onto him. My hands curled into claws around the sheets, desperate for something to anchor me. But there was nothing to hold me, and I was adrift on a sea of Clint, his breath loud in my ears and his scent leaving me in a daze. I looked down at the rumpled bed sheets, the thrumming in my ears getting louder and louder in time with my quickening pulse. I closed my eyes, fighting to catch my breath. I felt myself drowning in a deep, deep sea, fighting for breath, but for once, I wasn't scared. I knew I was making my way to the surface. Climbing. Two bodies rocking together into one single wave of motion. Climbing. His hands holding me anchored. Climbing. My breath caught like I was choking for one infinite moment before I exploded above the surface of the sea. I burst with ecstasy, like breathing the first gasp of air after drowning. My eyes popped open but I saw nothing. A spasm ran through my body, sending delicious little shivers to every last extremity of my body. Everything seemed too bright to look at for one blinding moment. I gasped desperately, my back arching and Clint catching me and straightening me up. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, now holding me in his lap. I clutched at his hips to keep me steady while he continued to knock into me, now by thrusting his hips upward. I gasped with each push, one of my hands reaching up to wind in his hair as he groaned into my ear, bending to suck where my neck met my shoulder. Finally, I heard his breath catch, and a deep moan rumbled from deep within him. The hands on my hips fluttered before tightening, and he fell back on the bed limply, pulling me on top of him. Both our bodies lifted in time with our deep breaths. He let one of his hands trace across my soft belly, up over my breast and back down again as far as it could reach. The other continued resolutely gripping the inside of my left thigh.
"Ugh, I missed that," he groaned, pushing away my hair and kissing my neck on the spots where he had already left marks. "I missed that," he whispered again, his drifting hand running down the middle of my body to the inside of my legs where he was still inside me. I moaned softly, my muscles tightening automatically around him.
"I think you just fucked me," I whispered, studying the ceiling and trying not to shiver from his hand's constant dancing on my skin. He moved under me.
"What?"
"You just fucked me. You fucked me," I said. He remained silent, but I could imagine his face, fresh with sex and twisted with confusion. "I mean, we've had sex plenty of times. I like to think you've even made love to me a few times, too. But this is the first time you've ever fucked me. Just bent me over like an animal and fucked the hell out of me."
He remained silent, thoughtful. "Sorry?" he finally said. I sat up delicately, and let him slide out of me as I stood. I turned and climbed back on the bed to straddle him, sitting on his hips. I laid down on him, stomach to stomach, and kissed him deeply, gratefully.
"No. Don't be. It was hot. You should fuck me more often," I whispered into his ear. Down below me, I felt his length pop up a bit and smiled against his lips. "One round at a time, though." He grinned too, bringing his arms up to lay his head on.
"Told you I was fine."
"You certainly are," I whispered, sliding teasingly over his still half-hard erection. His grin turned into more of a hungry grimace as he stretched up to pull me down into a kiss.
I extracted myself from his grip sometime later to take a shower, my body feeling much lighter. I waited until the water was scalding and the small bathroom was fogged up before entering myself. I washed each part of my body slowly, luxuriously, feeling like pampering myself. I wound my fingers through my hair and massaged my head for a good while before rinsing. When I finally got out, I took extra time to rub lotion onto each separate part of my body until I was soft and smooth everywhere. I untangled my hair without hurry before pinning it up in a messy bun atop my head. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I felt brand-new. Squeaky clean and recently satisfied. I changed into clean clothes, an airy blouse and jean shorts, before going back to find Clint. I didn't find him upstairs so I made my way to the basement. When I entered, my bubble of bliss seemed to suddenly pop and deflate.
Clint was standing in the middle of the room, in jeans but still shirtless, holding our agent mobile phone to his ear. He was pacing in short circuits, saying "uh-huh" and "yeah" every so often, but the muscles in his back were tense, his shoulders tight with strain. I watched him with defeat. I knew this would come. I couldn't keep him here forever, nursing him back to health and having sex with him every other day now that he was better. That would have been too pleasant and I wasn't that lucky. He hung up the phone finally and threw it on the mattress. He seemed to notice for the first time that I was in a room. I expected anger, because he'd surely found out that I'd been putting off getting a new mission to keep him holed up here, but he smiled, coming over to kiss me again, this time sweeter and calmer.
"I have to go," he said plainly when we parted.
"I figured. Who did you call?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully even. Clint nuzzled himself into my hair just below my ear.
"No one. Coulson called me. Something's going down in New Mexico."
I sighed. "When do we leave?" I felt the hands Clint had on my back tighten. He pulled away to look at me.
"They, uh… Ah… They only want… me."
I stared at him, the words not quite making sense. "Only you?" I repeated, still not understanding.
Clint looked around, uncomfortable. "I don't know why. But they said they only required me. I have to leave before this time tomorrow."
I gulped, not being able to think of anything besides the injustice, because I'd only just gotten Clint back. Clint framed my face delicately with both his hands, pressing his lips softly to the tight line that my mouth had become. I closed my eyes, trying to remember the feeling. Because I wasn't lucky. I'd never been lucky. The first good thing to happen to me was being ripped away. I'd finally found my separate peace and it was being ripped away.
"I'll come back to you before you know it," he whispered. I locked my jaw and looked up at him, nodding resolutely.
"Right."
"Just… don't disappear on me again, okay?" His eyes met mine imploringly. I nodded again. "Promise? You promise? Promise me you won't disappear again!" he said, his voice climbing with urgency.
"I—I promise!" I replied quickly.
He pressed his lips to my forehead, his hand tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. He didn't understand that I couldn't run anymore. It had cost me all I was to run the first time. And now that I'd had him back, I'd lost the fortitude to ever take myself away from him again. I hadn't the strength nor the will nor the desire. I was his entirely. It was a strange feeling, a beautiful wickedness. A blinding, incendiary, agonizing, but beautiful, kind of wicked.