A/N: Sorry it's been so long! Thank you for your feedback. Several reviewers said that Clint and Natasha have been fighting for too long. Sorry! It's easy to get carried away with things like that so please review and let me know what I can do better. I had a little trouble getting started with this chapter, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.
If the art thing doesn't click with you, please stick with it, it's really short. Also, if you're interested, try google-imaging the paintings Natasha's looking at. Disclaimer: That said, I have basically no knowledge of art history or criticism and I found them all with google and wikipedia. Enjoy!
Natasha looked up from her book, pinching the bridge of her nose. Over the past several hours, three of the thick volumes Fury had given her had migrated into the 'finished' pile, and she was halfway through the fourth.
"So, Agent Young," she said.
"Don't you have reading to do?"
"I think I deserve a break."
"But what you want is an explanation."
"Maybe."
"I don't have to justify myself to you, Natasha."
"You didn't tell Young I was your partner on this mission. Why?"
"Her name is Clara, and it never came up."
"That's not true."
"I didn't think she would believe me if I told her there was nothing between us."
"Do you blame her? After all," Natasha chided, "it's a lie."
"I could have told her that I was over you."
"That's a lie too."
"Someone thinks a little highly of herself today," Clint chuckled. It was nice to see Natasha smile, even if it was at his expense.
"Oh really, then why do you have a rebound girl?"
"Clara's not a rebound girl!"
"Yes, and you like miss hot-young-and-blonde for her personality."
Clint paused, considering his next words carefully. "That's why I like you." He had meant it to come out in a playful way, bet his voice grew soft as he spoke.
"I'd better get back to this if I'm going to finish before we land," she said, holding up Art Movements of the Nineteenth Century. "I think I'll go sit in the cockpit."
He nodded and she stood up, stretching to relieve the tension in her limbs that came from sitting on the hard steel floor. Clint was turning back to his own file when he spied the little black pouch hooked between the page. "Tasha, wait," he called.
She turned back to him, hiding a smile. "Yes?"
She waited for him to speak, but he didn't. He was studying her face. "What?" he asked, unable to place her expression.
"Nothing," she lied. She hadn't heard that nickname in a long time.
"Here," said Clint. He decided not to push the subject. "This must have been put in my things by accident. Only you need it." He took the little pouch and tossed it to her. Natasha plucked it from the air with ease.
"Coulson must have made a mistake," she said. They exchanged a knowing glance before Natasha turned toward the cockpit. Neither one had to say a word to know they were sharing the same thought: Coulson didn't make that kind of mistake.
As he watched her go, Clint wanted to throw his head back and laugh. He could just picture Coulson's smug face as he tucked the rings carefully into Clint's file, hoping the exchange would force a conversation. Whatever mysterious task he was performing on the helicarrier right now, Clint was sure this moment was in the back of Coulson's mind. He would be wondering all day exactly how his little setup had payed off. He was a sneaky one, forcing them to talk, and hopefully confront . . . things. Maybe Coulson would have wanted a bit more in terms of conversation, but Clint smiled. It had gone rather well.
Up in the cockpit, Natasha nodded to Agent Patterson and took a seat in the copilot's chair. She let her back sink in to the padded fabric and felt her muscles uncoil. The ocean glittered below as the jet sped along.
Natasha returned to her book. Her eyes skimmed over the words without processing them. Her mind was elsewhere. After she reset the paragraph for the fifth time, she gave up. Flipping randomly through the glossy pages, she let her mind wander through the paintings.
Her eyes caught first on Sargent's Carnation Lily, Lily Rose, the white gowned girls lighting lanterns with an innocence Natasha had never known. Wishing to forget what she had never had, she moved on, and found herself instead stuck on something she had lost. As the thick pages flowed by under her fingertips, a splash of muted color and a familiar pose caught her attention. Flipping back a page, she found Degas' ballerinas stretching out at their barre. How long it had been since she had danced that way.
Before she could be dragged too far into her past, Natasha willed herself to turn the page. Passing seascapes and water lilies, she found herself looking at Klimt's gold-leafed renditions of things she would never have.
It was truly fascinating how a life, even one as mangled and twisted as hers, could be reflected in all of these paintings like a hall of mirrors. This must be what fascinated Charlotte Welch so much. Then again, Miss Welch probably saw a much prettier picture.
Done with her little venture into the paintings, Natasha flipped back to where she had begun, prepared to dive back into the text. She stopped though, looking back at another Sargent painting. In this particular shard of glass, Natasha saw not what she had never had, or what she had lost, or what she would never find, she saw what she was. Staring back at her was a pale beauty in a long black dress. A powerful woman with her strength and beauty on display, yet hiding at the same time. Madame X, she was called, Natasha noted from the cation beneath the image. Natasha wanted to look away, but something held her to the painting. Wasn't this her? A woman with a thousand names, constantly on display and. . . Natasha studied the woman's face, turned away even as the tight bodice of her evening gown faced the viewer, as if she was wondering if there was something more than this. As if she was hiding.
Natasha slammed the hardcover volume closed with a sharp clap. It was time for a different book.
"That was fast," said Clint as Natasha rose out of the copilot's chair. "Not even you read that quickly."
"This one wasn't very helpful," she said tossing it back on the floor and picking up Rebirth: Art of the Early and High Renaissance.
The plane's intercom system came to life with a ding. "ETA to Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport: 45 minutes," said Agent Patterson.
"Looks like library time is over," Clint said. They spent the remainder of the flight reviewing last minute details, and changing into their civilian clothes.
"Ready?" Clint said as he pulled on a blue stripped dress shirt. Natasha smoothed her pencil skirt and came over.
"Always," she said, buttoning the last few buttons and straightening Clint's collar.
They grabbed the two bags that would be posing as their carry-on luggage. Natasha slipped the engagement ring on her finger just before they touched down on the runway.
"Thanks for the lift Patterson," said Clint as the bay door lowered onto the runway.
"After that flight over Sarajevo? Any time," said the pilot. "Here's Parker. Good luck."
A man in the orange safety vest and headphones of a runway worker approached the plane in a motorized baggage cart.
"Mr. Griggs, Miss Welch," said the man.
"Good to see you Parker," said Clint.
"The flight you two are supposedly on landed twenty minutes ago. Hop on."
Clint and Natasha climbed into the the back cart. It rumbled over the concrete as they sped toward the commercial terminal of the airport. They wound through the massive white commercial jets parked on the runway. Behind them, another plane took off in a whirr of spinning turbans. Agent Parker stopped the cart beside the gleaming airport building. They waited patiently as the commercial jet spun slowly into position beside the boarding terminal.
"Flight 226 to Budapest from JFK International Airport," said Agent Parker. "I hope you two enjoyed it."
"The mechanics went alright?" Clint asked.
"See for yourself."
The corrugated metal boarding passage began to stretch toward the plane.
"Parker. . ?" said Clint hesitantly. The other agent smirked.
With the screech of grating metal, the walkway jolted to a halt.
The radio clipped to Agent Parker's belt crackled to life.
"What's happening?" a harsh voice growled in Hungarian.
"The walkway still isn't responding," replied a technician in the control booth.
"Try again!"
The two hydraulic arms pulled at the metal passageway. The ear-grating shriek of metal cut through the hum of the tarmac.
"The controls are not responding," the technician crackled over the radio.
"I though you fixed it!" barked a third voice.
"So did we. It's been malfunctioning all morning."
"Well fix it now!" The third voice paused, then continued, "Get me the manual ramp. We need these people off the plane."
"Nice work, Parker," said Clint. "I hope you didn't do too much damage."
"Nah, they'll have it running by tomorrow morning. But in the meantime, here's your window."
A crew in bright reflective vests hustled into view, wheeling a tall metal staircase between them. Positioning it before the plane's door, they locked the wheels in place.
Agent Parker turned the keys, and the baggage cart's engine whirred back to life. Clint and Natasha ducked as he circled the plane, the tail of empty luggage bins trailing behind them.
"You're clear," said Agent Parker.
Clint and Natasha hopped quickly from the cart. Parker killed the engine and followed behind them as workers began loading luggage into the bins.
"No passengers near the luggage!" he barked loudly enough for the nearest departing passengers to hear him.
"But we're right here!" Natasha whined. "I can see my suitcase; it's right there."
"No! You get your bags inside with everyone else." As he spoke, Parker drove the couple toward the stream of passengers.
An airport official in with a stern face approached them. "Is there a problem here?"
"Yes, yes there is," said Natasha, sticking her chin out for emphasis. "I can see my luggage sitting in that cart, and your employee won't let me fetch it."
"I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am, but all luggage must be catalogued before being returned to passengers. You may retrieve your things on the baggage claim inside our facility."
"This is ridiculous," she protested.
"If you would kindly join your fellow travelers. . ." he said with a lavish gesture of his hand.
"Come on, baby. Let it go," said Clint, gently coaxing Natasha toward the line of people.
"Fine."
"Americans," the official groaned behind them.
Arm in arm, Clint and Natasha followed the stream of people into the airport. The gleaming white building bustled with travelers. Some sat exhausted on the long benches, trying to entertain themselves as they awaited departure. Others hustled through the crowd, their luggage rolling behind them as they raced toward their flight. The smells cleaning products and fast food mixed in the air. A woman's mechanical voice read out monotone boarding calls and flight numbers over the loudspeaker.
"So that's the kind of couple we are, huh, Charlotte?"said Clint as waited by the baggage claim.
"For now," Natasha teased. "At least we caught their attention."
Clint shook his head. "That man won't forget you any time soon. And I'm sure he and several spectators would happily confirm our attendance on the plane, or at least, or departure from it." Shield would cover the rest.
They retrieved the suitcases they had memorized from the mission filed and made their way to the exit.
"How was the flight dear?" Clint asked as they walked, rolling suitcases rumbling behind them.
"I must admit it was much better than I had anticipated."
"Expecting more turbulence?"
"Subtle," she quipped.
They were just passing the line of liveried drivers hailing their clients by the doors when they hesitated. A familiar face held up a white paper sign with the name GRIGGS scrawled across it. Agent Parker's face looked sweaty and nervous beneath his black chauffeur's cap.
"I didn't know you'd arranged this!" said Natasha, purposely perking up her voice.
"I though it would be a nice surprise," Clint lied.
"You must be Mr. Griggs," said Agent Parker as they approached.
"Yes, Sir."
"Come with me."
They followed Parker outside to the long driveway that curled into the airport. He stowed their luggage in a black town car, and held the door for the couple before sliding into the driver's seat himself.
"What's happened?" Natasha asked calmly after the doors were shut.
Agent Parker adjusted his rear-view mirror, looking at her in the reflection. "The real Sebastian Grigs."
"He isn't due to arrive until tomorrow."
"It looks he was more spooked than we originally thought. He bumped up his flight from the States up to this morning."
"When will he land?" asked Clint.
"Half an hour ago."