A combination crack!fic and piece of romantic fluff, for sgteam14382 and her prompt in this year's be_compromised promptathon: "I Dream of Jeannie AU: Clint is the Genie and Natasha is the Astronaut." I think I needed something this whacky, weird and wonderful to break me out of the writer's block doldrums - thank you!
Huge thanks are due to poppypickle, whose comments and suggestions made this into a much better story. I owe you a debt!
The Rub
By Alpha Flyer
"Oh, fuck. Now what?"
The voice coming from the little tin oil lamp isn't just grumpy, it's downright pissed off, with just a touch of panic.
Natasha has only the briefest of seconds to wonder why she would find the tone of the voice more remarkable than, say, the fact that a flea market trinket would be talking to her at all. Because almost immediately, the graceful (if still somewhat grimy) spout suddenly emits a cloud of purple smoke.
"Shit," says the smoke, "Someone must have rubbed this thing. Sure didn't take long."
Before she realizes what's happening, the mysterious talking cloud rapidly coalesces into a male form, right in front of her eyes. A very attractively shaped male form actually, with chiseled features and spiky blond hair, nothing like that obese, balding blue thing in the Disney movie. The apparition is topless, athletic, and dressed in a pair of ridiculous flowy harem-type pants that reveal far more than they conceal - all to rather eye-catching effect.
Apart from those pants, what is evolving before her eyes is almost a substantiation of...
Natasha quickly suppresses the thought, drags her eyes away from the cloud's rapidly defining abs, and sets aside the rag she'd been using to polish the brass lamp. She had bought it intending to bring a little personal touch to her temporary NASA quarters, although not quite that personal.
None of this should be happening, especially not a near-instantaneous hormonal reaction to what is clearly an illusion. Her mind firmly back on an analytical track, she considers the possibilities:
(1) The oxygen fluctuations during mission training last week had been worse than originally assessed and she is hallucinating, thanks to the delayed effects of anoxia.
(2) That creepy dude from Mission Control has succeeded in spiking her drink with whatever chems might get her to see him as the gorgeous demigod he fancied himself to be. (In which case, props to the pharmacist, because the vision before her is much closer to something she'd consider bedding than, say, a paunchy, middle-aged, balding incel with bad breath.)
(3) Putin ordered the doorknob to her townhouse to be coated with something to make Commander Natasha Romanoff, formerly of RosCosmos, regret her defection and experience a newsworthy death.
(4) The apparition in front of her is real (however improbable its chiseled physique) and something approximating a ghost just materialized in her living room, from inside a fake-antique Middle Eastern oil lamp.
But here's the thing: Natasha has just been through a barrage of NASA's pre-mission medicals and had been assessed as being in top physical and mental condition, nor has she been anywhere near a bar where she could have been roofied. Therefore, Occam's Razor applies and since her eyes and brain have been confirmed to function perfectly well, Number (4), however improbable, is the most likely to be true.
Which, in turn, means it's time to stall and gather more information.
"Who are you, and how did you get into that lamp?" she asks politely, because antagonizing the strange phenomenon may have unknown consequences. And then, because she really wants to know, she adds, "And where are the rest of your clothes?"
The cloud is getting less opaque by the second. It – he? – counts off the answers to her questions with now perfectly formed, interestingly calloused fingers.
One:"Genie. Not to be confused with genius."
Two: "Pissed off someone I shouldn't have. Which is where the 'not a genius' bit comes in, I suspect."
Three:"And how the fuck would I know? Same place as my molecules and my…" He stops in mid-sentence, as if someone had yanked an invisible chain. "Whatever," he finishes rather lamely, but with a frown, like someone trying – and failing – to remember why they had gone into a particular room, or opened that cupboard.
"Do you have a name?" Natasha asks. It's not every day that one talks to a cloud of smoke, but there are courtesies to be observed. "I'm Natasha."
"And I'm…" There it is again, that sudden stop, like an internal short circuit. He scrunches his face in frustrated concentration, before shaking his head so vigorously that it leaves a trail of vapour in the air. "Just…Genie, I guess."
He rallies quickly, like someone used to shaking off adversity.
"So, whaddya want me to do for you? Because I gather that's the drill here. And the sooner we get that over with, the sooner I can crawl back into that lamp thingy and forget about the fact that I can't remember shit."
Natasha is intrigued. She's a scientist, always has been – gathering evidence, developing a hypothesis, analyzing possibilities. And the semi-naked, hovering, slightly profane (and possibly amnesiac) apparition before her is certainly worthy of analysis.
"It sounds like you were turned into a genie relatively recently."
Genie frowns and collects his thoughts, nodding slowly, validating Natasha's impression that for a figment of her imagination, he seems to be definitely on the sentient side.
"Well," he says, "I can't remember anything other than being a genie, but I also don't remember a time when I was actually acting like one, so yeah - makes sense I'm a newbie. First time out of that lamp. Sorry if you were expecting a seasoned professional. I seem to be anything but."
"That's alright." Natasha finds herself curiously moved to reassure him. "I've never met a genie before, so I have nothing to compare you to. I have a feeling you'll do nicely. Your entry certainly had the right…flair."
He gives a short nod of acknowledgement that has an odd military touch to it.
"Appreciate that. Back to business, though. What's it gonna be, lady? You gonna ask for something? Money? Jewelry? A better love life?"
Natasha considers briefly; that last one is tempting, especially since she hasn't had sex in far too long and only seems to attract total schleps of late. Clearly, her reaction to a half-naked man's appearance in her kitchen suggests this is something she needs to work on. But for now, she comes up with nothing but unanswered questions.
"So how would this work, exactly? Do you have, like, an internal 3D printer, so when I ask for a diamond tiara it will appear in the palm of your hand? And how could you possibly fix…oh, never mind."
The genie's face scrunches up in thought.
"I snap my fingers and shit happens. How? Like I said, who knows? I just work here; I don't make the rules. Does your average Ford assembly line worker know how the internal combustion engine actually works?"
Fair comment. Although, come to think of it, it is odd that whoever created this attractive, slightly contrary puff of smoke would also allow him to grant wishes to random third parties. Where's the hook?
Natasha stalls.
"Do I get one wish or three?"
The genie seems to search his mind for an inner instruction manual but comes up empty.
"Best guess, just one. You use it up, I go back inside that…thing over there for the next two thousand years. Or maybe forever, who the hell knows. Better make it something good, then."
A sudden chill makes Natasha's hair stand on end. Would this be the actual, intended, and final punishment for whatever offense the genie might have given in his previous life? Being trapped, sentient and knowing, in that little lamp for all eternity?
And the executioner would be her. She'd have whatever payment she would think to ask for, while the instigator could shrug and claim plausible deniability.
Memories of the kosmonaut training she had received in Russia flood unbidden into Natasha's mind, with the constant, metronymic reminders: You are nothing. You are an instrument, a tool, a vessel. You have no purpose but to fulfill the plans of the State. Glory to Mother Russia!
Fuck that. Again, and again, and again.
Natasha arrives at a decision.
"I tell you what, Genie," she says. "I'm going to hold off on that wishing thing. You can stay in the guest bedroom while I think about what I might want, but also how we can keep you out of that lamp."
Her inner scientist immediately points out what could go wrong in this scenario - even as she watches understanding dawn in the genie's smoky-grey eyes. Strangulation by Apparition? He seems…trustworthy, as ridiculous as this may sound, and surely there is a law somewhere that says genies can't harm the one who rubbed them into being? Eviction for bringing in a new, non-NASA approved tenant? Well, he is somewhat transparent, isn't he?
The weak spot, she surmises, will be herself.
"In the meantime, if I should say anything like I wish I had… or I wish I hadn't, or Could you please…, consider that a figure of speech, not a formal request."
The genie stills for a moment, digesting what she has just said. He gives her a grin that manages to combine puzzlement, sadness, gratitude, and reassurance – the look of someone who, like Natasha herself, has not met too many people who would put themselves out for his personal benefit.
"You'd do that for me?" he marvels. "But we've only just met. And I'm not exactly a prize, at least not as far as I can remember. I sure as hell don't know a lot about genie-ing."
The absurdity of the situation suddenly strikes her. Here he is, a nicely ripped solid cloud of purplish-tinged smoke, in the most ridiculously clichéd outfit – one that he still somehow manages to pull off with flair – and yet still saddled with an evident streak of self-doubt.
"Yes," she says resolutely, her heart unreasonably warmed by the smile that spreads across his face. It makes him look younger by several millennia.
She adds, carefully keeping the tinge of regret out of her voice, "And if you go to the closet in the guest bedroom, there is a bag of clothes the previous tenant left behind. Feel free to help yourself."
xxxxx
The next morning Natasha wakes up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee – and is something baking? She reaches into the nightstand drawer for the handgun she keeps in there, but then she remembers her highly irregular house guest.
Besides, how many intruders fill their victim's house with breakfast scents?
Natasha puts the gun back in its place, momentarily enjoying the reassuring feel of the matte, grey steel. The American obsession with firearms is deeply problematic, but no one had batted an eyelash when she asked for one. She didn't even need to voice her fear that GRU goons might follow her to sunny Florida, to exact Mother Russia's revenge for having wasted twenty years of astronaut training.
When she enters her little kitchen, it's tidier than it has been at any time since she'd moved in two months ago. The small table holds a plate with two croissants and a cup of steaming coffee.
The genie – or Genie - stands in the middle of the room, still dressed in those ridiculous pants, but with a white t-shirt now covering his formerly bare torso. The latter stretches across those cloudy pecs and biceps to excellent effect. He tugs at the waistband of the pants, which doesn't move, and shrugs.
"I suspect these things are part of the curse," he says. "They won't come off. I tried to put some jeans over top, but no dice. Lack of dignity seems to come with the job."
Natasha tears her gaze away from his midriff and inhales the scent of the croissants. None of this makes any sense, but if it comes with pastries and a nice view, she finds herself surprisingly prepared to live with the mystery as long as it takes to figure it out.
"Where did you get those this early in the morning?" she asks, and sinks her teeth into a piece of crispy, flaky perfection. "And when did you have time to clean up? Also, I thought I was out of coffee?"
He looks a bit embarrassed.
"I experimented a bit after you went to bed," he says. "Turns out, I can…do stuff. Like, magic stuff? Nothing useful, like bringing back any of my own memories, but when I snap my fingers, shit happens. Sometimes, that is. Like, I could snap on this t-shirt, but not the jeans."
He snaps and a second latte appears on the table, topped with creamy foam.
"The snapping is also good for dishes, floors, and general tidying up. I may have a future as a housewife."
"I'd say that is useful," Natasha marvels at her gleaming kitchen and takes a sip from the cup closest to her. Velvety smooth, rich, and nutty – quite possibly the best coffee she's had since that time in Vienna. "Care to join me?"
The genie shakes his head. He reaches for the cup, but his fingers pass clear through the handle.
"I can smell it," he says wistfully, "or at least I think I can. Seems awesome. I think I'd like it if I could taste it, although it'd probably mess up your floor if I tried to put it inside me."
Interesting. Natasha makes a mental note as she digs into her croissant. A cloud-generated person who can't touch anything material but can manipulate it, and has a functioning sense of smell?
It occurs to her that maybe whoever had created the genie made maliciously sure that he would be aware what pleasures he is missing?
"How are your hearing and your eyesight?" she asks.
He blinks and looks around her kitchen. When he speaks, it's slow and deliberate, as if he hadn't thought about these things before.
"I can hear fine, I think. And I can see everything in the kitchen, or whatever room I'm in." He looks at her, sounding a bit self-conscious suddenly. "I can see you. Red hair, green eyes, drop-dead gorgeous. But anything past the window is just…light. When I go there, I can see the palm tree out front, but not much more. Guess you don't need long-distance vision when you live in a lamp."
Natasha makes another mental note and looks at her watch. As much as she would love to explore her new housemate and his abilities and limitations, she has a job and duty must come first. Launch is mere two weeks away; the last thing she wants is for Rumlow to be tapped to replace her. The guy has been making noises about that Russian woman taking a place that should rightfully be his.
"I'm afraid I have to run. We have zero-grav training today and I can't be late. Make yourself at home, try out some genie tricks - but don't break anything, if you can avoid it. If you get bored, you can watch TV, assuming you can snap it on. I should be back by seven."
"I'll try and have dinner ready," he says. "Least I can do after you got me out of that…that thing."
xxxxx
When Natasha returns home, she hesitates before putting the key in the door.
There's a man in my house, her inner voice tells her. And I told him it was okay to be there.
Don't be absurd, another inner voice chastises the first one. He's not a man. He's a ghost. Who said he'd make dinner.
"Now who's being absurd?" That last bit she'd obviously said out loud, because the door opens on its own, as if to welcome her in.
The truth is, it doesn't take long for her to settle into a routine, mostly because it's so damn easy. Genie makes it easy. And comfortable.
In the mornings, Natasha comes downstairs to find fresh coffee and a selection of pastries, yoghurt, and fresh fruit, upgraded to poached eggs on avocado toast on the weekend; in the evenings, she returns to dinner on the table and a spotless house. Sometimes there are flowers on the table.
Genie continues to be unable to eat, but once he figures out how to turn on the TV without having to physically operate the remote, he regales her during dinner with pithy observations about daytime television and the latest lunacies in US politics.
It's amazing how conducive having company is to enjoying food and eating better.
Of course, it doesn't hurt that Genie is pretty easy on the eyes, but that is not something Natasha is ready to admit. Any change in her mood, she insists to herself, is solely due to eating better and not having to waste precious relaxation time with her head in the bathtub scrubbing off soap rings.
Then there is the night Natasha wakes up from a nightmare before dawn, bathed in sweat, legs thrashing against the blanket. It's the usual one: reliving the terror of the day the State had come to take little Natasha away from her Mom, to mold her into the perfect candidate for the Greater Glory of Russia's space program.
"She will have a great future," General Dreykov, the head of the training program, had said, but his tone contained no reassurance for either Natasha or her distraught mother. No, he'd sounded the way a cook might, commenting on a particularly promising piece of meat - one that he could turn into a meal that might bring him praise and recognition. Saying 'no' had never been an option; the nightmare always makes that clear.
Natasha tries to run but her legs are filled with lead. Her shoes are sticking to a stained and worn green carpet…she's in the apartment building where she lives with her mom…trying to get to their door…trying to get to her mom and safety…but the door keeps moving further and further away and her feet get heavier and heavier and…
When suddenly, breathlessly, she takes flight - no longer glued to the carpet, she rises far above a screaming Dreykov, brushing past the hands trying to pull her down. Up and up little Natasha floats, into the clear winter air, surrounded by crystalline stars.
Free.
Natasha gradually surfaces from her dream, feeling her heartbeat slow and the sweat subside as a welcome calm descends on both her mind and body. She blinks herself awake to see a translucent outline above her and the soothing cool touch of…something on her forehead. A breeze, from the open window?
"Shhh," a gravelly voice says. "You've been having a nightmare ."
Genie.
"I tried to snap it away," he says, "but that didn't work. Tried to wake you up, too."
He runs his hand through her bedside lamp. "Fat chance, huh. But I guess you woke up on your own."
Natasha reaches for her forehead, where the sensation is fading. The regret at its loss comes as a surprise.
"No, Genie," she says. "It was you who stopped it."
He looks at her skeptically, but pleased at the suggestion.
"You really think so?" he says.
"No," Natasha says firmly. "I know so. Thank you."
She reaches out to cup his cheek with her hand, careful not to push past the outline of his form. And there it is, that coolness - just where the warmth of her own skin ends.
"I can almost feel you," she says, unable to hide the wonder in her voice.
"I can feel you, too," he replies, his voice a little hoarse. "But I guess that's just wishful thinking. Kind of goes with the job description."
With a shock akin to a bolt of lightning, Natasha realizes then and there that what she wants, more than anything, is to feel the coolness of his almost-touch surround her, touch her, envelop her...
She wants…
Natasha suppresses the wish as quickly as it arises, lest she give it voice by mistake. Because she has no doubt that Genie would comply, and gladly, even as it would spell his doom.
He breaks the moment by floating off, creating distance between them, and adds, "But unlike me, you need sleep. Suggest I leave you to it."
Natasha nods and sinks back into her blankets with a tinge of regret. But as she drifts off, she does so secure in the knowledge that Dreykov won't invade her dreams again - not tonight, at least.
She wakes in the morning, relaxed and well-rested, to the usual smell of coffee and croissants.
"I thought I'd practice snapping up some different dinner tonight," Genie informs her as he watches flakes of pastry fall on the carpet like snow. With a tip of his finger, he conducts them into a playful little dance before melting them into thin air. "You like Cambodian?"
"Cambodian?" she wonders. "Where did you get that idea?"
He shrugs.
"No idea. But I think you'll like it."
I could get used to this, Natasha thinks to herself as she smiles at him across the table. She heads for her car with an unexpected lightness in her step.
xxxxx
It doesn't take long before her friend and colleague Commander Maria Hill – who possesses an unerring ability to put her finger on people's most uncomfortable spots and delights in watching them squirm like butterflies on a collector's needle - notices a change.
"You seem to be so much bouncier these days," Maria says one afternoon over coffee. "A lot less Russian Ice Queen, a lot more Bolshoi. Are you getting laid? Someone I know?"
Natasha tries to keep her face neutral, in an effort to suppress the blush she can feel creeping into her cheeks.
"I wish," she says, injecting her voice with just the right amount of indignation. "But can't a girl just be self-confident and happy without being beholden to some male?"
"She can," Maria concedes. "But if there's also a guy involved, can I have his name and maybe a phone number? I could use me some of what's been un-ailing you, hon."
Luckily, Cmdr Brock Rumlow struts by at that moment, tossing his customary leer – mixed with his customary resentment – in their direction.
"Alright, Uncle!" Natasha is not above throwing a distracting flare, especially when it so magically presents itself. "I admit it. It's Rumlow. His dick really is as big as he always tries to get people to think it is!"
Maria probably knows she is being led down a garden path, but can never resist a good slagging session; before long, they are laugh-crying into their coffee.
Maria's comment sticks in Natasha's mind for the rest of the day though. After all, she does live with a male… Could that fact really have an effect? She spends much of the drive home convincing herself that Genie couldn't possibly count as a guy. He's a cloud of smoke – a particularly helpful one of course, occasionally reassuring, and fun to discuss guilty pleasure TV with (he is big on Dog Cops, for some reason). Oh, and they see very much eye to eye on their contempt for politics and politicians.
But he's definitely not a guy…
Nonetheless, that night - after a delicious meal of lemongrass-scented amok curry and spicy pomelo salad - Natasha feels the sudden urge to test the extent to which Genie might be subject to the laws of physics. She pulls out her phone.
"Genie, could you come here and hold still for a second?" she says. She adjusts the framing before pushing the 'shoot' button a few times. Amazingly enough, the so-so camera in the NASA-issue device captures his features quite nicely.
"At least we know you're not a vampire," she says.
"Well, that's a relief," he replies, looking over her shoulder at his image on her screen. "Although I'm sure Dracula wouldn't be caught dead in those pants."
As always, zero-grav training is exhausting, exacting, and exhilarating. For several hours, Natasha is all focus and precision; every movement, every breath requires absolute concentration and the need to be within yourself to the exclusion of all other thoughts.
"I love zero-grav," Maria sighs happily as they're changing back into their coveralls after the exercise. "Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, and danced the sky on laughter-silvered wings… Although I could do without the med checks after."
Natasha smiles and nods in response, but Maria isn't done rhapsodizing.
"There's something about losing all your physical weight – it's like you're no longer in your body. I can't wait to get out there," she points upwards as she speaks, "and see what that feels like for three whole days. Even if it means living in a tin can."
Does Genie feel like that, a body stripped of gravity? She had gotten the distinct feeling that he would probably prefer to have his feet firmly planted on terra firma, but in the meantime, he floats rather effectively.
Maria suggests they grab a quick coffee after the med checks and before the inevitable post-exercise paperwork; Natasha agrees readily. As soon as Maria heads for the coffee counter, she takes out her phone.
All three are quite good quality, she tells herself as she flips from one to the other - not the least transparent and only a little out of focus. After she crops out the harem pants there is little suggestion that the images are anything other than those of an ordinary human. Still, she finds herself getting lost in those blue-grey eyes, wondering what they might be seeing when they look at the physical world.
Wondering what they might be seeing when they look at her.
"Oh, my. Who is that rather attractive piece of man flesh?" Maria's voice is gravelly in her ear. "I knew it! Look at those arms! And those pecs? I knew you had it in you, even if you'd all like us to believe you left your heart in the Siberian permafrost."
Natasha sets the phone on the table, screen down, ignoring the little voice snarking at her that maybe she'd wanted to get caught? She reaches for her coffee - which isn't nearly as good as the one Genie had conjured up earlier this morning - and starts obfuscating.
"Do tell!" Maria sparkles conspiratorially. "You don't know his name, but you have his picture? Sounds intriguing. So how'd you meet this mysterious stranger?"
Shit. Is this how the butterfly feels, the moment it meets the pin?
Obviously, she can't tell Maria that her unremarkable little townhouse now comes with a magical, and - yes - rather attractive spirit who dispels nightmares and can create croissants out of thin air. The walls have ears at NASA, even more so in the cafeteria; Natasha would be sent for a psych eval – and suspension from training – before you can say "hallucination." And Brock Rumlow would grab her spot on the Athena crew without a second's hesitation.
Besides, Maria wants to hear a story about Natasha, the man in the picture, and the temperature in the dating pool. And the picture is not…a picture of a man. Except… Something suddenly strikes Natasha as she looks past Maria's expectant, increasingly impatient face.
How do you get to be a Genie in the first place? A curse, he'd said. Pissed off someone I shouldn't have , he'd said.
What if the curse hadn't been due to some breach of the Genie Code of Conduct, but something else altogether? What if he had once been a man, cursed to become a storybook cliché - his powers a lure to tempt someone else to seal his fate, while the perpetrator cackles at the unknowing executioner with glee?
Natasha makes a snap decision.
"Maria, you were in military intelligence before you joined NASA, yes?" she says.
"If I said yes, I'd have to space you," Maria says automatically. "Why do you ask? Has he done something?"
"No, absolutely not. But I could use your help finding out who he is," " Natasha says. "Because he doesn't know his name."
She waves off the immediately raised eyebrow.
"Yes, I know it sounds scammy. But he has made absolutely no move on me and has expressed zero need for money. From what I know of people having parts of their memory erased, he's pretty convincing."
Maria takes in Natasha's words for a moment.
"No move, huh?" she says. She leans back in her chair and studies Natasha's face. "So if he's not a scammer, he's an idiot. I saw how you looked at those pics - he'd be walking through an open door. I know how long it's been since you've had sex. Longer than me."
"I am going to ignore that," Natasha says, with as much prissiness as she can muster; she doesn't want to think about the image Maria's comment threatens to conjure up. "Especially since I absolutely will not take advantage of a guy who has no idea who he is. But what I would like is to know whether you could help me figure that out. Who he is. Was, I mean. Before he lost his memory, that is."
Maria graciously refrains from remarking on the fact that Natasha just blabbered.
"Of course I'll help. Everyone knows Russians are useless with the internet," she says. "Although I'm a bit scared of what might happen when your former government finally catches on. Email me those pics, will ya? I'll do some magic on my computer for a bit and get back to you."
xxxxx
For his own part, Genie, it turns out, has been more than busy this day. He meets her at the door, momentarily blocking her from entering.
"I got bored," he says. "Dog Cops is in reruns, and the news was all about the upcoming Republican primaries. And it gets kind of old, just floating around in this, forgive me, utterly boring room. So I did some redecorating…"
He moves aside - and Natasha finds herself gasping.
The drab little townhouse that NASA saddles single trainees with sparkles not only with its now customary cleanliness, but with colour. Gone are the beige walls, peeling paint, scuffed baseboards, drab curtains, wall-to-wall carpets, and brown couches. In their place are accent walls in different shades of blue, set off with white baseboards and moldings; gleaming, pale hardwood floors; and modern yet comfy-looking couches with purple throw cushions.
The kitchen looks like a wholesale renovation has been happening, with new cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. There's even a Nespresso machine, although that seems a bit unnecessary.
"Wow," she says, and means it.
"If you don't like it, I can change it back," he says, a little shyly. "But I thought that maybe a bit of colour in your life would help against the nightmares." He turns a bit pink and adds, "Besides, you deserve so much better than beige."
She doesn't say anything, just looks around. NASA admin will have kittens, but it sure looks a lot more cheerful than what she'd left in the morning.
"It's wonderful and I absolutely love it!" she says, running her fingers over a brand-new credenza, adorned with a vase full of fresh flowers. "So you're an interior designer, too? Or does every genie have that knack? You could make a fortune on HGTV."
He materializes beside her, looking a bit embarrassed.
"Actually, I got the look from a magazine you left on your nightstand. It was open to an article about 'small spaces,' so I thought…" His voice peters off, sounding uncertain. "The purple cushions were my idea, though. Also, I hope you don't mind that I did your bedroom, too? I noticed last night that your sheets were complete shit, cheap and old."
"No, you did good, Genie," she reassures him. "Really, really good. Thank you so much!"
Dinner is a lovely Thai yellow curry, fragrant with lemongrass, and green papaya salad, spiced up with little flecks of hot red pepper. It's hard to believe that something conjured out of thin air could be so flavourful and filling… For a creature traditionally associated with the Middle East, this particular genie seems rather partial to South East Asian cuisine. (Not to mention, his procurement methods are saving her a pretty penny in takeout.)
It seems like a good time to have a substantive discussion.
"Why don't you have a seat," she says after settling on the new couch, twirling a glass of the New Zealand sauvignon blanc he'd managed to apparate on the coffee table. "Assuming you can? I've noticed you don't, usually."
Genie shrugs.
"I don't have an actual butt to put on the cushion," he says, "which is why I don't. But I can drape myself over top of one if you'd like."
He adjusts his form across a pretty leather armchair and Natasha notices that he leaves no indentation in the upholstery. Those ungodly gauzy harem pants, on the other hand, are clinging to well-shaped thighs that look rock solid - apart from being the stuff of clouds, that is.
Maybe she is overthinking the inconsistencies? She resolutely shuts down her treacherous brain's tendency to ruminate on his appearance and gets straight to the point.
"Let's talk about whether you could have been a real person before you got stuck in that lamp?" she asks, before hastily adding, "I mean, you're obviously real now, but...could you have been human before? And recently? Because you don't look, act, or sound like a mythical ancient spirit. I don't think Aladdin's genie would surf house porn for inspiration."
Genie gets that faraway look in his eyes that even after their short acquaintance, Natasha has learned to recognize as him trying to retrieve information from whatever passes for a brain in his cloud-like head. He comes up short and shakes his head.
"Nope," he says. "Although it would make sense that this," he points at the lamp on the table, "started only recently. My memory banks are pretty shallow."
Natasha nods sharply and pokes her finger into the air.
"See? You said memory banks. That term hasn't been around for very long in common speech. I only learned it when I came to America. So, whatever happened to you, happened within the last decade or so. Maybe even more recently."
Her musings are interrupted by the doorbell – a rare occurrence in Natasha's quarters at the best of times, but at nine o'clock in the evening? Insistently, it rings again. She looks at the genie with panic in her eyes.
He gets the problem immediately and nods. Who might he have been, that tactical problems are so immediately apparent to him? Certainly, the transformation has taken away none of whatever intelligence he once possessed.
"I'll go in the lamp," he offers, adding reassuringly when he sees the doubt on her face, "No worries. If I go in voluntarily, I can come out on my own."
With that, his form elongates, diffuses, and pours like a thin line of smoke into the lamp that is sitting on the coffee table.
And he's gone.
xxxxx
The doorbell rings again, this time with a ferocity that can only mean one thing – or one person. Natasha heads for the door and peeks through the view hole to see Maria's impatient face.
"Sorry to disturb," Maria says breathlessly as she pushes her way through the open door, a laptop bag dangling from her shoulder. "But I thought you'd want to see…. Whoa. Who did up this place? Is that the 'special treatment for Russian defectors' that Rumlow is always on about?"
She looks around at the spotless, vibrant rooms.
"How many memos did it take to be allowed to go non-beige, I wonder?"
"I'll explain later," Natasha replies breezily. "You go first. Glass of sauv blanc?"
Maria looks at the label, raises an eyebrow, and nods enthusiastically.
"You bet. Marlborough - Astrolabe? Someone here knows their stuff."
Natasha side-eyes the lamp. Showoff. How would a genie know about kiwi wines…?
She gets a glass out of her brand new cupboard; luckily, the layout hasn't changed and the glasses are where they had been. Although now that she looks more closely, they've all been replaced; the new style is modern, heavy-bottomed, sleek-looking, and positively screams Finnish crystal. Whoever Genie was in a prior life must have been well-traveled – or else he's been reading those magazines of hers cover to cover.
Maria, who has opened and started up her laptop, reaches eagerly for the glass and takes a deep sip.
"Oh my god, that is good!" she exclaims. "And perfectly chilled. But back to business."
It's what Natasha likes best about Maria Hill: Totally in the moment and appreciating life's little pleasures, but eyes always firmly on the ball.
"So what have you got?" she asks and sits down beside her on the couch.
Maria punches in her password. She doesn't bother screening her typing, a gesture of trust that tweaks something inside Natasha that she can't quite put a finger on. Is that what genuine friendship means?
"So," Maria disrupts her thoughts, "First, I did a series of, if I may say so, increasingly sophisticated reverse image searches. At first that got me a bunch of stock photos, à la Similar: Caucasian Males. It didn't help that your photos seem slightly out of focus - but at least he wasn't wearing shades or I'd have been staring at a procession of rednecks. Anyway. Then I changed my parameters, including by year. That came up with something that looked a bit like your man, from about a decade ago. I cleaned that up and put it through one of those apps that projects how someone might age."
She opens a file.
"And bingo. Look at this."
The first photo is of…a circus poster? "THE AMAZING HAWKEYE! " screams the header, above a figure clad in a hideous purple costume. The man holds a bow, strings taut, and looks like he just leapt off a horse.
But the face…
Maria zooms in on the features; one more click, and they start to morph. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, a few laugh wrinkles appear around the eyes, the cheeks get leaner, and…
"That's him!" Natasha exclaims, even before Maria pulls up one of her phone shots to place it beside the final product. There can be no doubt; the image before her is either the genie in the lamp or his earthly twin.
But… a circus performer?
"Honestly, I thought he'd be military," she frowns, still fascinated by the two near-identical images. "Something in the way he moves and talks."
"Well, funny you should say that." Maria can't quite keep the gloat out of her voice. She clicks on another file, and a mimeograph of a news article pops up. "Because the Oswego County News agrees with you."
She reads out loud:
"Oswego County welcomes another three-day visit by Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders, an endlessly entertaining show that has been touring the heartland for nearly three decades now. The local ladies, though, will be mourning the absence this year of The Amazing Hawkeye, that marvelous – and shapely - sharp-shooter with his miraculous bow and trick arrows. Carson's front office has informed us that the much-loved performer has heeded his country's call to patriots after 9/11 and joined the military, where without any doubt his infallible aim will help us defeat the Taliban and Al Qaida."
"The Amazing Hawkeye?" Natasha says with some irritation, despite the partial vindication of her analysis. "How about a name, you idiots? What kind of journalism is this?"
"Sorry," Maria says, taking another sip of wine. "Local news have no resources. I tried hacking into the Pentagon's enlistment records to see if I could get a correlation on the dates, but their firewall is beyond even me. For which we should probably be grateful, in the great scheme of things."
Natasha sighs. Without a name, she would have no way to find out what happened to this Hawkeye person after he enlisted. Was he reported killed, missing in action, honourably discharged, turned into a spirit…?
"One thing seems certain, and that's that he never went back to the circus," Maria says. "The only entries for 'Hawkeye' I found were for that guy from M.A.S.H., and some arcane academic feud about the novels of James Fenimore Cooper. And before you ask, Carson's Circus dissolved nine years ago. Guess they went broke without their star attraction."
She takes a surreptitious look around.
"So, is he here, your amnesiac guy? Or did you leave him at the gym?"
xxxxx
Natasha considers.
She had been identified and raised from a very early age as a candidate for space travel – thanks to physical and intellectual assessments imposed on all good communist children. They'd measure your bones, your intellect, your musculature… If you succeeded at whatever career or sport The System decided you were made for, you could get your own apartment, possibly with running water. An Olympic medal might result in a private bathroom; getting named a Hero of the Russian Federation would bring additional perks and pensions. In other words, if you were a good cog in the machine and did your job well, you were set for life. As a result, the competition had been fierce, and trust in extremely short supply.
But here was Maria, the first of her new colleagues in the NASA astronaut program to welcome the Russian defector for who she was, not for what she represented, or had been. Maria, who had offered friendship and companionship and shared snarky commentary about politicians who would trot Natasha out to claim a success that wasn't theirs. Maria, who called out the casual sexism of Jasper Sitwell, the head of the Mission Control Center, at the cost of at least one launch participation; and who had offered guidance to life in the Free World, including where to find the best coffee and bras without underwire.
Most importantly, it had been Maria who had reassured Natasha that, when she'd been picked for the Athena mission, it had been entirely on merit and not just to cock a snook at the Russians (although that had certainly played a part).
Maria. Her first, best, and closest friend.
Once again, Natasha finds herself making a choice – a process unthinkable in her previous life, never without personal risk, and curiously liberating in its audacity.
"Yes, he's here," she tells Maria. "But you have to promise me three things. First, don't faint when he turns up. Second, you can't tell anyone else about this. And third, no wishing for anything in his presence. That one is an absolute no-no."
Maria's eyes acquire an expectant sparkle.
"Hoo boy," she drawls. "This oughta be good."
"Oh, it is," Natasha replies. "You have no idea."
She turns towards the lamp.
"Genie? Can you come out, please? I'd like to introduce you to someone. Don't worry – she's a friend."
There is a moment's hesitation and then the purple smoke appears from the lamp in a steady stream, faster than Natasha remembers from the first time, coalescing into the now familiar shape beside the coffee table. He is still wearing the t-shirt, something Natasha isn't quite sure whether she welcomes or regrets.
"Holy shit," Maria breathes, "I mean, smokes. Or whatever."
"Maria, meet Genie. Genie, this is Maria. She's been trying to find out who you were…are."
Genie gives a polite, cautious nod, but says nothing.
"Wait," Maria says. "Was that…what it looked like? Like that blue guy in the Disney movie, but with a NASA-issue muscle shirt? Where did you get that lamp, Nat? Are there more like that? And can he do magic tricks?"
Natasha wants to get on with things, so rather than answer all the questions at once, she makes a vague gesture around the room.
"Yes, he can. He turned a government issue holding cell into a livable space," she says. "Voluntarily. I didn't ask, because if I were to make an actual wish, I think he'll be trapped in that lamp forever. Including if I wish for him to be free, he thinks. It's like a curse. Hence, condition number three."
Maria, who has always been a great proponent of seeing is believing - especially in view of the revolutionary decorating scheme - takes this explanation entirely in stride. So, instead of asking more questions, she just nods in acceptance of this new reality.
But first, with a meaningful look in Natasha's direction, she makes the hot, hot, hot! gesture with her right hand. Natasha just rolls her eyes.
"Can you have a look at this, Genie?" she asks the oblivious spirit, turning the laptop in his direction. "Does that poster look familiar?"
He wafts over to hover behind her and look over her shoulder. It's the closest she has come to him since the nightmare; the coolness of his presencefeels like the breeze off a lake on a warm summer's day.
Or the cold breath of a ghost.
"Nothing," he reports. "Except…" He extends his left hand, the palm turned over, and points to the calluses on the fingers with the other. "Are those what you'd get shooting a bow? I noticed that you don't have them."
Natasha wrinkles her brow and studies the hand before her. Without thinking she reaches out and runs her finger over it. He holds his hand still for her to touch and for the briefest of moments her fingertips seem to touch rough skin, only for the sensation to be replaced by a cool, dry absence.
Something, slipping into nothing.
She pulls back her hand before she is tempted to explore further, noticing with a small shock of recognition the look of sadness and longing rising in his eyes and just as quickly suppressed.
"They could be," she says, collecting herself. "But I hate to tell you, even if you were this…Hawkeye guy before you were cursed, that doesn't help a lot. We still don't have a name, and no way to get you back to yourself."
Genie casts another look at the image on the phone, this time with resignation etched on his face.
"Too bad," he says. "I like that purple outfit. Much better than these pants."
Maria, who has been watching these developments like a bird of prey, shakes her head.
"That is absolute BS. You rock those pants and don't let anyone tell you any different. But let's move on. What else do we have? Let's have a look at that lamp you came out of."
xxxxx
The lamp had come to Natasha's attention at New York's Grand Bazaar on 77th, where she had ended up after an interminable press tour in the hope of finding some trinkets to brighten up her soulless Florida quarters. The vendor, a smarmy man in his forties, had tried to sell her a rug and wasn't taking no for an answer.
"So, to shut the guy up, I offered him a twenty for that lamp. He tried to tell me a story about how it was an antiquity and had been left in the shop by some ancient mystic. I pointed out a welding spot at the bottom and ended up getting it for thirty bucks."
"A bargain, I'd say!" Maria holds up the lamp in the light. "Did you notice the writing around the base? It looks Arabic, or maybe Pashto. That might make sense, if pre-genie Hawkeye was in the military and served in Iraq or Afghanistan. We did enough crap there to rile up the locals, so maybe he ran afoul of someone there? Although I've never heard of any of our boys coming back in lamps. Only in body bags."
She looks at Genie, who has been hovering silently behind them.
"You don't speak Arabic, do you? Given that you're basically right out of A Thousand and One Nights?"
Genie frowns.
"I have no idea," he says. "Can I have a look?"
The lamp floats out of Maria's hand, causing her to yelp in surprise, and hovers in front of his face, turning slowly in mid-air. Oblivious to the looks the women are exchanging - Maria's "Holy shit!" meets an "See? I told you!" from Natasha - Genie frowns in concentration.
"I don't know if this is Arabic, but I can read it. What it says here is. 'A Single Wish I May Grant Thee, Even As It Spells My Doom.'"
Natasha nods. "That, we knew. Anything else?"
"Yep. Underneath it says, 'As Long As I Roam The Earth, None Can Set Me Free.'" He hesitates, evidently trying not to sound bitter, and avoids looking at Natasha. "Guess I'm stuck either way, then. Wish, or no wish."
"Ouch," Maria says, and means it. "That sounds…pretty definite. I am so, so sorry, Genie - and Nat. And I see why you will need to be very, very careful wishing for anything."
The pall of disappointment hangs over the room; gone is all the excitement Maria had brought into it earlier. Maria obviously feels it too. She gets up and folds up her laptop.
"I'll leave the two of you alone, then. You'll probably have lots to discuss. Besides, we have an early morning at the Centre tomorrow. The last training session before pre-mission sequestration for you, Nat, if I recall correctly."
Of course, she recalls perfectly well. Natasha does, too, although in light of what they learned (and didn't learn) this evening, all the eagerness and exhilaration to be standing on the brink of what her entire life has pointed her towards has vanished in a puff of smoke.
"Yeah," she says heavily. "I know. We'll try and figure out what to do next when I get back."
xxxxx
It's in the middle of the night, when Natasha wakes up breathless from a dream about floating in zero-grav, that the solution strikes her. What had Maria said about that experience again? That tacky poem she'd quoted in her exuberance about weightlessness?
Natasha closes her eyes, not to go back to sleep, but to concentrate. Having spent much of her life forced to compete for every extra crust of bread, every minute of a teacher's attention, every little bit of advancement, had given her one invaluable skill: Almost near-perfect recall of things she'd heard, even just once.
She wills her memory to comply. And there it is:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings…
In less than a week, Natasha Romanoff will be out there in a capsule, free from Earth's gravity, in a circumlunar orbit…
She reaches for her phone and dials Maria - time of day be damned.
xxxxx
As per NASA regulations,"Each astronaut is permitted one (1) personal item on a flight that lasts longer than 24 hours."It's a way to let people bring a talisman for good luck, or allow them to look at the faces of loved ones in the event of impending death, albeit without saying that out loud.
"It can be anything," Mission Commander Cptn Samuel Wilson (affectionately known around Cape Canaveral as 'Captain America' thanks to his sterling character, strong chin, and knack for stirring motivational speeches) had explained to the crew of the Athena III mission. "As long as it's not bigger than 10"x10", weighs no more than half a kilo, and is inert – which means it doesn't eat, drink, grow, or shit, and won't explode on take-off."
"So, I guess my emotional support ostrich is out?" the mission's 2IC, Takeshi Miyazaki, had quipped. Wilson hadn't deigned to respond; just given him the old Captain America you're-not-worthy stink eye.
Sure enough, everyone has to present their personal tchotchkes for inspection and approval, at the entry to the sequestration unit where the crew – and two hopeful but ultimately haplessly grounded spares – will be spending the next 48 hours before take-off.
Wilson pulls out a framed photograph of himself and another officer from his Air Force Days, both in ParaRescue outfits, looking young and invincible.
"Riley," he says to Natasha, brushing the face of the other officer with a finger tip. "We were planning to apply to the astronaut program together after our tour. He didn't make it out of Afghanistan, so I'm taking him up with me."
Miyazaki brings an almost completely hairless, ancient looking teddy bear.
"You say as much as a word and you eat my space suit," he glares at Sitwell, who is in charge of the check-in and cackles at the sight. "Also, fuck you. Your ass isn't the one on the line. Where I go, Bear goes. Sir."
"And what have we here?" Sitwell, keen on a less obstreperous target, says when Natasha pulls the little lamp out of her go-bag. "That got booze in it? Or aromatic lamp oil?"
"It's empty," Natasha replies with as much haughty arrogance and Russian inflection as she can muster. "It is a family heirloom from Dagestan. I wish to carry the spirit of my ancestors with me. You can look inside if you want."
Sitwell does, after holding the lamp to his ear, shaking it, and holding it upside down.
Secure in the knowledge that Genie can't be seen inside the lamp unless he wants to be, and hopeful that he can't get seasick, Natasha stands silently by as Sitwell puts the lamp on a scale and brings out a tape measure.
"Four-hundred-and-sixty-two grams and 9"x7.5," he announces, sounding vaguely disappointed. "You got lucky – we got to mind our weight, don't we, Ms. Kosmonaut?"
Natasha ignores him and takes back the lamp, carefully refraining from giving it a reassuring rub.
"Thanks," is all she says and marches into the containment unit without looking back. Not having to deal with Sitwell in the flesh for a week? Priceless. The man is a supercilious twat, Maria had told her, who'd flunked out of the operational program at the first stage and has tried to make up for it since via a career in MCC, embracing rules, regulations, and the ability to wield them over active program participants like a club.
"A-okay," Natasha tells Maria over Zoom, after routine medicals, equipment checks and mission prep are complete for the day and the crew has bunked down for the night. "Can't wait for take-off!"
They've discussed and modeled ad nauseam what it might mean for the mission, should Natasha succeed with her plan. Weight calculations are within a 100 kg tolerance. Looking at Genie from all sides (and at length, as Natasha had peevishly noticed), Maria had declared that, on the assumption that his physical manifestation would resemble his spectral one, he'd be weighing in at "80-90 kg max, pretty much all muscle." Here's hoping that life in a lamp hasn't caused his non-spectral self to gain weight…
Of course, that won't be the only variable, were they to succeed. Oxygen use is an issue, which means the transformation will have to happen at the end of the mission so as to avoid having to terminate it prematurely.
"We have no idea whether an untrained civilian will survive zero-grav and re-entry," Maria had pointed out. "Not to mention that bringing a stowaway will quite possibly spell the end of your career in NASA."
And finally, "What if he turns out to be an ungrateful jerk, once he's free?"
Natasha refuses to think about all that now, especially that last bit. Years of conformity and thinking about nothing but her own and the State's success have brought her little personal satisfaction – only ever the drive further forward. Even defecting from Russia, a first gesture of defiance, has ultimately led her only further down a path she had been set on in childhood.
She is ready to take a risk – to make a different call.
xxxxx
The moon, without the distortions of Earth's atmosphere and from a mere five kilometers away, looks ethereal and forbidding at the same time. Sharp crags, jagged rocks, deep craters left by other celestial bodies, deep shadows, and silver heights – all without the gentling touch of wind or water erosion – make for images that are literally other-worldly. The last circumlunar orbit is about to begin; so far, the mission has been a complete success.
Natasha asks to be relieved, for a few minutes of private time. Request granted, she pushes herself down along the ladder into the crew's tight sleeping quarters. Three days of zero gravity have greatly refined her maneuvering skills; she lands feet first in the bunk labeled Romanoff, N.A.
There, secured by the near-ubiquitous netting, is her kit bag, and within it – the lamp. She pries it out of its confinement, careful not to let it float away, and hooks her legs around the bunk enclosure. Natasha has replayed this scenario so many times in her mind that any further delay would be pure self-indulgence – something she has never understood, nor practiced.
She rubs the lamp and waits for the familiar line of smoke to emerge and take shape. As soon as Genie's form appears complete, hanging in the cabin air before her, and before he can ask where the hell they are, she says the words she and Maria had argued over, decided upon, and rehearsed many times:
"I wish for the curse upon you to be lifted so that you may take and keep your true form again."
What happens next will remain etched in Natasha's – and, as it turns out, Sam Wilson's – mind forever.
The translucent cloud that had just coalesced into something like human form, solidifies and darkens before her eyes. The billowing bits of purplish mist, where those hideous harem pants are about to manifest, contract and turn into sleek, black, form-fitting neoprene (or leather?) that screams tactical gear - as does the equally sharply constructed black vest that has replaced the white t-shirt. The vest is covered in loops, zippers, and pockets, all of which undoubtedly have their own assigned purpose, just like those on the crew's flight suits.
But apart from the fact that this is quite possibly the most dangerously attractive man Natasha has clapped eyes on since that day the Winter Soldier had made a motivational appearance at kosmonaut training, the most remarkable thing is the quiver full of arrows on his back. Mercifully, there is no bow.
Seriously? It is all, as the program psychologists would say, a lot to process.
Natasha has approximately three seconds to take it all in when the man before her discovers, in something like a one-two punch, that he is (a) solid again, but (b) stillwithout weight, albeit now for different reasons. He continues to drift upward, in the same direction he'd been headed while pouring out of the lamp, possibly accelerated by curse he expels as he goes.
Sam Wilson, who'd been heading towards the latrine when a new person erupted into the cabin seemingly out of thin air, utters a similar expletive. His voice causes the former genie to roll and flip around in mid-air, while simultaneously reaching overhead for that quiver, but the maneuver is undermined by the fact that he doesn't actually have a bow to go with those arrows. It must have been taken, as a final insult, by whoever had decided to deprive him of all the things that made him who he was.
Cursing again, the man tumbles towards Natasha, who is still firmly anchored to her bunk, but intriguingly, doesn't bounce into her. Instead, he curls into a ball and, as soon as his feet point towards the floor, extends his legs and tries to land. Of course, this just propels him towards the ceiling again and he spits out another curse.
Sam, who has been watching the unfolding dramedy with ever-widening eyes, puts an unceremonious end to the matter by hooking his fingers into one of the loops in the newcomer's tac vest.
"I'd leave those arrows where they are," he snarls. "We have a rule about not making holes in things here."
The speed with which the normally affable Mission Commander has snapped into fight mode is impressive, although there is no doubt in her mind that the former genie would have no difficulty taking Sam in hand-to-hand combat. But the last thing they all need is for two military alpha males to clash in the tiny metal tin full of delicate instruments that keeps everyone alive.
"I think he's harmless, Sam," she says hastily. "Just a bit surprised, I'd say."
"No shit," the man manages, relaxing marginally at the sound of her voice but still in vigilance mode, narrowed eyes scanning his immediate environment as if conducting a tactical assessment. "One moment I'm safe and non-corporeal in a tiny metal container, next thing I'm here…where the hell exactly am I?"
"Not-quite-so-safe, apparently fully corporeal, and in a slightly bigger metal container," Sam says. "You're in space. Hence the no-holesrule and the lack of gravity. But if we're good here, I'll let go of you. It's not like you can go anywhere."
Sam waits for him to nod and releases his grip.
The man seems to be taking to zero-grav rather quickly, testing out small motions and corresponding reactions. In less than a minute, he manages to hover motionless in the center of the cabin, without giving any indication that he might get sick.
"Alright, enough of that," Sam says. "We need to talk. What the hell just happened? How on Earth did a stowaway get onboard a very tightly controlled space mission? And how do you know how to handle zero grav?"
"Used to be in the circus," the man says. "Mostly trick shots, some trapeze work in a pinch. Flying through the air is like riding a bicycle, I guess."
He looks at Natasha, a smile dawning in his eyes.
"I can't believe you brought me up here to do this," he says. "I…"
Sam turns to Natasha with a frown.
"And as for you, Romanoff, if this is some kind of Russian trick to infiltrate a sensitive NASA mission…"
His voice peters out as he realizes there are far too many questions he could (should) be asking and that it might just be better for her to tell him her story, and for him to figure out whether she's lying.
"Not How on Earth," Natasha says, finding her voice. "That was kind of the point of bringing him up here, Sam. He was cursed by someone to be a genie, with no memory of who he was, and it couldn't be reversed while he 'walked the Earth'. And yes, I know it sounds absurd, and I'm terribly sorry, but I couldn't just leave him like that. So I brought the lamp up here."
The former genie, who has been listening intently during her brief narrative, shakes his head in awe. And there's that other thing in his eyes again, but Natasha decides to shelve any further analysis for the moment; the now four of them have many more immediate problems to resolve.
"If I hadn't seen what I just did with my own eyes I'd call bullshit," Sam says when she is done talking, defusing the moment. He gives a reassuring look over to Miyazaki, who'd been attracted by the commotion in the crew quarters and has been hovering in the doorway, listening, and is now sputtering in indignation. "But since I did see it, and he's here now, I guess we'll all have to deal with that as a fact. I don't suppose you did any planning in case your little magic scheme worked, Romanoff?"
Natasha tears her eyes away from the miracle in the tac outfit and turns professional again.
"Well, I figured that Mission Control will have…issues, when they find we have a passenger. I was hoping we could pretend he was a tech worker, stuck in…"
"Please," Miyazaki chimes in. "No one's gonna buy that. Maybe he should start by telling us his name, assuming he remembers it now? And what was he doing that got him cursed? That seems kind of relevant, I dunno? I mean, look at him. The guy practically screams Special Ops - we can only hope he's one of ours."
"Oh, I do remember," the former genie says, now floating with unnatural stillness in the middle of the cabin. "Every little thing in fact, including a whole lot of shit I'd rather not. And yes, I also remember being trapped in the lamp until Natasha bought it, and everything that's happened since she first got me out."
He gives her a smile that twists up something in her gut.
"Name's Clint Barton," he says. "Agent of SHIELD. I owe you a debt."
His voice softens, turns less sure."And probably a whole bunch of apologies."
He turns to Sam.
"And you guys, too. Because that whole curse thing? Is very, very classified. As is this whole mission now, probably, now that I landed here. Can I make a call from up here?"
xxxxx
What strikes Natasha most of all is just how much Clint Barton is, and is not, the good-natured life force she had come to know.
He clearly has Genie's sense of playfulness and fun - he seems to be actually enjoying zero grav, experimenting occasionally with a twitch or small movement and visibly delighting in the effects; he's already better at controlling his body in free fall than Miyazaki. But there is also that coiled-spring readiness, that sharp and constant 360-degree observation which, together with the black tac gear and the quiver, makes him appear to be a lot more sleek menace than blithe spirit.
Were those the parts of the Clint Barton self that she'd seen Genie try to reach for so often, only to fail? These remarkable - and oddly fascinating - elements of his personality don't appear to be new, as much as they seem to have been added back in where they belong. Returned to their rightful owner, after having been deliberately and maliciously excised.
His words from their first meeting come back to her unbidden: "Sorry if you were expecting a seasoned professional. I seem to be anything but."
Well, the 'seasoned professional' Genie had been missing in himself is clearly back...
Not only that, but that same professional appears to have convinced Sam to temporarily close down the link to Mission Control and open a hailing channel, to the organization Barton had called "SHIELD".
A booming voice fills the capsule.
"Barton! Where the hell have you been for the last six months? We held an expensive-ass memorial for you five months ago. I had to get grief counselors for your fan club in Accounting."
"Long story, sir. That stuff you sent me to investigate? Some serious shit going down there, but all coming from just one woman - claims to be a witch that's been around for hundreds of years. Actual magic, like those guys on Bleecker Street, only not as benign. Said her name was 'Agatha Harkness' just before she threw a spell at me; likes to cackle and seems to have a thing about 1960s TV shows. I'd assume she's gone underground again. I'll give you the full debrief when I come in. But first, I need to call in some favours."
In retrospect, Natasha isn't quite sure what had been the most impressive thing in the aftermath to Genie's re-substantiation:
(1) the speed with which Sam had managed to send that quiver onto the lunar surface, after their involuntary guest informed them that half the arrows were capable of bringing down a building while the other half could do stuff "you probably wouldn't want to play with inside a space capsule";
(2) being picked up by a massive, invisible flying aircraft carrier run by an enormous black man with an eye patch, who seemed to regard Clint "Hawkeye" Barton as some sort of wayward son who could never be relied on to stay dead; or
(3) the fact that the entire rest of the mission - including an excellent narrative about technical difficulties - had been reinvented, with tapes made available for public consumption, within 24 hours.
She communicates these thoughts to Clint, who is busy opening a bottle of wine the old-fashioned way. New chapters deserve the best, he'd said, and turned up with two bottles each of Haut Brion and Château Pétrus, thanks to a bonus for 'unlawful confinement and trauma in the course of duty' that his favourite bureaucrat, someone named Coulson, had apparently dreamed up for his benefit.
"Personally, I thought the best bit was you floating in that space capsule, looking one-hundred-percent, drop-dead competent, while simultaneously trying to decide whether you liked me better in harem pants or a tac suit," he says, as he pours out two generous glasses. Like Genie, he believes that decanters are a waste of time and that wine can breathe just fine in the glass. "And yes, I noticed. You really need to work on your game face, if you want to join SHIELD and be a spy."
Natasha sidles up to him, takes her glass out of his hand, and suggestively dips her tongue into the golden liquid.
"I had an excuse. Like Maria noted, I hadn't had sex in a long time and those pants left very little to the imagination," she says.
She looks around the kitchen, which is a bit of a disaster. Pots and pans in the sink, and a mountain of takeout food on the counter. No more finger snaps to get everything to sparkle, alas - having recovered Clint's competence in other fields has come at a definite price.
"You need to work on your culinary skills though, Agent Barton. That neon green abomination you were hoping to sell me as Goan curry?" She shudders demonstratively. "You said you remembered everything from your time as a genie, but I guess that doesn't include how to prepare edible food."
"I still make a superior cup of coffee," Clint says modestly. "And that whole genie cuisine thing? Basically a jazzed-up version of DoorDash, which I also excel at. Exhibit One, the spread I ordered for our guests tonight."
Natasha decides that the best way to end the argument is to close his mouth with a kiss - an agreeable confirmation that although his kitchen skills may have taken a serious nose dive, this version of Clint Barton is warm, solid, here, and real. She has been ready to admit to herself for some time now that it had been the breezy manifestation of Clint's spirit that had first attracted her, but there is no question that the far more complex and complete person beside her is intoxicating - and that his physical presence has definite advantages.
Advantages they have enjoyed rather frequently in the days since the return from orbit and SHIELD's helicarrier. Being able to tell him what she wants and when she wants it, with the touch of his rough-yet-tender hands and talented mouth the only repercussion, has been a genuine revelation.
He picks her up, sets her on the counter, and steps between her legs. Deepening their kiss, he pulls her closer…Natasha is just about to melt into a puddle of wants when the doorbell rings.
"Shit." Clint sighs with regret as she disengages and heads for the door. "But I guess we do owe everyone a dinner and an open door."
Maria, Sam, and Miyazaki have arrived together, but Maria is first through the door, carrying a bottle and a gift bag.
"Found this great pair of pants in a second-hand boho shop," she stage-whispers as she hands the bag to Natasha. "Thought you might miss them."
She casts a critical eye around Natasha's quarters.
"They let you keep the decor!" she exclaims. "I thought they'd take that down before the hearings are done. Preemptive punishment, for making Sitwell look like the incompetent buffoon that he is."
"He tried, apparently." Natasha's eyes acquire an evil glint. "But HR told him that Mission Control powers don't extend to wall paper. I think they even want to copy the colours for the other quarters - something about mental health?"
"Just wait till he finds out you're quitting," Sam chimes in. "I'm kind of jealous, actually. Chasing alien evil-doers sounds like fun."
Clint has finished pouring three more glasses, emptying the bottle. He tosses it into the recycling bin over his head without looking, earning a slightly envious stare from Miyazaki.
"You know," he says, "there'll be a place for you guys at SHIELD any time, if NASA gives you grief over how that last mission ended up. From what I've seen, Maria would probably run the whole outfit inside a month."
Natasha raises her glass in a toast.
"To the unexpected," she says.
Clint raises his in return.
"And to rubbing people the right way."