Chapter 2
Phil is surprisingly accepting of the whole… idea. When Clint gets transferred over to Fury, he expects a whole tirade and maybe a strong persuasion to leave his two-week notice on Hill’s desk.
All he gets is a “I knew you’d make the right decision” and a notification that a plane’s coming to pick them up in an hour or two. Rom— Natasha watches him the whole time, snorting occasionally at Clint’s words and reactions and, sometimes, what people are saying on the other side of the phone. How strong is this girl’s hearing?
Clint ignores her in favor of heading to pack his room. Natasha follows him. She’s moving slower and Clint chalks that up to still being wary, but mostly ignores her as he shoves clothes into his bags.
“We can stop by wherever you’re staying,” he offers. “Grab your stuff. Or you can go and we’ll wait. Whatever works.”
She examines his room and him and everything, still not looking perfectly comfortable. Still looking like she wants to fight, still looking like she’s waiting for him to change his mind and pull his bow or a knife or something like that.
Clint decides right then and there that if he ever meets whoever made this girl so wary, he will murder them slow and painful and take whatever demerit SHIELD gives him with a smile.
“We won’t be going back to my apartment,” she decides. “I don’t need anything there.”
Clint blinks. Nods. “Cool. Okay. We— yeah, we don’t have to go back to your place. I… I’ll text Maria, she can probably get you new stuff soon. Don’t worry about it.”
———
A private car picks them up from Clint’s safehouse. Clint tosses his bags in the back and opens the door for Natasha— the thing’s basically a limo, ‘cause the ride to the airport itself is nearly two hours. And it’s SHIELD, they’re over-the-top whenever they can.
Natasha sits on the opposite side of the car from Clint, and Clint all but ignores her as they drive. It’s not to be rude. He knows she’ll feel better not being scrutinized, knows how it feels to have eyes on him constantly. He’s just better at it. circus performer, and all.
When they get to the airport, a jet’s waiting for them. Natasha insists on inspecting it, all but intimidating the pilot out of the cockpit to look at it. She returns minutes later, nodding at the pilot and curling herself up on one of the seats.
Clint risks sitting down next to her, wary of the gun still in its holster at her side. He made a point to remove all his weapons, but she very much didn’t follow suit, and he can’t blame her. She doesn’t protest as he sits down, though.
“…Hello.” she says warily.
“Hey.” he beams right back. She risks a small smile at him. “Uh— you’ve been going along with this really easy. I— I know you’re, y’know,” he gestures at her, “Black Widow, spy-assassin-seductress… whatever supreme, but you can ask questions. You won’t get hurt for asking questions. Believe me, it weirded me out at first, too.”
She smiles a little at that. Shifts in her seat so her and Clint are eye level. “Tell me more about SHIELD. About who you work for.” It doesn’t sound entirely like a question, but it’s progress! Which is good! Black Widow talking is very good, even if it sounds like she’s interrogating him minus the bright light thing. Like they have in the detective movies— he’s getting off-track, ew.
“Well. Uh.” He blinks. “SHIELD stands for— the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. It’s kinda the CIA but technically for the whole world—“
“I know that,” she interrupts, frowning at him squintily. “I want what you know. I want what about this organization convinced you to join. Not what they give out freely.”
She’s talking. She’s asking questions. They’re slightly scary questions, but they’re questions. “Uh…” Clint pauses. Thinks. What can I tell her?
“Well. It’s— they’re great guys. And I’m being serious there,” he adds, seeing her skepticism. “So serious. I know that you’re… uh. Trained. Like that. But they’re not like that, here. Especially not Fury— he’s the Director, and he’s great. Kinda objectively terrifying because he’s, like, super no-nonsense and always frowning and has this badass eyepatch, but he’s real nice. So is Maria, and Phil— you’ll love Phil. He’s epic.”
He’s rambling. He shuts his mouth. She squints at him.
“Okay,” is all she says, and they both stay quiet.
———-
Phil’s waiting for them on the runway. Natasha skulks, staring at Phil with wary eyes and a hand near her holster and barely relaxes at all when Clint gives Phil a side-hug, or when the man smiles at her.
“Black Widow,” he offers, holding out a hand. She doesn’t take it. He drops it, smile straining a little, glancing at Clint in what’s totally an Are you for real look.
“Agent Phil Coulson,” she mimicks, looking him up and down. Doesn’t smile. Phil sighs and nods, glancing at the waiting car.
“C’mon,” he says with a groan as he takes one of Clint’s bags from him. “Holy hell, Barton, what do you pack— car’s waiting. Let’s go.”
Natasha follows quietly. She sits next to Clint, staying generally as far away from Phil as she can, but Clint can tell that Phil doesn’t take it personally. She’s… the Black Widow. Her whole thing is not trusting anyone ever, he’s pretty sure. He doesn’t actually know what they get up to at the Red Room.
But he won’t ask. She’d probably beat his ass into the sun if he did. So he turns down his hearing aids and relaxes against his seat, tipping his head back to sleep.
———
They avoid Fury when they get in. Nothing against the guy— Fury’s great, in Clint’s personal opinion, coolest motherfucker out there— but he’s got no clue how Natasha would actually react to someone in… such a high place of power. So he just messages Fury and walks along, ignoring the way Natasha follows him a pace behind like a murderous baby duck.
“Alright,” Clint says dramatically, throwing open the door to his actual room at the Compound. “This is my room. And— I guess yours too, until they can get one set up. you’re kinda seriously spur-of-the-moment.” He walks in and drops his bags, Natasha following. She shuts the door behind them.
Clint doesn’t pay attention to her for a few minutes as he works to unpack his bags and put stuff away. When he finally gets that over with, he turns back towards her, and she’s— very close. Makes him jump.
She puts her hands on his hips. Clint swallows thickly, confused and worried and what is this girl doing— and then she gets on her knees and her hands go to his fly and Oh.
“Woah, woah,” he says immediately, grabbing her wrists. “Nope. No thank you. I— what are you doing? Please don’t do that. Thank you.” He’s rambling.
She looks genuinely confused and it kind of makes his heart hurt. “I’m— thanking you,” she says slowly, as if he’s confused. “You’re letting me stay in your room. Am I— would you like to initiate?”
Oh, he doesn’t like that.
He shakes his head. wraps his hands under her armpits and lifts her up, setting her back on his feet. “Um. No. Natasha— Natasha, you don’t need to ‘thank’ me for letting you stay. Do you want to— do that?”
She pauses. Tips her head as she looks at him. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
Clint shakes his head. Hard. “No— no, no, it very much does. Technically right now everything matters about what you want. I can get you a different room if you’re worried, but please don’t think you have to— suck me off or something. Oh my god, please never think that.”
They stare at each other for a long moment. “…Okay,” Natasha decides, and Clint breathes out slowly. “Where am I sleeping?”
“Uh.” He blinks. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. Um, the bed? Bed works. I’ll take the couch.”
“It’s your bed.”
“Not while you’re here. It’s— polite, I guess?” He’s never had to do polite. He has no clue what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to deal with a probably severely traumatized assassin who apparently thinks sex is the correct way to ‘thank’ someone for something. Maybe it’s because he’s a guy. Maybe it’s because he’s technically of a higher rank than her. He decides not to think about it. “I mean, again, whatever you want. Your choice.”
“I’ll take the bed.”
“Okay! Uh, cool.” Clint nods. Natasha’s in the soft clothes he already lent her still. He gestures awkwardly at the bathroom. “Shower’s in there. Go ahead and— wash yourself off, I guess. There are towels, too.”
“…I need clothes.” She tips her head at him. He nods again, trying not to speedwalk over to his closet to pull out sweats and some stupid graphic tee. He holds them out to her and she takes them with a nod. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He has no idea what to do with his hands.
———
The shower runs for a while. Clint doesn’t care. SHIELD’s got basically unlimited hot water, perks of being the literal government, and he doesn’t mind the white noise as he cleans up the room a little.
When she steps out, finally, her hair is still a little damp but she’s in the sweatpants and t-shirt, and Clint smiles at her. She smiles back, closed-mouthed, and he takes what he can get. He gestures at the bed— made, for once.
“Uh. You can sleep there, if you want. I’m goin’ to bed. It’s… I don’t know how late.”
She nods. Clint turns off the lights and lies down on the couch, and Natasha slips under the covers. It kind of reminds Clint of at the circus or in the foster homes, sharing a room with Barney and comfortable in the sound of another person’s breathing.
“Night, Natasha,” he mumbles before he can think better of it. A few quiet moments later—
“Goodnight, Clint.”