The diner is quiet. They’re in the grey area between the breakfast rush and the start of lunch, and there are only a few people in the booths, scattered here and there around the large space.
Natasha can see one of her favourite regulars, dozing quietly with his head on his arm. She doesn’t know what Clint does for a living, or why he always looks like he’s come directly from losing a fight with a small truck, or why he has never managed to get through his first coffee without falling asleep in his booth, but she doesn’t need to know all of that. If she asked questions of all her customers, her business wouldn’t be nearly as successful as it is now.
She takes the fresh pot of coffee over to his table and quietly refills his cup, trying not to wake him.
“Didn’t pay for bottomless coffee,” he mumbles, without opening his eyes. She gives a soft huff of a laugh, and finishes topping him off.
“No,” she shrugs. “But it’s quiet, and you clearly need it.”
He opens his eyes and glances up at her, as if he’s ready to deflect questions. She doesn’t ask any, though. She wonders how many more times he’ll come in and fall asleep in her diner before he starts to trust that she doesn’t care where he comes from or what he does, as long as he tips well and winks at her occasionally.
“I got beat down pretty bad,” he yawns. “I think I broke a rib.”
“Pretty sure you need more than coffee to fix that.”
He shrugs, and winces at the movement. “Probably.”
“Can I get you something full of butter and bacon?” she asks, tucking her hair behind one ear.
“I love you, Tasha.”
“Wow, you really got no sleep, huh?”
“I’m running on fumes.”
She laughs again. “I’ll have Steve whip you up some of his waffles with everything.”
“Steve? Isn’t Bucky supposed to work Wednesdays?”
“Bucky’s off for a while,” she says. Her some-time-part-time chef was a man with a hell of a lot in his past that he never talked about, but just because she didn’t know what exactly had happened to him didn’t mean she didn’t grant him extra leave whenever he needed it. Steve had given her the bare boned details of Bucky’s former life, and she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to hear the full story.
“That’s too bad,” Clint says, his voice a little quieter. “Hope he’s back soon.”
“So do I,” she sighs. “The oldies have been clamouring for his grilled cheeses all week.”
She heads to the kitchen, pulling the tie out of her hair so she can pull it back a little tighter.
“Is that that Clint guy out there?” Steve asks, emerging from the walk-in. “How’s he looking?”
“Like he got hit by a train,” Natasha sighs. “He’s going to turn up dead in our dumpster one day.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Steve shrugs. “Well, not dead, but…”
“Could you make him some waffles? Extra bacon.”
“You got it, boss. You gonna talk to him today?”
“Already talked to him,” she says, dodging the question and heading towards the walk-in to re-check their inventory for the day.
“I will give you fifty bucks to walk out there and ask him out.”
“Give it a rest, Rogers.”
“I’m serious, Nat,” Steve says, propping the door open with his foot as she walks into the cool room. “I know the wounded antihero thing does it for you, why don’t you ask him out?”
“Honestly?” she murmurs. “Because I kind of feel like he has something to do with the mafia. And I don’t need that here. Not when we have a loyal geriatric customer base.”
“The gerries wouldn’t even notice if mafiosos turned up on the regular,” Steve sighs. “Come on, Nat. So what if he’s mafia? You were mafia once.”
“It wasn’t the mafia, moron.”
“Well, whatever. Russian intelligence.”
“I wasn’t a Russian spy, Steve.”
“Whatever you say, comrade.”
She throws a dish towel at him, and he laughs, throwing it over his shoulder.
“Go ask him out,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Do it for the fifty bucks.”
“You don’t have fifty bucks.”
“Fine, you can give me fifty bucks, and then I’ll give it back to you.”
She groans, and heads back out to the front to rearrange the pastry display. After five minutes, Steve has a large serve of his waffles with a ridiculously big pile of bacon on a plate. She takes the coffee pot and the plate and takes them back over to Clint, who has managed to wake up a little more.
“Here,” she says, setting down his plate and filling his cup again. “Hey… I was wondering-”
“If I want to get a drink sometime?” Clint grins, winking at her.
“Actually-”
“Oh my God,” Clint gapes. “You were wondering that? Holy shit. I was joking.”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, that’s… yeah, never mind.”
“No, no- Tasha, wait. I just meant because I figured you were way out of my league.”
“I run a diner, Clint,” she laughs.
“So you do want to get a drink with me?”
“I’d like that.”
He’s staring like he can’t believe his luck, and that makes her feel pretty special for a moment, before she remembers he’s probably a lowlife mafia lackey, albeit a slightly awkward and deceptively sweet one.
“How about tomorrow night?” she asks. “I knock off at nine.”
“Nine it is,” he nods, looking adorably eager. “I’ll see you then.”
“Enjoy your waffles,” she grins, winking at him. She heads back into the kitchen, and hands Steve a fifty. He grins, and hands it back to her.
Stockholm Syndrome
Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic
1,572 words
-
He didn’t even see her coming, which was embarrassing. Given that he was a highly regarded covert agent, trained in God knows how many different forms of combat, the fact that she managed to sneak up on him was something he was never going to live down.
When Clint’s head hit concrete, he was out cold in an instant.
He woke to a splitting headache, and to the alarming feeling of something covering his mouth. His hands and feet were bound together somehow, and when he managed to worm his tongue between his lips, he guessed that his captor’s tool of choice had been duct tape. His head throbbed, and there was only a dim light to see by. He squinted in the near-darkness, and could just make out a figure sitting at a desk with their back to him, lit by a glowing computer monitor.
He made an angry growling sound, and the figure stood, turned, and walked purposefully towards him. When she knelt beside him, and her features were lit by what Clint guessed was a candle flickering somewhere, he didn’t have to think twice about who was in front of him.
She reached out and ripped the tape off his mouth.
“Ow,” he complained. She raised an eyebrow, and he imitated her expression.
“Clint Barton,” she said. He felt a slight thrill run through him at the sound of her voice - he was the first SHIELD agent to hear it. He was the first to discover what she looked like.
“Natalia Romanov,” he murmured. “It’s an honour.”
“I go by Natasha in this country,” she said, shifting back onto her heels as she watched him.
“Why am I not dead yet?” he asked. His voice sounded thick somehow. He suspected he was suffering from a mild concussion, and possibly blood loss.
“Because you’re my bargaining chip,” she answered. A strand of hair fell over one eye, and Clint found himself wishing his hands weren’t bound, so he could tuck it behind her ear.
“You look different to how I imagined,” he said idly. She quirked her eyebrow again, and he chuckled.
“Different how?” she asked.
“All the reports describe you as looking like a really high-class whore,” he told her, earning himself a sharp glare. “No- like, not in a bad way. Well kind of in a bad way. You’re just not quite the picture of a maneater I had in mind.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she shrugged. “I haven’t had access to makeup for a while.”
“You’re not wearing makeup?” Clint spluttered. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
“I must have hit you harder than I thought,” she muttered, and stood. She taped his mouth again, much to Clint’s annoyance, but not before she slipped a painkiller into his mouth. His grateful smile was taped in place.
For a few hours he listened as she spoke in Russian to someone on the other end of a phone call. From his basic grasp on the language, he could tell she was bartering for his life. Somehow, he wasn’t worried.
She ripped off the tape again when she was done talking.
“Your boss doesn’t want to play ball,” she said. “I’m going to have to let you talk to him.”
She pressed a cellphone to his ear.
“Barton? Is that you?” It was Fury. Clint had no idea how the Black Widow had managed to call Nick Fury - no one called Nick Fury, not ever.
“It’s me,” he said.
“What is your situation?”
Clint glanced at Natasha. She pressed the phone harder into his ear.
“Ow,” he grumbled. “Stoppit. I’m okay. I’m safe.”
“Can you escape?”
Natasha had clearly heard that, because she promptly sat on his thighs, pinning him to the ground. Clint had to fight the urge to comment on it.
“No,” he said clearly. Natasha took the phone from him, and began to talk rapidly. Clint made a small noise when she stood up, and she glared at him again, slapping the tape back onto his mouth.
-
She had evidently reached an agreement when Clint saw the sun peeking through a window. He could finally see the room they were in; a little shack somewhere, presumably in the middle of nowhere. A few hours into the morning he was unceremoniously hauled upright - she cut the tape on his ankles so he could walk - and blindfolded on the walk out to a car. Within another hour they were out on an empty highway, and Clint had managed to work the tape loose from his mouth.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
He felt her jump, and smiled at the thought that he had surprised her.
“Do what?” came the curt reply.
“Trade me off for a ticket out of the country,” he said. She stiffened - the car was too small for him not to feel the movement.
“I didn’t know you spoke Russian.”
He felt a tug on his head, and the blindfold came off. He blinked in the dazzling sunlight, and focused on Natasha, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses and her red hair blowing in the breeze from the open window.
“I speak enough,” he shrugged. He watched her for a few moments. “Come to SHIELD.”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I’m still not sure they won’t shoot me as soon as I show up with you,” she said.
“They won’t,” he reassured her. “You’re too valuable an asset.”
She was silent, and he bit his lip. “I’ve read your file. I know about Stalingrad, and the Black Widow program-”
The car swerved, and Clint was jerked against the window, banging his aching head against the glass.
“You know nothing,” she said, quietly. “You are an American agent with a head injury. You and I will never see each other again.”
“I know enough,” he said, just as quietly. “Natasha...”
“No,” she snapped. “This is how it must be.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” he murmured. “This is probably the concussion talking, but I don’t like the idea of you being on the run.”
“I can look after myself.”
“I’m not arguing that,” he sighed. “I’m saying that you deserve more.”
Natasha glanced at him. “You don’t really believe that.”
“I do.”
“Stockholm syndrome doesn’t usually develop this fast.”
Clint stopped to think about it. The diagnosis made sense. He had been tracking her for so long it already felt like he knew her.
“So?” he asked. “So what if that’s what it is? You don’t think you’d be better off working for the good guys?”
“SHIELD? The good guys?” she laughed. “You’re more concussed than I gave you credit for.”
They were pulling up at an abandoned gas station. She got out of the car, and dragged him out. He turned, so they were standing just inches apart.
“Tell me you don’t want to work for SHIELD,” he said.
“I don’t want to work for SHIELD,” she replied, stonily. He deflated a little, and sat on the curb, waiting.
“They won’t be here for a couple of hours,” she said, and sat next to him. “Why haven’t you tried to run yet?”
“Because I don’t think you’ll kill me.”
She raised an eyebrow again. He’d only known her for under a day, and he already loved the way she did that.
“I’m serious,” he said. “And not just because I’m your only way out of the States.”
“Why, then?” she asked, folding her arms.
“Because you feel it too.”
“What are you, a teenage girl?” she demanded. “You’re my hostage, Barton.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“What are you saying?” she asked. “That you’re not?”
“No,” he replied easily. “I’m not.”
The doors to the station behind them burst open, and SHIELD agents began to pour out. Heavily armed teams began to emerge from behind the building. Clint grinned smugly at her, but he faltered when he saw the distraught expression on her face. Three sniper dots had already appeared on her chest, and they were being joined by more every second. Clint stood, and an agent ran to him and slashed the tape holding his wrists together.
“Thanks, Randy, that was killing me,” Clint said, rubbing his forearms. “Sorry, Romanoff.”
She was on her knees, hands in the air.
“Well played,” she admitted. Her voice was heavy. Clint knelt in front of her.
“You can still walk out of this,” he told her. “You can still come with us.”
“No,” she said. It was definite, and there was no fear in her voice; just resignation. She was ready to die.
An agent stepped forward and put a gun to the back of her head. She closed her eyes.
“Stop.”
The agent faltered. Clint waved him off and he stepped back, confused.
“Permission to bring Romanoff in as a captive,” Clint said, speaking into the nearest commlink. The agent wearing it nodded as permission came in from above, and he cuffed Natasha.
“This is worse,” she said quietly, as he helped her to her feet.
“What?” he asked. They were walking towards the vans now.
“Than shooting me in the back of the head,” she said coldly, as she was herded into the van. The door slammed shut, and Clint was left staring.
“We’ll see about that,” he murmured, the barest hint of a smile on his face as he joined his fellow agents in the next vehicle. “We’ll just see.”
When Natasha woke, her head ached and her mouth felt dry, as if she were hungover. She sat up, trying to remember if she’d been drinking the night before. The team had all been in the large lounge on the top floor, but no... they hadn’t been drinking.
With a start, she realised that she wasn’t in her room. She was in a bedroom she didn’t recognise - and there had clearly been someone else here recently. She could see bits and pieces of men’s clothing here and there - a pair of jeans too large for her, a shirt... what the hell was going on?
Someone came through the door and she tensed. She felt a flood of relief when Clint walked in, carrying two cups of tea and wearing a warm smile. Then her mind connected the dots and she felt her chest tighten. They hadn’t... had they?
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Clint said, handing her one cup and kissing her forehead. Natasha was too shocked to do anything. She held her tea tightly and looked around for any clues as to where they were. Had Clint ever mentioned having a place of his own? She didn’t think so, but she wasn’t sure.
“You might want to drink that before Charlie wakes up,” Clint chuckled. Natasha frowned.
Her unasked question was answered when a young boy bounded into the bedroom. “Daddy!” he grinned, leaping onto the bed. Natasha hastily put her untouched tea down on the nightstand and stared as Clint tackled the squealing boy in a bear hug.
“Morning, kiddo,” he grinned, kissing the boy on the forehead. “Did you sleep well?”
Natasha by now was beyond confused. She looked from the boy to Clint. There was no denying that they looked alike - but why would Clint have kept the boy a secret? And who was his mother?
“You gonna say good morning to Mommy?” Clint asked. The boy crawled over to Natasha and flopped onto her stomach, yawning.
“Morning, Mommy,” he beamed. “Can we have pancakes for breakfast?”
Natasha was overcome with a sudden sense of relief. It was a dream. Of course it was a dream. She didn’t have a kid with Clint. She was dreaming.
“Mommy?” Charlie asked, tilting his head.
“Uh... sure,” Natasha said, taking stock of the boy. He did look a bit like her.
“Careful, Charlie,” Clint chided. “Don’t press on Mommy’s tummy. Your little sister doesn’t like it.”
This only confused Natasha more, until she looked down. Sure enough, her stomach was curved gently in what could only be the first few months of a pregnancy.
“C’mon, Charlie,” Clint said. “I think Mommy needs a rest. I’ll make pancakes for you.”
The boy squealed excitedly and leapt off the bed. Clint kissed Natasha gently before she could do anything, and then left with the child in tow.
Natasha stared down at her stomach for a moment, then rolled out of bed. She went to the window and opened the curtains, then stared uncomprehendingly out at the view of a suburban street in the early morning. It looked like the outskirts of Brooklyn, but it could have been anywhere. If she was dreaming, this was certainly detailed. If not...
She shook her head. Of course it was a dream. How could it be anything else?
Suddenly, she felt queasy. She breathed deeply, but in seconds she was sprinting to what she correctly assumed to be the bathroom. She was sick, coughing and spluttering as she slumped over the cold rim of the toilet.
The burning sensation in her nose and throat was doing nothing to dispel the dream - it only made it feel more and more real. She pinched herself hard, but it did not disappear. Then she felt a gentle hand on her back.
“Hey,” Clint said softly, stroking her hair back off her face. “You okay?”
She nodded, wiping her mouth with a faint noise of disgust. “Yeah.”
“You seemed a bit off before, was it the sickness?” Clint asked, frowning. “I could go out and get some of those ginger pills you had when you were pregnant with Charlie.”
She looked at him, and there was nothing but love and concern in his eyes. His hand on her back felt good; felt warm... felt real.
She had to know. She was almost certain now that she wasn’t asleep, and that meant that something seriously weird was going on. She needed to find out how much everything had changed.
“Heard from Nick recently?” she asked cautiously, as Clint helped her out of the bathroom.
“Nick?” Clint frowned, thinking. “Is he that dad from the studio?”
She shook her head, wondering what he meant by ‘studio’. “You’ve met Nick. Tall, black, wears a long coat most of the time... only has one eye.”
Clint shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know. I would have remembered him for the eye thing - he sounds a bit like a bad guy from some movie.”
She shrugged, feeling a little unnerved. “And SHIELD?”
“Shield?” he asked, frowning again. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Tasha? I can take Charlie out if you want some rest.”
She shook her head. “No, ignore me, it’s... the hormones.”
He smiled, and kissed her on the head. Once he had left, Natasha began methodically searching the room until she found what she was looking for - her phone. Scrolling through it, she found no trace of any of her team members, nor anyone she had ever known to be associated with SHIELD. Then, halfway through searching for Maria Hill, she almost dropped the phone at the name that popped up on the screen.
“Mom,” she murmured, clutching the phone. A cursory search showed there was a contact for ‘Dad’ as well. With shaking hands, she pressed the number for her mother.
It rang three times before a woman picked up.
“Hello?” she answered. Natasha almost bit through her lip. She knew that voice.
“Mama?” she murmured.
“Tasha!” her mother exclaimed. “How are you, darling?”
Natasha could say nothing.
“Tasha?” the woman asked. “Are you alright, my love?”
“I’m... fine,” Natasha managed to choke out. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“I’m glad you called,” her mother said. “Your father wants to speak to you about taking Charlie to the beach on Saturday.”
There were a few muffled sounds, and then a voice.
“Nattie,” a deep voice greeted her. Natasha pressed her hand to her mouth, trembling.
“Hi, Dad,” she whispered.
“It’s good to hear from you, sweetheart,” her father said. “Now, your mother and I are going to the beach house for the weekend, and we’d be more than happy to take Charlie along with us. You know, to give you and Clint some time to relax.”
“I... yeah, that sounds great, Dad,” Natasha replied, barely able to keep the tremors out of her voice.
“How about we come and pick him up at nine?” her father asked. “He’s always up by then, Clint tells me.”
“That sounds perfect,” Natasha said.
“Alright, my girl,” her father rumbled. “We’ll see you on Saturday morning. We love you.”
“Love you too,” Natasha murmured, and hung up.
-
As the day wore on, Natasha came to a conclusion: this was some sort of parallel to her own world. She had no idea how she had come to be here, but it was vastly different to her life as she knew it. Charlie was a little ball of energy, and Clint’s loving caresses kept taking her completely by surprise.
Being a spy had its advantages - she could avoid having to awkwardly pry information out of Clint by doing some reconnaissance on herself. Based on what she found, she ran a dance studio a couple of miles away, she and Clint had been married seven years, and she was four months pregnant. It was odd to think about, and several times she forgot about her condition, only to be surprised again whenever she looked down.
She could only guess at how long she might be stuck here.
-
When Saturday morning arrived, two days later, Natasha had almost fallen into the rhythm of having a family. She couldn’t shake the nerves she felt when she heard a car pull up in their driveway. It was just on nine when the doorbell rang and Charlie ran squealing to greet his grandparents. Natasha hung back a little as they entered the house, gazing at them.
“Nattie,” her father smiled, scooping her into a bear hug. She melted into his arms and hugged him tightly.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, her chest tight. “Hi Mom.”
Her mother smiled warmly at her, then picked up Charlie.
“You ready to go to the beach, Charlie boy?” she asked.
“Yes!” Charlie exclaimed. Clint passed Natasha’s father Charlie’s bag.
“We should get going if we’re going to get there by lunch time,” her father smiled. “Alright, it was good to see you two. Have fun this weekend.”
“Thanks, guys,” Clint said. They left, and Natasha felt almost bereaved.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Clint said, sliding an arm around her waist. “I ran a bath for you upstairs.”
-
By the time Charlie was returned to them on Sunday night, exhausted and still inexplicably covered in sand, Natasha was completely used to being in a relationship with Clint. If she’d known the sex was this good, she would have pounced on him years ago. Screw professionalism. But now that there was no shared profession, nor any sense of duty or propriety to be observed, she let herself go with whatever happened.
Something that was very new was her own body. Back in her own reality, she was a hand-crafted superhuman, trained and conditioned by the Red Room into a near-indestructible force. Here, she was just as susceptible to things as a regular human, from paper cuts to trouble lifting heavy objects. Clint helped her, but she found she didn’t mind as much as she might have back in her own world. He loved her, and that was why he wanted to help - not out of some misguided sense of masculine duty.
She liked being here, she realised, as she helped Clint wash their son in the bathtub upstairs. She liked having this kid laughing and splashing about. She didn’t mind getting wet, if it meant seeing the warm smile on Clint’s face. And she was starting to become attached to the daughter growing inside her. A part of her was still screaming that it was all an illusion, but it was like a never ending perfect dream for Natasha - so she ignored that little voice of warning and began to believe that it was real.
-
Her work was enjoyable as well. The kids at the dance studio were happy, and tried hard for her. They loved her, and the adoration of children was something she had never had before. She liked that too.
After a week of living like a normal person, the memories of her old life were beginning to fade. She was lying on the couch with her head in Clint’s lap, half watching a movie while he played with her hair.
“I love you,” she said suddenly. For her, it was the first time she’d said it. Clint just smiled as if he heard it all the time, and dipped down to kiss her gently.
“I love you too, Tasha,” he smiled. In that instant, Natasha knew she would be happy staying here forever. This was the life she had never wanted until now, but now she had tasted it, she didn’t want to let it go. She drifted off in Clint’s lap to the sound of the movie ending, and was only vaguely aware of him carrying her to bed before the world faded away.
-
Natasha woke to dim light. She reached out for Clint, and found the bed empty. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and found herself back in her room. Her room. Her Stark Tower room.
She leaped out of bed and hurried down to the kitchen. Her heart dropped when she saw Steve pouring out a glass of juice and Tony reading the paper at the table.
“Hey, Romanoff,” Tony greeted her.
“Have you guys seen Clint?” she asked breathlessly.
“I think he was in the training rooms,” Steve said, giving her a puzzled frown. He didn’t have time to ask why she was looking for the archer before she ran out again.
Clint was at the weights bench when Natasha stopped in the doorway, panting.
“Tasha?” he frowned. “Are you okay?”
He stood up and she ran to him, flinging her arms around him. She felt him tense for a moment, then cautiously hug her back. She could feel him radiating confusion - she had never hugged him before.
She pulled back, wiping her eyes. “If you had a son, what would you call him?”
“What?” Clint asked, beyond confused now. “Natasha, are you alright?”
“Answer the question, Clint,” she growled, still gripping his forearms.
He thought for a moment. “Charlie,” he answered at last. “I’d call my son Charlie.”
She pressed herself into his arms and kissed him sweetly. If Clint had been confused before, he was completely shocked at this point. But as Natasha kissed him, his arms instinctively went around her and he kissed her back.
“Nat,” he gasped, as they broke apart. “What... what...”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, cupping his cheek. “‘I’ve been an idiot. You and I are meant to be together.”
He gazed at her for a long moment. “Yes,” he replied finally. “Yes we are.”
She grinned, and he wrapped her in a tight embrace.
