I ALLOW MYSELF
marvel. 1475 words. gen.
natasha. clint, steve, sam, wanda.
ao3 link.
summary:Natasha was the only one in control now.
note: for![]()
thecruelone! My goal with this was to sort of check in with Natasha in the in-betweens – after she left the Red Room, after she joined SHIELD, in between each movie. Natasha's downtime, and the people she connects with during. (Also Clint is comic!Clint not movie!Clint ofc.)
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The life Natasha was born to was regimented, and sometimes hungry, and often cold. Natasha was not the kind of person who dwelt on disparities or fished for pity, but she could state those simple facts. It was easier not to think when you had a series of specific goals to hit minute by minute, day by day. Hunger never really became easier to ignore. The cold kept your mind sharp, and work warmed you up.
She would admit that at times her upbringing had made it difficult to indulge in small luxuries.
When she first came to SHIELD, she would get breakfast in the cafeteria. Black coffee, a protein shake, and dry toast. Clint would tag along, though whether it was for company (a notion of responsibility for Natasha that she would disabuse him of in a year's time) or because he likely would neglect breakfast unless someone else was providing it. Clint was the kind of person who thought of nutrition in terms of whether four day old pizza was too old or not.
One day Clint set a cinnamon bun on their table, dripping icing. Natasha looked from it to him and raised an eyebrow with all the slowness of a glacier. "What am I supposed to do with this," she said.
"Eat it," Clint told her. He cut it down the middle with a plastic knife, and then fitted his entire half into his mouth like a snake unhinging its jaws. Through crumbs he sputtered, "S'good."
Natasha looked at it again, and all she could think was that it was so frivolous, so absurd, a pastry for breakfast. She had been all over the world, on missions and alone, so it wasn't exactly a surprise, but it felt at that moment strangely like she was Alice in Wonderland.
Natasha ate it.
When she and Steve got sent down to D.C. Natasha knew only that he would be professional and dedicated, which was all she needed to know to work with him mission to mission. He was certainly more reliable than Clint, but she imagined a good deal less fun too.
But she got curious about Steve. It was impossible not to. He showed up to work every time with his game face on, his jaw clenched and shoulders squared, determined and direct. He smiled when someone made a joke and was free with his own unexpected sarcasm, but Natasha was good at learning people's tells and she knew none of it was touching him. He was removed. He had been removed from the world for a very long time.
Once, early on, Clint had asked what she did on the weekends. Drills, she had said. Exercises. Clean my guns. Research. Clint said she could do better than that, couldn't she?
Once, early on, she asked Steve what he did on the weekends. Oh, I run, he said. I walk. I learn the neighborhood. I study. I go to the gym.
Natasha gave him a slight smile. "You can do better than that, can't you?"
There was a little bit of a shift in his face then, a clearing of the eyes that Natasha interpreted as the first time either of them looked beyond the co-worker blinkers. "I don't know, you tell me," Steve said with a shrug and a disarming smile, right back into his Nice Boss routine. Well – maybe not entirely. "Got any ideas?"
Sam called her once a week from wherever it was he and Steve had ended up, occasionally from a different number, often on a shitty connection. But Natasha appreciated it.
"How you doing?" he always asked first, in greeting, often sounding warped or staticky due to distance. Natasha appreciated that too; it was a question not everyone asked.
"Good, but I've been better," she said, or some variation thereof, and, "How's the search?"
"Searching," Sam might have said, with a laugh, if it had been an unremarkable day. If it had gone badly, she would receive a sigh that spoke volumes.
Sam wasn't a guy who was after a pep talk and there was something about his easy openness that defied the need for chitchat. Sam was the kind of person you had deep conversations with over coffee in rooms with intimate lighting, which had put Natasha ill at ease sometimes, privately. There was still something in her that resisted that.
At first she wasn't sure why Sam was calling her, exactly. It wasn't to talk about Steve, not really; Sam would mention him, keep her updated, but they could also go whole conversations without his name coming up. Talk of their search was kept veiled and minimal. He did not solicit Natasha's advice or dig in for information.
It took her a stupidly long time to come to the conclusion that Sam just liked her conversation. And after that realization, just like she feared, Natasha gave in to it.
Even with people she dated, Natasha had never been particularly forthcoming, not in the way of daily confessions of minutiae. But Sam appeared genuinely interested in Natasha's stories of a woman who was rude to her at the grocery store, or the book she was reading, the really good food she'd gotten one night. Natasha had never dealt in trivialities. She never placed any importance on them. But Sam's sure and consistent interest in the nonsense of her life was, in a strange way, comforting.
Sometimes Natasha would catch Wanda in the cafeteria of the new base very early in the morning. She didn't paint a lonely picture; Wanda was always visibly busy, reading or toying with something, plastic cutlery floating around her or saltshaker dancing along the tabletop. She ate oatmeal, toast with a thin spreading of butter, coffee with whole milk. It was not the same.
But all the same Natasha found herself repeating past patterns.
Natasha put down a cinnamon bun, then peeled off a segment for herself. "So what do you do on weekends?"
Wanda lifted her eyebrows. "I wouldn't bother trying this kind of casual therapy on me. Wilson already does it every chance he gets."
"Sam's just nice," Natasha said. "Believe me. I know that's like someone telling you unicorns exist, but it's the truth. God's honest."
Wanda was already softer than Natasha had ever been, but that wasn't a dig; she knew Wanda was not to be trifled with. It was only that Wanda had grown up with someone who loved her and her grief was fresh and no one had ever taught her that it was better not to feel anything. Sugared icing on pastry would not be a turning point for her.
"Are you?"
It was not a question Natasha expected. "Am I what?"
"Nice," Wanda said. "Is this casual therapy, or are you here as a spy, to figure me out?"
"None of the above," Natasha told her. "But a little bit of mystery is sort of my thing."
"Sometimes I wonder if you and the Captain try to play good cop/bad cop," Wanda mused. "But he is always too good and you are never bad enough."
"I could do worse if you think it would be effective for you."
Wanda smiled a little. Wanda didn't reserve smiles, but they never took away the gleam of sadness in her eyes either. "No, I'm alright."
"I keep telling Steve we ought to put up a suggestion box," Natasha said, dry as toast, and Wanda's mouth gave another amused twist.
Natasha respected Wanda's ability to carry so much suffering around with her and still survive. She thought that might be the thing that banded them together more than silly costumes and global tragedies.
"I'm trying to be nice," Natasha said. "Is that good enough for now?"
Wanda smiled again. "I suppose we'll see."
Natasha's life was quieter than one might expect from an international spy and former assassin. She kept spare, undecorated apartments because she changed them often. The things she carried from place to place could fit inside one suitcase. In the mornings she ran and went to early yoga classes, picked up tea and a protein muffin from wherever was nearest this week. Natasha was good at going unnoticed, had trained in it, and she was able to keep her daily life unhampered even with a public profile.
It was indulgent for Natasha to do these things, to live like a person and not a soldier. There were times when she caught herself getting angry over it, sniping at herself for stupid things, wanting a blueberry muffin instead, sleeping in for fifteen extra minutes. She had to remind herself that normalcies were something she had earned, though such things did not really need to be earned. She could just have them if she wanted. That was her right.
Natasha was the only one in control now.
marvel. 1475 words. gen.
natasha. clint, steve, sam, wanda.
ao3 link.
summary:Natasha was the only one in control now.
note: for
thecruelone! My goal with this was to sort of check in with Natasha in the in-betweens – after she left the Red Room, after she joined SHIELD, in between each movie. Natasha's downtime, and the people she connects with during. (Also Clint is comic!Clint not movie!Clint ofc.)
The life Natasha was born to was regimented, and sometimes hungry, and often cold. Natasha was not the kind of person who dwelt on disparities or fished for pity, but she could state those simple facts. It was easier not to think when you had a series of specific goals to hit minute by minute, day by day. Hunger never really became easier to ignore. The cold kept your mind sharp, and work warmed you up.
She would admit that at times her upbringing had made it difficult to indulge in small luxuries.
When she first came to SHIELD, she would get breakfast in the cafeteria. Black coffee, a protein shake, and dry toast. Clint would tag along, though whether it was for company (a notion of responsibility for Natasha that she would disabuse him of in a year's time) or because he likely would neglect breakfast unless someone else was providing it. Clint was the kind of person who thought of nutrition in terms of whether four day old pizza was too old or not.
One day Clint set a cinnamon bun on their table, dripping icing. Natasha looked from it to him and raised an eyebrow with all the slowness of a glacier. "What am I supposed to do with this," she said.
"Eat it," Clint told her. He cut it down the middle with a plastic knife, and then fitted his entire half into his mouth like a snake unhinging its jaws. Through crumbs he sputtered, "S'good."
Natasha looked at it again, and all she could think was that it was so frivolous, so absurd, a pastry for breakfast. She had been all over the world, on missions and alone, so it wasn't exactly a surprise, but it felt at that moment strangely like she was Alice in Wonderland.
Natasha ate it.
When she and Steve got sent down to D.C. Natasha knew only that he would be professional and dedicated, which was all she needed to know to work with him mission to mission. He was certainly more reliable than Clint, but she imagined a good deal less fun too.
But she got curious about Steve. It was impossible not to. He showed up to work every time with his game face on, his jaw clenched and shoulders squared, determined and direct. He smiled when someone made a joke and was free with his own unexpected sarcasm, but Natasha was good at learning people's tells and she knew none of it was touching him. He was removed. He had been removed from the world for a very long time.
Once, early on, Clint had asked what she did on the weekends. Drills, she had said. Exercises. Clean my guns. Research. Clint said she could do better than that, couldn't she?
Once, early on, she asked Steve what he did on the weekends. Oh, I run, he said. I walk. I learn the neighborhood. I study. I go to the gym.
Natasha gave him a slight smile. "You can do better than that, can't you?"
There was a little bit of a shift in his face then, a clearing of the eyes that Natasha interpreted as the first time either of them looked beyond the co-worker blinkers. "I don't know, you tell me," Steve said with a shrug and a disarming smile, right back into his Nice Boss routine. Well – maybe not entirely. "Got any ideas?"
Sam called her once a week from wherever it was he and Steve had ended up, occasionally from a different number, often on a shitty connection. But Natasha appreciated it.
"How you doing?" he always asked first, in greeting, often sounding warped or staticky due to distance. Natasha appreciated that too; it was a question not everyone asked.
"Good, but I've been better," she said, or some variation thereof, and, "How's the search?"
"Searching," Sam might have said, with a laugh, if it had been an unremarkable day. If it had gone badly, she would receive a sigh that spoke volumes.
Sam wasn't a guy who was after a pep talk and there was something about his easy openness that defied the need for chitchat. Sam was the kind of person you had deep conversations with over coffee in rooms with intimate lighting, which had put Natasha ill at ease sometimes, privately. There was still something in her that resisted that.
At first she wasn't sure why Sam was calling her, exactly. It wasn't to talk about Steve, not really; Sam would mention him, keep her updated, but they could also go whole conversations without his name coming up. Talk of their search was kept veiled and minimal. He did not solicit Natasha's advice or dig in for information.
It took her a stupidly long time to come to the conclusion that Sam just liked her conversation. And after that realization, just like she feared, Natasha gave in to it.
Even with people she dated, Natasha had never been particularly forthcoming, not in the way of daily confessions of minutiae. But Sam appeared genuinely interested in Natasha's stories of a woman who was rude to her at the grocery store, or the book she was reading, the really good food she'd gotten one night. Natasha had never dealt in trivialities. She never placed any importance on them. But Sam's sure and consistent interest in the nonsense of her life was, in a strange way, comforting.
Sometimes Natasha would catch Wanda in the cafeteria of the new base very early in the morning. She didn't paint a lonely picture; Wanda was always visibly busy, reading or toying with something, plastic cutlery floating around her or saltshaker dancing along the tabletop. She ate oatmeal, toast with a thin spreading of butter, coffee with whole milk. It was not the same.
But all the same Natasha found herself repeating past patterns.
Natasha put down a cinnamon bun, then peeled off a segment for herself. "So what do you do on weekends?"
Wanda lifted her eyebrows. "I wouldn't bother trying this kind of casual therapy on me. Wilson already does it every chance he gets."
"Sam's just nice," Natasha said. "Believe me. I know that's like someone telling you unicorns exist, but it's the truth. God's honest."
Wanda was already softer than Natasha had ever been, but that wasn't a dig; she knew Wanda was not to be trifled with. It was only that Wanda had grown up with someone who loved her and her grief was fresh and no one had ever taught her that it was better not to feel anything. Sugared icing on pastry would not be a turning point for her.
"Are you?"
It was not a question Natasha expected. "Am I what?"
"Nice," Wanda said. "Is this casual therapy, or are you here as a spy, to figure me out?"
"None of the above," Natasha told her. "But a little bit of mystery is sort of my thing."
"Sometimes I wonder if you and the Captain try to play good cop/bad cop," Wanda mused. "But he is always too good and you are never bad enough."
"I could do worse if you think it would be effective for you."
Wanda smiled a little. Wanda didn't reserve smiles, but they never took away the gleam of sadness in her eyes either. "No, I'm alright."
"I keep telling Steve we ought to put up a suggestion box," Natasha said, dry as toast, and Wanda's mouth gave another amused twist.
Natasha respected Wanda's ability to carry so much suffering around with her and still survive. She thought that might be the thing that banded them together more than silly costumes and global tragedies.
"I'm trying to be nice," Natasha said. "Is that good enough for now?"
Wanda smiled again. "I suppose we'll see."
Natasha's life was quieter than one might expect from an international spy and former assassin. She kept spare, undecorated apartments because she changed them often. The things she carried from place to place could fit inside one suitcase. In the mornings she ran and went to early yoga classes, picked up tea and a protein muffin from wherever was nearest this week. Natasha was good at going unnoticed, had trained in it, and she was able to keep her daily life unhampered even with a public profile.
It was indulgent for Natasha to do these things, to live like a person and not a soldier. There were times when she caught herself getting angry over it, sniping at herself for stupid things, wanting a blueberry muffin instead, sleeping in for fifteen extra minutes. She had to remind herself that normalcies were something she had earned, though such things did not really need to be earned. She could just have them if she wanted. That was her right.
Natasha was the only one in control now.