just a voice like a riot, for HC Bingo
Title: just a voice like a riot
Fandom: Avengers-- All Media Forms, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: G
Characters/pairings: Clint/Natasha, team, Maria Hill
Warnings (including spoilers): Vaguely for Winter Soldier, and I made up some pre-canon.
Wordcount: 1,362 words
Author’s note: Title is from Linkin Park’s ‘Waiting for the End to Come.’ Fills the 'loss of home/shelter' square on my hc_bingo card.
Summary: Finding the balance between necessary change and self-preservation is difficult when the world around you is constantly shifting. Natasha isn’t searching for a place to stand steady, but she may have found one anyway.
~~~~~
Rule number one is: you don’t trust anyone or anything. Not handlers, not contacts. You don’t rely on the enemy being smart or stupid, don't expect targets to be where they're supposed to be, don't trust intelligence to be free of sabotage or for the world to run on said intelligence. Make backups, plan for contingency. Always have an escape ready.
And don't trust yourself, either. You don't know what you are.
For the first twenty-five years of your existence, rule number one was obey. Red Room was not to be trusted or distrusted; Red Room was. You belonged to Red Room, you did what it told you, it took care of your needs. Everything besides Red Room was the enemy, to be distrusted and manipulated. When Red Room fractured-- when it split into factions, when the prosperity of the Motherland was no longer the primary objective-- you slipped away, leaving them to their war of attrition. You learned that nothing is sacred.
This is different, you think quietly, sitting on the windowsill of a rented room on the outskirts of Brussels. Years ago, after leaving Moscow that one, symbolic time, you could not have rested here, allowing sightlines from a dozen nearby buildings. Alone, on a mission, with trained operatives only a few neighborhoods away, you would have been cleaning your weapons in a corner out of sight of the window, ears always open for boots on the creaking stairs, running over your plans and contingencies and timelines and escape routes and aliases. By the time you had designated for sleep, you would be exhausted enough to complete three last security checks and fall away the moment your head hit the pillow, body compact atop the blankets.
Now, you are relaxed. You watch the sun set over the frost-brushed streets, with only a cursory check of the buildings opposite you. Barton has already surveilled them, before he went for supplies, and he is thorough. You will clean your weapons later as he goes over the plan aloud, his drawling baritone occasionally becoming snappy with humor, to which you will show no reaction. After you have discussed every back-up, every escape route, you will both retire. As he drifts off, mumbling into his pillow during the first stage of sleep, you will run your other back-ups, the ones you craft for the day Fury or Barton or the handler of the week decides you have outlived your usefulness; or the day you decide they have outlived theirs. This will not tire you out, and you will fall asleep gradually, to Barton's even breaths.
This is different, you think uncertainly, as boots come up the creaking stairs; Barton's distinctive tread neutralizes the plans of action that had sprung to mind.
You have learned not to take SHIELD at face value: it is not an institution, but a collection of individuals nominally working toward the same goal. Those with any power work toward their own goals, as they do anywhere and everywhere. You trust SHIELD no more than you trust Fury, Hill, Hand, Coulson.
This is different, you pray, as Barton comes through the door; because part of you is starting to trust, and that is a sign that you should run.
Barton’s quick gaze takes in the room before focusing on you, watching him. A twitch of the brow: confusion; question. “All good?” He glances behind you, at the window with its multiple angles of vulnerability, then at the table where most of your weapons and supplies lay.
“Clear.”
He nods, clumps to the cramped counter to deposit the groceries. His neck is a bit hunched, a tell that he is aware of your continued study, but he says nothing. A few minutes later, after he has removed his thick combat jacket and sat at the table, he raises an eyebrow. “Anything you want me to know about?”
You shake your head.
Hawkeye shrugs and pulls out a paperback. You don't move for a half hour.
He can read your silences better than the Red Room could read your mind. He lets himself fall asleep before you, does not appear to have any plans in place for your betrayal. Barton is making a show of trusting you; the next move is yours.
Is he stupid? Does he trust you simply because SHIELD says to? Does he trust you because he truly thinks he can? How does he expect you to respond? Is this a SHIELD trick to lull you, to make you trust him? It won't work. They should know that by now.
Against your better judgement, it is working.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Years later, across the dinner table sixty stories above Manhattan, Maria Hill cackles into her martini. “You don’t even know,” she forces out, gasping for breath. “The pot for Barton’s death or permanent injury in the first year was in the hundreds--”
“--and SHIELD agents are stingy about their bets,” Stark interjects.
“--and the pot for him showing up one day insensate from sex was half as much.” The former Deputy Director is wiping tears from her eyes.
You glance quickly around the room, taking in reactions before anyone can notice your study. Steve-- drunk at last on an Asgardian import-- is red-faced and looks guilty for his laughter. Thor has a polite smile on his face, as he does when he doesn’t understand a joke, but won’t ruin the fun by questioning. Stark’s snickers have a mean edge to them, but that’s typical when he drinks whiskey. Bruce is the most sober one among the group; he’s smiling, but nervously, and he’s looking at Clint to see if finding the story funny would be offensive.
Clint catches your eye with a tilt of his chin. His lips purse a little, and one shoulder twitches. You let an eyebrow raise slightly and take a sip of beer. He’ll know.
“They wouldn’t let me lodge a bet!” Clint announces indignantly. “Which, considering it was my life on the line…”
Steve snorts into his glass. “Who won?”
“Well bird-brain’s still among us, so,” Stark says, swishing his drink around in circles.
“I did,” you answer. Your team’s reactions, again, are entertaining.
“What?” Clint squawks, personally offended. Stark echoes the sound, apparently on behalf of gamblers everywhere.
“How?” Bruce asks, finally grinning.
You take your time, turning your beer on its coaster, then letting your lashes brush upwards. “I found the agent running the pool and told her that I wouldn’t be killing or maiming my partner. And then I asked her if there were similar pools for when I would kill any other agents.”
Thor’s laugh drowns out the others-- seems he got it in the end-- but you smile as the rest of your team variously collapses onto the table or back in their seats. You know the scene is much enhanced by alcohol, but still-- you’ve never made people laugh like this, not even when you were playing someone else.
Clint gets over his mirth the fastest, or smiles at you through it. Back when you made your decision to trust him, you never would have imagined someone looking at your like that, as though you were all they needed in the world to be happy. It’s still-- not suspicious, but unique enough to require further study, and you stare at him for a few easy moments.
“Who won the uh…” Bruce gestures with his beer, “...the other bet?” You turn your gaze to him steadily, and he blushes and looks mildly afraid.
“Or is it on-going?” Stark asks slyly.
“Coulson,” you, Clint, and Maria chorus. Your answer is level, Clint’s is a curse, and Maria’s a complaint.
“No way,” Steve says, eyes wide and amazed, and the table cracks up again.
This is different, you decide. You haven’t thought about those early days in a while, and that’s a sign. Most of your alertness for double-crosses has faded, around this core group, at least. You trust them.
Clint’s cheek is mashed against his fist, and he’s looking at you with half-lidded eyes. It’s probably the alcohol, but he looks at peace.
You smile just for him, and you are at peace, too.
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