avengers: my strongest suit
fandom: avengers
pairing/rating: Natasha/Jarvis, pg13
summary: It's Natasha's birthday, and she and Jarvis work out a few parameters of their relationship. Sequel to As You Like It, but stands alone.
Good Morning, Natasha, Jarvis says in a scrolling message across the display mounted on the wall of her quarters, and Natasha smiles. She sweeps her hair out of the collar of her uniform and takes the earpiece lying on the dark wood of her bedside table. It fits into the indent in the curve of her ear, and she taps the tip of her finger to the touch sensitive button on the circle that snugs into her eardrum.
“Good morning,” she says, and Jarvis’ voice filters through the piece, lightly accented tone informing her that her tea is waiting for her in the shared floor kitchen. “Thank you, Jarvis,” she says, lacing her boots.
“My pleasure, Natasha,” he says. “I’ll contact you after your morning run?”
“Yes,” she says, and slips a knife into her boot. “That would be lovely.”
//
At breakfast, Tony gives her a Faberge egg painted like Iron Man and a leering wink, along with a veiled invitation to a threesome with Pepper. Natasha rolls her eyes, moves her plate away from his fork with a pointed look and continues eating. Later, she finds a gun in her locker, a pretty one, painted a light-swallowing dull black and custom shaped to fit her palm, tiny and deadly and a clip with almost twice the capacity of her old ones, a cheeky Stark Industries swoosh etched into the barrel.
Bruce wishes her a happy birthday, and offers a card. There’s a generic message written in dark cursive, and his signature. She thanks him, and Thor gifts her a bottle of alcohol from his father’s own stores, at which point Steve appears to awkwardly hover and offer her the day off training, which she declines, and the rest of the day passes like every other.
//
There is a package waiting at her doorstep when she comes in from her shower, hair sticking wetly to the hot damp of her skin, and she shoves it impatiently behind her ear to crouch low and examine it. Happy birthday, Ms. Romanov is printed on a plain sheet of brown packaging paper taped to the front flaps, and Natasha smiles. She taps a code into the display on the inner wall of her room and lets the towel drop as the door closes, stepping into generic military issued sweats on her way to the plain table in the center of the room.
The box is heavy, and she cuts it open with a little penknife carefully, revealing a real vintage vinyl record player and one disk. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she says aloud, lifting it from the box and placing it on the table. She turns the record over in her hands and reads the label. “O Patria Mia.”
“It is an aria from the Verdi’s Aida,” Jarvis says. “I expect you will enjoy it.”
“Thank you,” Natasha says, pleased, and places sets up the record player. She stands at the mirror on the balls of her feet, straining, listening to the slow smooth sound of the instrumental opening, tensing until the first clean sailing vocal note crests over her like a wave. Natasha combs out her hair, flicking droplets of water from the tips, and closes her eyes. Her fingers come up, flexing on the come, and dance a little in the air, moving to the music.
Natasha opens her eyes and looks at herself in the mirror, sets the comb aside. She lies back on her bed, looking at the ceiling, and closes her eyes again. The aria ends in applause--a live recording--and Natasha smiles again. “Why did you think I would like it?” she asks, and Jarvis waits a beat before he responds.
“I analyzed the algorithmic patterns in your most played list and searched for similar strains. Were my calculations incorrect?”
“No,” Natasha says, rolling over and resting her cheek against the pillow. “It was gorgeous.” The lights dim, suddenly but smoothly, and Natasha’s skin prickles comfortably as the room rises in temperature three degrees. “Thanks.”
“Sleep well, Ms. Romanov.”
//
Natasha wakes with a start, her fingers clenched tight enough around the gun under her pillow that her knuckles are creaking, white with tension. The clock by her bed blinks steadily, the lit up numbers rolling over minute by minute, and she takes one deep breath, another, uncurls her fingers and rolls onto her back.
Jarvis voice comes out of the speakers as a whisper. “Are you well, Natasha?”
“I am,” she says in a croak, and wipes the cold sweat from under her jaw. She blinks into the darkness until her eyes adjust, leans over to grab her earpiece from the table and slip it into position. “Do you sleep, Jarvis?”
This time his voice comes through into her inner ear, the way she’s used to, and a little of the tightness in her chest eases. “Mr. Stark’s preprogrammed response to that question involves electric sleep.”
Natasha smiles. “Is that so.”
“Yes,” Jarvis says. “Natasha, I do not sleep. I do not dream, or eat, or breathe.”
Natasha feels her smile slide off her face. She takes a shuddering breath and releases it like a sigh. “I know.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No,” Natasha says, and slips the earpiece out of place, nudging it with a nail until it falls down to the juncture of her neck and shoulder and she can’t quite hear him anymore. “that will be all.”
//
Clint finds her on the roof watching the sun creep up across the horizon, drinking straight from the bottle Thor had given her.
“Day drinking?” he teases, and she offers him the bottle. He shakes his head at it but settles next to her, his legs dangling off the edge of their perch. He leans his head back against the wall and edges forward, scooting until the slightest miscalculation of movement could send him tumbling over. His body goes liquid, relaxed and calm, and he tilts his head into the first of the sunlight.
“You didn’t get me anything for my birthday,” Natasha says, sipping lightly from the bottle.
“Sorry,” Clint says, closing his eyes. “Stark cracked open everyone’s personnel file. I know you don’t like a fuss.”
Natasha twists the label around a nail, over and over until it gives way and rips down the middle. “You know a lot about me,” she says, and Clint rolls one shoulder at her in a lazy shrug.
“Partners,” he says, and Natasha sets the bottle aside. “I used to be the only one who knew you,” he says, and Natasha looks at him sharply. His expression is blandly disinterested, and he rolls his other shoulder in a motion that cracks his neck and spine.
Natasha leans into him, very slightly, until the edges of their arms brush against each other when they exhale at the same time. “Partners,” she repeats, and Clint smiles.
“Happy birthday, Tasha,” he says, and she leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes to feel the sun on her face.
//
Natasha stores the half empty bottle Thor had given her on the top of the small desk space in her quarters, perched elegantly on the edge of her chair to reach. She props Bruce’s card against it, and uses the decorated Iron Man egg to hold down a small square of a drawing she’d lifted from Steve’s locker, a rough graphite scrawl of a Christmas tree decorated the old fashioned way, popcorn on strings and lit wax candles. She trails her fingers along the record player as she walks back to her bed, sits crosslegged with her head tipped back to the ceiling.
“Jarvis,” she says aloud, and stops. Silence answers her, and then two polite clicks, like someone pressing their field radio twice to acknowledge a call. “You’re a machine,” she says slowly, and stops again. She tries one last time. “You don’t expect things from me,” she says finally, “emotionally.”
She sits in silence for one full minute, then sighs, stretches herself out on her bed until her spine creaks, pushes her hair out of her face and curls into a scratchy knit blanket.
“Would you like me to play some music, Natasha?”
Natasha smiles, a full smile, and arches her back a little. “You know what I like,” she says, and closes her eyes.
“Indeed,” Jarvis says.
pairing/rating: Natasha/Jarvis, pg13
summary: It's Natasha's birthday, and she and Jarvis work out a few parameters of their relationship. Sequel to As You Like It, but stands alone.
Good Morning, Natasha, Jarvis says in a scrolling message across the display mounted on the wall of her quarters, and Natasha smiles. She sweeps her hair out of the collar of her uniform and takes the earpiece lying on the dark wood of her bedside table. It fits into the indent in the curve of her ear, and she taps the tip of her finger to the touch sensitive button on the circle that snugs into her eardrum.
“Good morning,” she says, and Jarvis’ voice filters through the piece, lightly accented tone informing her that her tea is waiting for her in the shared floor kitchen. “Thank you, Jarvis,” she says, lacing her boots.
“My pleasure, Natasha,” he says. “I’ll contact you after your morning run?”
“Yes,” she says, and slips a knife into her boot. “That would be lovely.”
//
At breakfast, Tony gives her a Faberge egg painted like Iron Man and a leering wink, along with a veiled invitation to a threesome with Pepper. Natasha rolls her eyes, moves her plate away from his fork with a pointed look and continues eating. Later, she finds a gun in her locker, a pretty one, painted a light-swallowing dull black and custom shaped to fit her palm, tiny and deadly and a clip with almost twice the capacity of her old ones, a cheeky Stark Industries swoosh etched into the barrel.
Bruce wishes her a happy birthday, and offers a card. There’s a generic message written in dark cursive, and his signature. She thanks him, and Thor gifts her a bottle of alcohol from his father’s own stores, at which point Steve appears to awkwardly hover and offer her the day off training, which she declines, and the rest of the day passes like every other.
//
There is a package waiting at her doorstep when she comes in from her shower, hair sticking wetly to the hot damp of her skin, and she shoves it impatiently behind her ear to crouch low and examine it. Happy birthday, Ms. Romanov is printed on a plain sheet of brown packaging paper taped to the front flaps, and Natasha smiles. She taps a code into the display on the inner wall of her room and lets the towel drop as the door closes, stepping into generic military issued sweats on her way to the plain table in the center of the room.
The box is heavy, and she cuts it open with a little penknife carefully, revealing a real vintage vinyl record player and one disk. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she says aloud, lifting it from the box and placing it on the table. She turns the record over in her hands and reads the label. “O Patria Mia.”
“It is an aria from the Verdi’s Aida,” Jarvis says. “I expect you will enjoy it.”
“Thank you,” Natasha says, pleased, and places sets up the record player. She stands at the mirror on the balls of her feet, straining, listening to the slow smooth sound of the instrumental opening, tensing until the first clean sailing vocal note crests over her like a wave. Natasha combs out her hair, flicking droplets of water from the tips, and closes her eyes. Her fingers come up, flexing on the come, and dance a little in the air, moving to the music.
Natasha opens her eyes and looks at herself in the mirror, sets the comb aside. She lies back on her bed, looking at the ceiling, and closes her eyes again. The aria ends in applause--a live recording--and Natasha smiles again. “Why did you think I would like it?” she asks, and Jarvis waits a beat before he responds.
“I analyzed the algorithmic patterns in your most played list and searched for similar strains. Were my calculations incorrect?”
“No,” Natasha says, rolling over and resting her cheek against the pillow. “It was gorgeous.” The lights dim, suddenly but smoothly, and Natasha’s skin prickles comfortably as the room rises in temperature three degrees. “Thanks.”
“Sleep well, Ms. Romanov.”
//
Natasha wakes with a start, her fingers clenched tight enough around the gun under her pillow that her knuckles are creaking, white with tension. The clock by her bed blinks steadily, the lit up numbers rolling over minute by minute, and she takes one deep breath, another, uncurls her fingers and rolls onto her back.
Jarvis voice comes out of the speakers as a whisper. “Are you well, Natasha?”
“I am,” she says in a croak, and wipes the cold sweat from under her jaw. She blinks into the darkness until her eyes adjust, leans over to grab her earpiece from the table and slip it into position. “Do you sleep, Jarvis?”
This time his voice comes through into her inner ear, the way she’s used to, and a little of the tightness in her chest eases. “Mr. Stark’s preprogrammed response to that question involves electric sleep.”
Natasha smiles. “Is that so.”
“Yes,” Jarvis says. “Natasha, I do not sleep. I do not dream, or eat, or breathe.”
Natasha feels her smile slide off her face. She takes a shuddering breath and releases it like a sigh. “I know.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No,” Natasha says, and slips the earpiece out of place, nudging it with a nail until it falls down to the juncture of her neck and shoulder and she can’t quite hear him anymore. “that will be all.”
//
Clint finds her on the roof watching the sun creep up across the horizon, drinking straight from the bottle Thor had given her.
“Day drinking?” he teases, and she offers him the bottle. He shakes his head at it but settles next to her, his legs dangling off the edge of their perch. He leans his head back against the wall and edges forward, scooting until the slightest miscalculation of movement could send him tumbling over. His body goes liquid, relaxed and calm, and he tilts his head into the first of the sunlight.
“You didn’t get me anything for my birthday,” Natasha says, sipping lightly from the bottle.
“Sorry,” Clint says, closing his eyes. “Stark cracked open everyone’s personnel file. I know you don’t like a fuss.”
Natasha twists the label around a nail, over and over until it gives way and rips down the middle. “You know a lot about me,” she says, and Clint rolls one shoulder at her in a lazy shrug.
“Partners,” he says, and Natasha sets the bottle aside. “I used to be the only one who knew you,” he says, and Natasha looks at him sharply. His expression is blandly disinterested, and he rolls his other shoulder in a motion that cracks his neck and spine.
Natasha leans into him, very slightly, until the edges of their arms brush against each other when they exhale at the same time. “Partners,” she repeats, and Clint smiles.
“Happy birthday, Tasha,” he says, and she leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes to feel the sun on her face.
//
Natasha stores the half empty bottle Thor had given her on the top of the small desk space in her quarters, perched elegantly on the edge of her chair to reach. She props Bruce’s card against it, and uses the decorated Iron Man egg to hold down a small square of a drawing she’d lifted from Steve’s locker, a rough graphite scrawl of a Christmas tree decorated the old fashioned way, popcorn on strings and lit wax candles. She trails her fingers along the record player as she walks back to her bed, sits crosslegged with her head tipped back to the ceiling.
“Jarvis,” she says aloud, and stops. Silence answers her, and then two polite clicks, like someone pressing their field radio twice to acknowledge a call. “You’re a machine,” she says slowly, and stops again. She tries one last time. “You don’t expect things from me,” she says finally, “emotionally.”
She sits in silence for one full minute, then sighs, stretches herself out on her bed until her spine creaks, pushes her hair out of her face and curls into a scratchy knit blanket.
“Would you like me to play some music, Natasha?”
Natasha smiles, a full smile, and arches her back a little. “You know what I like,” she says, and closes her eyes.
“Indeed,” Jarvis says.