A Gift From: badwolfink

Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Like a Flame
A Gift For: foolondahill17
Rating: Teen and Up
Warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary/Prompt Used: 1950's Mafia AU: He watches her, finds her, and it's the only contact with the Mafia he ever wants.
Author's Note: I was drawn to two of the prompts and I hope you enjoy both!

Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Dust
A Gift For: foolondahill17
Rating: General
Warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary/Prompt Used: Natasha goes underground at the Barton farm after the fall of SHIELD: It's whispers and dustbeams and silence or Natasha finds solace in the only place she can.

Author's Note: I was drawn to two of the prompts and I hope you enjoy both!


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Like a Flame

All mobs have a hitman, that much is true. Kill the hitman, find the boss, take out your rivals. Routine. Difficult.

Natalia Romanova is the hitman for the Russian mafia that set their sights on Manhattan five years ago and wormed their way into the underground not soon after. But most people don’t know that. Most people aren’t Clint though, and he had been observing the criminal group ever since.

He’d been sent to stop them, shut down their operations, and rid America of at least some Russians. The Cold War wasn’t going to end itself.

So he found himself in a café, nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for the Russian beauty to walk in, as she was wont to do. But this time, she walked straight over to his table and leaned over, giving him a good look at why no one would suspect her of murder. Did you order my usual? she signed.

He’d been only slightly surprised by her approach, and he gestured to the side to a waiter coming over with a mug of tea. “I read lips, doll. No need to coddle me.”

She smirked, accepting the drink and examining it. “That suit looks awful nice on you, but you seem like a man who prefers leather.”

“And you don’t seem the type to wear flouncy dresses.” He appreciated the cut of her dress. Natalia was exactly the person designers wanted to wear their clothes. “So you found me first?”

“I always make it a point to know the faces of men who watch me. Makes it easier to remember them later when I want them. Or when I want to kill them.” Natalia sipped her tea and sat back in the chair. “But you. You here to take me out? Biding your time?”

“I’m here to recruit you actually. I think you might be a valuable asset to the US government.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I think you might be crazy.” She stood. “I’ll see you around.”

Natalia vanished, leaving her half drunk tea and an amused Clint behind. He’d have to work a little harder for another chance.

__

She saw him again two weeks later after getting rid of one of her boss’s traitorous cronies, tucking her gun away somewhere in her nice little dress. She leaned against the brick wall and fixed her lipstick, waiting for him to come over from his place in the shadows.

You can take me in if you like, she signed before offering her wrists to him.

He shook his head and pulled her away from the crime scene, down a series of alleys and dark streets until they were out in front of the café again. “I told you. I read lips.”

She put a finger on his mouth. I’m being babysat. When they heard the police sirens, she jumped into his arms and kissed him. He caught her almost naturally, feeling the skin of her thigh beneath the fabric of her dress. Her kiss seared him, and the cops paid no mind, but when she was done, he didn’t let her go.

Shame you can’t sign now. She smirked at the lipstick smeared on both of them. I’ll let the boss spare you, I think, when we raid the feds.

“My name is Clint Barton,” he whispered when he caught his breath.

I know. Because of course she knew; of course the Russian mafia knew who the government agents were, of course they knew he was deaf and had a weakness for pretty woman. He didn’t even want to know why she’d bothered to learn ASL in the first place. If the Cold War wasn’t still heating up, he might have tried to take this woman home.

She fingerspelled her name so fast he only caught half and he nudged his nose against hers. “Natasha?”

Natalia broke free from his arms and stepped back. I’ll tell you what you want another day.

__

The Russian mafia vanished exactly one month later, all but Natalia, who sat at the café in another one of those dotted halter-top dresses holding a cup of tea. She smiled at Clint when he came in. A packet of paper was slid across the table and then she was free of her obligations to anyone.

There were many things Clint wondered about her still, but mostly he wondered how her voice sounded, if it sounded like the perfectly flourished Cyrillic she signed her name in, the gentle movements of her hands while she signed, or the sultry pout of her lips. Because he knew the mafia was gone but she was still one of them by heart and by training, and he was just an agent sent to do his job one way or another.

When she finished her drink, she offered her wrists to him silently, and he reached into his pocket for the handcuffs. She went without a fuss, letting him guide her out of the café to the confused stares of the patrons and staff. She looked up at him through her lashes when she got into the waiting car, then stared straight ahead so he would shut the door. Because she hadn’t been free, not really, but she knew it, and why go out fighting when there’s a person you might love on the other side making it easy.


Dust

It was whispers and losses that brought Natasha to this place. The most solid thing in her life was now no more than a few dozen agents and a pile of ash. I’ll figure it out, she’d said, but what she’d really meant was I’ll leave and I’ll hide and I’ll probably be only a little okay. And it had taken the last ounce of courage for her to drag herself to this place, to let herself into a vulnerable situation at the moment she needed to be strong.

It smelled like home and dust and sunlight and it was still warm and inviting, but it was empty. She was cautious upon entering so as not to disturb the dust, and spent time cleaning and organizing so that the emptiness seemed more her and less like she was spending time in another person’s space even though she was.

The bath she drew was hot and foamy and she sat there until her skin pruned and her tea was gone, and afterward she felt more relaxed and refreshed than she had in ages. A soft robe and slippers later and she was curled up on the bed with a small book that she had been given years ago.

Natasha settled into a routine to forget about the loss and to reconnect with herself in a way she never had a chance to do even at the beginning. It is not until her third week when she returns from a run that someone else had chosen to occupy this space. It was his, after all, and really she was the intruder.

She was greeted with a hug, a silent solidarity, and when they broke apart an I missed you, I couldn’t find you. She makes him coffee because he is always slow to rise, and they watch the sun set together as she pens new identities into a tattered notebook. It is not an easy time for her, for either of them, but she finds new peace in his presence that she had been lacking on her own.

The farmhouse holds memories and grief and emotions only conveyed through whispers and prayers, but it is solace and cover, so they stay for a while longer until they are called upon again. Natasha reemerges and feels reborn to a world of destruction but has never felt freer in her life.