A Gift From: crystallitanie
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Don't Go To Strangers
A Gift For: crazy4orcas
Rating: M
Warnings: Mild sexual content, Fleeting mention of underage sex
Summary/Prompt Used: Natasha falls for Clint first.
Author's Note: Many thanks to kiss_me_cassie for stellar beta, and to inkvoices for the invaluable input! All remaining mistakes are mine.
Credits: Don't Go To Strangers, as sung by Amy Winehouse and Paul Weller (the studio version), is four minutes of perfection and it provided me with endless inspiration for this story.
Merry Christmas, dear crazy4orcas! I hope you enjoy it!


Don't Go To Strangers

Like most things in life and unlike what movies make people believe, it doesn't happen all of a sudden. It doesn't come as an epiphany, nor does it hit her like a ton of bricks.

It works its way slowly through the chinks of her carefully constructed armor. Each jab, each laugh, each moment of trust in the field makes the holes a little bigger, until one day the whole thing falls apart, leaving her open and vulnerable.

Natasha is very good at deciding if she should lie to herself or not. She picks a way and sticks to it; when she lies it's done perfectly, and when she doesn't, she cuts straight to the heart of the truth.

This time she decides to lie without a second thought.

She works her way through a string of one-night-stands with strangers she picks up in bars. Since this feeling she's trying to purge is just pure lust, a good fuck will get it out of her system. She treats the whole case like an operation and the partners like marks. Some of them are even nice.

She prescribes to herself a specific number of hookups and decides to carefully avoid checking in with her feelings until she reaches it. Then one day, still halfway through the list, Barton does something stupid and he gives her a goofy smile and her heart does a little jump and fuck, she really hates him.

She is forced to admit that this isn't helping. Also, sex treated like a mission is not sex – it's a mission. Time for a re-evaluation.

“Maria,” she starts one morning in the cafeteria. “How would you suggest telling someone you like them?”

“By not killing them after sex, I suppose,” Hill responds absent-mindedly while flipping over a page in her report. “Do I need to follow-up on these dudes you’ve been picking up every Friday?”

“Very funny.”

To anyone else this response might seem dismissive, but Natasha knows that Hill knows that everything that seems natural to everyone else (for whatever definition of natural applies to a SHIELD agent), to Natasha is anything but. And she appreciates that the other woman has chosen to stand by her as she rebuilds herself, without so much as blinking at the enormity of the task, to the point that she makes crass jokes without batting an eyelash.

May plonks her breakfast dish on the table and sits next to her. “What's funny?”

“Natasha likes Barton,” Maria informs her without looking up from her report.

“I don't...” Natasha sighs. “Alright, how did you know?”

Maria gives her a look that says please and flips over another page.

“Does this mean that everyone knows?”

“No, but your question means we're regressing to high-school mode. Please don't do that.”

“Don't do what?” Carter asks as she settles opposite May.

“Hill got up on the wrong side of the bed today, Natasha likes Barton, and now we're all going to discuss how she can hit on him because apparently that's what women do over coffee,” May says drily while dissecting her apple.

“Oh. Right.”

“On the bright side, now that you're here, you can shower her with your accumulated wisdom of Cosmopolitan articles.”

Sharon laughs and flips her the bird, and Natasha feels that warm feeling in her chest that she's slowly getting used to. It's been almost eighteen months since the last traces of her programming were wiped away and she was allowed back in the field. In the whirlwind of missions, training, and intermediary downtime that life is now, she’s still learning what it means to function like a human being, and friendship has surprisingly proved to be one of the easiest lessons on the list.

Maria had access to the Black Widow file from the start, so she knew what she was facing. Natasha very much doubts that she decided to become her friend because she liked her –there was not much to like back then– and she'll never find the words to describe her gratitude for what she can only imagine was a conscious decision on Maria's part.

Melinda was here because Andrew Garner was here. She had been Natasha's partner in her first mission, when SHIELD was still not sure if the deprogramming had been a success and needed someone to put a bullet in her head if things went south. Natasha has always assumed that May volunteered for that op more out of faith in Andrew's work than anything else (Barton was freezing his ass off in Alaska back then, in Fury's not-so-subtle idea of a punishment). Whatever the reason, they got along famously. After a lifetime of people staring at you in horror, May's unfaziness is pretty refreshing.

Sharon is so easy-going that it's practically impossible not to get along with her. She's also the main source of all Natasha's knowledge of normalcy, having grown up as the well-loved child of a middle-class family. Sharon went to prom and first dates and college and ended up in SHIELD thanks to the positive influence of a badass female role model, not because she was snatched and formed into an assassin at age six.

Maria sighs. “Look, Natasha, I really don't know what to tell you. Don't work him like a mark. Don't pretend. Don't listen to anything Sharon suggests.”

“What would Sharon suggest?”

“Make him jealous. Make eye contact. Ask for his help. Cook for him,” May recites monotonously.

“You can both fuck right off, I was a natural in that mission,” Sharon replies easily.

“Yes, and we have the cutouts to prove it.”

Sharon's latest undercover stint as an intern at a women's magazine was a textbook success, but no one seems inclined to let her forget that she proved so good at writing bullshit that she was promoted to junior writer within six weeks. Sitwell still has 'Susan Carter's' article Wild Zest pinned up in his office. Fury almost had an aneurysm when he was presented with the issue.



The morning coffee leaves Natasha in great spirits as usual, but none the wiser on how to solve her... problem. Hill thinks that she should simply make a move and be done with it, May said that making a move out of the blue would make Clint run for the hills, and Carter's advice was to go with the flow – what the fuck does that even mean? They all agreed that Clint is never going to initiate anything, and that was the end of the discussion. Apparently, five minutes is the maximum girltalk Hill, May and Carter can handle in one sitting.

Not that she wanted girltalk. She doesn't even know what girltalk is supposed to be like. In the past two years she has slowly been learning various things about herself: she likes sushi but hates pork, she likes jazz but cannot stand metal, she prefers jeans and leggings to tight dresses (oh, the irony), she likes Earl Gray over green tea. Tiny pieces of information that she's had to assemble one by one, and most of them have been hard to collect, because every time she's presented with a choice she has to make sure that it's herself that makes the decision, and not whatever mask she thinks she should be wearing at the moment. It's been exciting and exhausting and she's relieved to realize that it gets easier every day, because this means that someday she might reach a point where she doesn't have to take a step back and think twice about what color she wants her bed sheets to be.

Of course, another side effect of learning so many things you didn't know, is realizing how much, in fact, you don't know yet.

And she doesn't know how to do this, dammit.

So she chooses to do nothing.



They're partnered in almost every op now. Clint had come back from Alaska to find Natasha comfortably settled in her own quarters, minus tracking bracelet and plus a few ops under her belt, and proceeded to take his place in her life with an easiness that surprised and annoyed her in equal measure. Fury had still been a bit pissed off, but if anything the man's a pragmatist, so he had decided to get himself a good team out of Barton's humanitarian initiative.

She chooses to do nothing and life goes on. They go to Macau and then to Berlin, and in the meantime they spar and snark and spend evenings on the couch watching movies (she hates thrillers, she likes what Clint calls “pretentious European shit”, she falls in love with Tarantino and Guy Ritchie). They get a week of downtime after Peru, because Clint dislocated his shoulder and she sprained her wrist, and as usual he disappears God knows where for six days, and when he comes back they fall again into the same rhythm.

She ignores the itchy feeling she got while he was away.

What she can't ignore anymore are the sparks that fly every time they're in the same room.

Which makes it even worse, actually. Wanting something and knowing that she can't have it – that she can live with. That is the norm. But wanting something and knowing that it's quite probably within her reach, as long as she finds the courage to ask for it? It's a whole new level of agony. For all her unflappable attitude, the Black Widow has no idea how to flirt for real.

When they get the call for a new mission, she's almost relieved. Finally she'll be able to focus on something else.





*



Clint can pinpoint the exact moment he knew. Like many things in life and very much like what sappy movies make people believe, it happened all of a sudden, hitting him like a ton of bricks.

He's not blind – he could always appreciate just how hot Natasha is. But that had not been the reason he hadn't let that arrow fly in Venice, and afterwards, when the whole case was over –his time in Alaska, her time in the psych ward with Andrew Garner– he'd been very careful not to make her think for a moment that she owed him anything. Not to mention that making a pass at a woman who had been treated like an object for the better part of her life seemed pretty rotten to him.

Plus, even after the deprogramming, she still had a ton of issues to untangle. She'd been forced to squeeze into a couple of years the amount of self-discovery that people are normally allowed to make in a lifetime, from trifling stuff like music and clothes to important aspects like trust, humor, friendship and, lately, all things physical. He had watched her work her way through a bunch of random guys, and good for her – sexuality would be high on his list too. The sex phase had lasted only a couple of months, but its end hadn't meant the end of the struggle. The Black Widow was perfected a long time ago, but Natasha Romanoff is still a work in progress.

Then one night they fell asleep on his couch, in the middle of a horrific von Trier marathon (and boy, will he never let her forget that). He woke up in the morning with his left thigh dead under her weight and her hair tickling his nose. She opened her eyes, she gave him a sleepy smile, and his first thought was fuck, what wouldn't I give to wake up to this every morning.

Fuck indeed. He went from zero to sixty in exactly three seconds.

He's a big believer in shoving down your feelings and putting up with shit (after all, that's what's gotten him through life), so that's exactly what he does. The last thing Natasha needs is her partner declaring his undying love for her and throwing her back into the spiral of her misplaced sense of debt. Problem is, now that the curtain has been lifted, he's starting to imagine that she's feeling it too.

After Peru, he takes the commanded leave without comment and runs off to Iowa to wallow in the shitshow that is his life.

He returns to DC to find Sharon Carter in his quarters, sitting on his bed and typing away on her phone. “The fuck? You get in here and fondle my boxers when I'm away?”

She snorts. “Nice to see you too, Barton. Can't stay long, got a briefing in ten minutes.”

“And you thought you'd read your notes in my room?”

“No. But I'm leaving for a four-month mission, so I wanted to tell you to get your head out of your ass before May or Hill get to you, because you won't like their way. I'm the lesser of three evils.”

Clint stares at her.

She gets up, tucking her phone in her pocket, and folds her arms. “Natasha likes you. She's terrified like a child. Do both of you a favor and help her come out with it.”

She turns to leave, leaving him gobsmacked in the middle of the room. “I don't...”

“You don't what? Want her? Barton, I can practically see the sparks. Rumlow can see the sparks, and he wouldn't recognize romance if it hit him on the head with a baseball bat.”

She sees herself out. Not many other options there, since he's busy staring at the wall like a moron.

He spends the next few days walking around in a daze, trying to decide how to approach this. Saying “hey gorgeous, I know men have been hitting on you since you were twelve, but a little bird told me that you want this” still seems pretty rotten to him. She's the same as always, mask firmly in place with almost everyone else, a little skewed when they're alone together, and he doesn't dare snatch it away because he knows damn well that masks are worn for a reason. They protect something, and he's terrified to expose it on her behalf. She has to do it herself.

When they get the call for a new mission, he's immensely relieved. Finally he'll be able to focus on something else.





*



Budapest is a blur. It's blood and bullets and a series of intel snafus that seem almost intentional, and if Natasha hadn't come to trust Coulson with her life she'd be sure that someone was setting them up. Budapest is danger and trust and fleeting moments of panic interchanged with focused calmness, and all this is veiled by a thick sheet of lust.



Some parts she remembers clearly and others in a daze. She remembers his eyes going wide when he saw her dress the first night, his fists clenching at his sides like he was fumbling for control. She remembers coming back in the morning just when he was getting out of the shower, and how she was trying very hard not to goggle. She remembers the overwhelming sense that they were like two magnets pulling at each other.

The tension on the flight back is almost palpable. She sits next to him and almost feels the electricity running between them. She feels raw, like being ready to jump off a cliff and dreading the fall at the same time.

The medical checks take long, but the debriefing even longer. Coulson knows from experience that Fury must be left to rant until he's done. Hill spends the whole time on the phone, trying to locate their CIs and failing spectacularly, which provokes a new round of invective from their esteemed leader. Only a small part of it is addressed to Strike Team Delta, which means that he's rather impressed they managed to get out of this alive.

Finally he takes a long look at them and commands curtly, “One month of counseling or one month of leave. I'd chose the leave if I were you, Agents.”

Clint nods and Natasha raises her brow.

“Dismissed. Hill, Coulson, stay here. The morning from hell begins.”

Hill starts bringing up the files, but not before she throws a glance at Natasha that means “fucking tell him already”. Never let it be said that Maria Hill cannot multitask.

Out in the corridor, Clint rubs his face with his hands. “God, what a clusterfuck. I could sleep for weeks.”

“Apparently that's allowed, as long as you won't do it in here and dent your wall after a nightmare.”

“I'm not staying on this fucking ship a moment longer. I'll pack a bag and I'm leaving.”

Before she has the time to process this, he looks at her steadily.

“Wanna come with me?”

She knows what he's asking and she's glad, because she doesn't have to do this by herself anymore.



They take a car and drive northwest, and she feels relaxed and wound up like a coil at the same time. She rolls down the window and rests her head on the frame, breathing the evening air, and if she closes her eyes she can pretend for a second that she's a normal person riding a car with her lover, not a dysfunctional rehabilitated killer that doesn't know how to look a man in the eye and tell him that she wants him unless it's a lie.

Out of nowhere, she remembers something May had told her a couple of months ago: “There's no need for anyone to be hard on you; you're hard enough on yourself.”

They reach Iowa at night. She hasn't asked where they're going so she doesn't know what to expect, but they drive for another couple of hours to the north until they reach the outskirts of a small town. Clint cuts through the country roads and into the soft hills.

The house is huge and secluded, flanked by a barn and a back garden and surrounded by grassland. He pulls the car to the side, turns off the engine and looks at her.

“This is it?” she asks.

“This is it.”

“It's yours?”

“Yes.”

Of all the things she had imagined, this was not it.

The steps of the front porch creak softly under their feet. The inside smells fresh, not a trace of stale air.

“A local lady has the keys. I call her before I come up and she opens the windows, cleans and tidies up a bit,” he offers as he switches on the lights.

“So this is where you hide when we're on leave?”

“I have nice memories of this house. Used to come here with my brother in the summers. Then grandma died when I was six, grandpa followed her shortly after, and that was the end of the nice part of my childhood. There's another house in the same county that passed down to me, but that I'm not planning to visit any time soon. Let it crumble to dust for all I care.”

She remains silent, because there's nothing to say. Sometimes she wonders if her own lack of memories is a blessing.

“It's beautiful,” she says finally. “I like the smell of the grass. And I like wood furniture.”

The smile he gives her has nothing to do with the compliment, and everything to do with the fact that she said that she liked something without pausing to think first.



After Natasha takes a shower, she throws on a pair of leggings and an old T-Shirt and looks around her indecisively. She should sleep, but the tension is back.

She pads downstairs, guided by the music drifting from the kitchen radio. The ground floor is dark again, but the front door is open, and she can see his outline out on the porch.

He's sitting on the steps, bottle of beer in one hand. He's wearing dirty jeans and a plaid button up and he looks so typically Midwestern that she laughs.

He catches her gaze, looks down at his shirt and smiles. “Yeah, reverting back into type.”

“I'm sure it's very comfortable.” She wrinkles her nose at the beer. “That all you got?”

“There's whiskey in the living room and wine in the pantry.”

She half expects to find a forgotten bottle long turned into vinegar, so she's surprised when she discovers a decent Merlot. She fills a glass and goes out. She leans over the porch railing and lifts her face up to the stars. It's beautiful. Calm. She feels something inside her unclenching for the first time in weeks.

This is it – the end of the road. He's helped her as much as he could. He's set up the setting and now she just has to find the courage to take a step forward. She knows that he won't. Whenever and however this happened, it was always going to be on her own terms, not his.

She wonders if he'll always be so willing to give her what she needs, and the thought sends a shiver down her spine.

The first notes of a familiar song drift from the radio.


Play with fire

Get your fingers burned

But when you got nowhere else to turn

Don't go to strangers

My darling, come to me


She sets her wine glass on the wooden porch and turns to face him. Right. Just one step.

He catches her gaze and she sees the moment he understands. He stands up slowly.

“Come here,” he says hoarsely, and she finds herself walking unsteadily towards him.


So when you hear that call to follow your heart

You'll follow your heart, I know

I've been through it all

I'm an old hand too

I'll understand if you go


His arms wind around her waist and she lifts her hands to his shoulders. He starts swaying lightly, giving her a sheepish smile, and she follows the rhythm, throwing her head back and laughing elatedly.


Build your dreams

To the stars above

But when you need someone to love

Don't go to strangers

My darling, come to me


“Tasha,” he whispers.

His lips ghost over her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her mouth.

“Clint. Yes.”


For when you hear that call

You've got to follow your heart

You'll follow your heart, I know

I've been through it all, for I'm an old hand

And I'll understand if you go


He kisses her and it feels like a burden has been lifted off her shoulders. He deepens the kiss and his arms tighten around her, hands coming up to brush her neck, tangle in her hair, frame her face. He kisses her like a thirsty man who has found water and when she lifts her legs, his arms come under her ass, steadying her there without breaking the kiss. It's natural and so, so easy. She cannot remember what she was so afraid of.


So make your mark for your friends to see

But when you need more than company

Don't go to strangers

My darling, come to me


The porch door swings behind them and if she had any presence of mind she'd scoff, because it's really like a scene out of a sappy movie, but she's too busy to notice as they make their way up the stairs in a tangle of limbs.





*



Natasha wiggles in her sleep, scooting closer and burrowing against his body for warmth. The rays of the morning sunshine illuminate her face, so much younger in sleep, all hard lines washed away. She opens her eyes slowly and gives him a sleepy smile.



Clint returns it and brushes a curl away from her forehead with a tenderness he didn't know he possessed anymore.

“Promise me something?”

“Good morning to you too, Barton,” she replies and shifts again to hide her face in his chest. Her voice comes out muffled. “I don't know much about the morning after, but I hear it usually features a repeat performance, not serious discussions.”

“In a moment." He kisses her ear. “This is important,” he murmurs as he trails his lips to her temple.

She closes her eyes contentedly and lets out a resigned sigh. “Out with it, then.”

He slides lower and turns her on her back, placing light kisses on her collarbone. “Next time you want anything. Anything at all.” He kisses a path to her breast and stays there, breath ghosting over the nipple.

She lets out a soft moan. “Yes?”

He lifts his face and looks in her eyes, so green and clear and full of trust.

“Next time...” He retraces the path up to her mouth and catches her lips with his own. “Don't go to strangers.” He deepens the kiss, hand coming up to cup her face, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “Next time, my darling...”, he whispers as he starts making his way down her body again. “Come to me.”