An Unlikely Romance - The Avengers (Part 1)

A Harsh Mistress

After Clint's keg party, you were honestly a little relieved when the next day you found Natasha sitting out in the front room. She usually spent all her time in the training room – except, of course, when Clint wasn't there to watch the front door. So with her inspecting her handguns, something she did way too often around you, you knew that you weren't going to have to put up with anymore awkward questions or forced conversations.

Of course, given that you were trapped in a glorified apartment building where you were allowed in four rooms (and only two of them on a regular basis), that led pretty quickly to you being bored. So, even though you couldn't convince yourself that you missed Clint, you found yourself out in the living room, watching Natasha channel surf, desperate for any form of entertainment.

After the thirteenth change in five minutes, you couldn't help but wonder what exactly she was looking for. When you brought that up, you got a cold glare and a raised eyebrow. You were content to leave it there... for another five channels or so. By then, you decided that you had a bone to pick with her after all, but suddenly it wasn't about the television.

"So... what's your deal? You're pretty inconsistent," you said quietly, gazing across the couch. Natasha didn't bother to take her eyes off of the television, continuing to flick through as she responded with the dullest voice you could imagine.

"In what way?"

"You've been like... eight different people since you first met me," you said, glancing over at the television. She flipped through personalities, like... well, like channels. "First you broke in and beat the shit out of me, then you sang to me, then you tried to strong-arm me with Fury, and then you were really bizarrely friendly, and since then if you haven't been sarcastic it feels like you just wished I'd shut up and leave you alone."

"What makes you say that?"

"The tone and lack of real responses are definitely part of it," you muttered, leaning on the arm rest. Natasha paused in her button clicking just long enough to give a sigh, then she turned off the television altogether and cocked her head at you sideways.

"Alright, you've got five minutes before Game of Thrones. If you have a point, now's the time to make it."

"Well, first o- you watch Game of Thrones?" Natasha quirked an eyebrow, and you could almost feel her fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Was that one of your points, or just wasted time?" She asked, stirring whatever it was she was drinking.

"Sorry, anyway, why the sudden... you know, mood swings? Are you judging me, or did I do something to make you feel anger, concern, pity, anger, and disinterest? ...In that order?"

"Everyone is always judging everyone," Natasha pointed out, nodding along with her point.

"Alright, what about the rest?"

"Well, the first time we met, you attacked me and put members of my S.H.I.E.L.D. team in the medbay. Anger might be expected."

"You weren't angry when it happened, though," you interjected. "You pitied me – I couldn't see, but I'm guessing all of you had guns, yet instead of shooting the guy that just attacked, you pinned me to the ground and sang to me."

"I was just following orders. Take out HYDRA, gather intelligence. You were intelligence."

"You could've just said intelligent, given me the compliment," you said, sighing. "What about the interrogation? I thought it was supposed to be good-cop bad-cop, but then you threatened me before you left, and ever since then you've acted like you couldn't care if I lived or died."

"Who said I was acting?" She asked.

"There you go again, being deliberately antagonistic. I can't tell if you want to be frenemies, if you want me to like you but have a healthy fear, or if you just want me to be so confused and off-put by the rapid changes that I leave you alone, but it's really driving me crazy."

Natasha was silent for a long time. She stared into your eyes with one of those looks, the kind that you couldn't quite read but spoke deeply, as if even her soul could speak Russian.

"Not my problem," she eventually said, turning back to the television. There was something there, something you hadn't seen in her before, but you couldn't tell quite what it was.

You doubted you would ever understand anything about her, really.