An Unlikely Romance - The Avengers (Part 1)

Clashing Ideologies

"We need to talk."

"Funny, I thought that was my line," Natasha said as you sat down opposite her, immediately resuming her breakfast. As soon as you'd noticed that it was her in charge of babysitting you - and it was easy to tell, because Clint always tried to scare you when you stepped out of the room in the morning - you were determined to get a word in with her.

"That's why we need to talk. I'm tired of being on the receiving end of all this, and I want some answers," you said, pointing at Natasha. She didn't bother to look away from her bowl as she spoke between bites.

"What makes you think you'll get them?"

You already felt your annoyance starting to rise up. Perhaps the confinement had gotten to you, perhaps it was just her attitude slowly wearing away at your patience, but you were tired of both Natasha's inconsistency and her callous, almost intentionally frustrating attitude. You felt like despite speaking with her on multiple occasions for what felt like weeks now (although you'd lost track of the days a while back), you didn't have any idea who she really is.

"Easy, I think you're going to be too pissed off to not say what you're really thinking."

"Now that's a new approach," Natasha said. You saw a smile from her, and it once again bothered you how casually she treated you sometimes. Not that you minded being treated as something other than a prisoner, but more the fact that she didn't seem to give a rat's ass about your well-being or what you thought of her. She simultaneously gave the impression of not thinking she'd have to think about you or ever deal with you again after tomorrow, and of being so in control of you that you'd never escape her grasp. It was a maddening combination that fueled your growing disregard for her opinion of you, and your desire to see her lose control for even just a second. To break that façade of disinterest.

"So how many children did you kill?"

Nothing happened. Honestly, you'd been expecting more of a reaction, even from someone as... wait, no, you weren't completely off the mark. There was something there when your question settled, and it was something spine-chilling. Something so deadly you felt your veins turn to ice in the silence.

It took a moment to set in, which was why you hadn't noticed it immediately. But the second her eyes shifted to you, it was as if time itself slowed down. She didn't look any differently than normal - at least, not at first. Her eyes flickered, so fast and so mildly you weren't sure you saw it at all, then a layer of ice seemed to settle across the room, carried through the air. It must have been in your imagination - there was no way the room could have literally gotten colder simply by you pissing her off, but the goosebumps and shivers along your extremities were clearly visible, matching the cold fear gripping your heart and blood vessels.

"Seems like a specific question. Did you smuggle in a mob movie when Barton was drunk, or was this inspired by something else?"

Her voice was even. Her face was level with every other interaction you'd had with her when she was in these neutral moods, but the threat was clear. Either you or whatever had given you that idea was in danger. You didn't so much read it in her as sense it in every fiber of your being; somehow, in spite of never pinpointing any specific danger, you felt ready to flee that room and never return.

"Just a theory," you responded, doing your absolute best to remain calm despite all of your instincts screaming out for you to fly away. "Clint and Fury wouldn't give me any information about what you're like, even when I practically begged for it. All they would tell me was that whatever I thought I might have done in a past life, whatever I imagined was the worst case scenario... yours was worse. And that you *did* remember it."

"So, as one of three people with the keys to your freedom, and someone whose past is so dark you assume they've slit a child's throat without hesitating, you thought that the best way you could get me to open up would be to walk in this room and taunt me about the things I've done? Interesting strategy."

"Well, you don't really seem responsive to ordinary measures," you responded, unable to come up with a wittier retort. "To be honest, after... how long has it been?"

"Three weeks, four days, seventeen hours... and counting," Natasha rattled off without hesitation, almost breaking the tension, save for the fact that she was actively counting how long she'd had to spend in your presence. Her control over the situation, her active knowledge of everything that had happened, only added to her power over you.

"Well, after that long you're the only one who hasn't gotten any friendlier."

"I haven't gotten any less friendly either. Yet."

"Yes, you fucking have!"

It was a desperate move. She seemed to sense it immediately, her demeanor changing entirely as she sidled the armrest of the couch and raised an eyebrow at you. It was as if your desire to bring out her inner self was nothing more than a chess game; whatever threat you had sensed slowly faded and her calm, impassive mask returned to cover her inner emotions. You eyed her cautiously. Your fear was genuine - you'd sensed something in her, you were sure of it. All the same, she was playing emotions like a game of strategy and skill. Yours and hers, in equal measure. If that was the way she wanted it...

"Okay, not within the past couple days, I'll admit." You thought about how long you'd been there, thought about guessing how long ago based on the timeline she had just given you, but realized that only strengthened her position. Not only were you going to be inaccurate, but you had no idea if the three weeks she'd just rattled off was even accurate. "Still, you were a lot more sympathetic before I started asking the real questions."

"Questions I can't or won't answer. You expect me to show pity instead? I've had to tell people a lot worse than that they may never know their own name; you giving me puppy dog eyes and telling me how much you want to leave this place isn't going to break me."

"No. I think that's the last thing I expect. You've never looked at me like you pity me... Clint has. Fury has, I think, though he's kind of hard to read with the one eye thing. You've never shown me much of anything. But I think I might have struck a chord with you on this one, about your past and the things you've done."

"And you think that's won you something?"

The words were even. The tone was, too. There was little to be assumed from them, but all the same, as she spoke of winning... you felt as if you had very much just lost something.

"No," you half-mumbled, trying to not seem as defeated as you felt. "I don't think there's any way to win this. I just wanted to understand you a little better."

"Good luck with that," Natasha said coldly. Then she was flipping through the channels again, her eyes locked on the screen. There was nothing in her eyes for you to read, nothing that showed you had ever bothered her to begin with. The mixture of determination and crushing defeat you felt threatened to tear you apart at the very seams.

Not unlike Natasha herself.

"It's funny, you know..." you trailed off, trying to regain any manner of leverage in the conversation. None was apparent, Natasha now ignoring you entirely as she traipsed her way haphazardly through the horrors of daytime television. You paused for a long while, expecting her to at least acknowledge the fact that you were still there. When she didn't, you started to grow angry. Spiteful. Filled with a wrath that had no basis in Natasha herself, but still erupted entirely focused on her.

"You know, it's pretty fucking funny that as the prisoner, the one trapped here against their will, I feel less alone than you do."

You didn't wait for a response, or even check for the briefest of reactions. You were already turned away by the time you finished, marching off toward your room. You had a brief moment where you wondered if she might just shoot you and finally be done with your nonsense, but nothing like that ever happened. Instead you were left to stomp away childishly, slamming the door to your room and sealing yourself away from what you had unleashed.