It's not the reaction Natasha expected, this strange non-reaction. Ever since she saw him in the corridor, she's been toying with the thought of how he might react when she reveals herself to him. (Which, frankly, she shouldn't. If he has a line to the inside he could ruin her mission. Except-- Well, he never has this far.) Anger, perhaps, she thought. But more likely disbelief. And, perhaps if she's lucky, relief. Gratitude even. Or he'll toss her one of those smirks that make her heart skip a beat in her chest.
But he doesn't. And, at first, she thinks that he is just really, really committed to his cover. But, when she meets his gaze, it's like he doesn't even know her. For a moment, she thinks that she sees a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but then it's gone. It's like a punch to the gut, the idea that he's forgotten her. It shouldn't be, of course. People in her line of work don't make friends, and certainly not with enemy agents. But, he's been in her mind ever since their paths crossed at the Embassy ball, and now he looks at her like she is one of them.
"Night," she says, giving him a slow and searching look. They've really done a number on him, haven't they? "Well, evening. It's only nine thirty." She hooks her foot around the edge of the door and pushes it shut behind herself. The tray goes onto the threadbare blanket barely covering the dirty mattress shoved up against the corner, some of the items spilling from it, the pages of his file fanning out and scattering across the floor.
Natasha's heart pounds in her chest as she crosses the short distance between them. Has Hawkeye really been reduced to this? There's a clear routine to the twice-daily check-ups, and she's ignoring them entirely. She cups his chin with her hand and shifts his head this way and then that, carefully looking at his eyes. The touch isn't precisely gentle, but it isn't harsh either, nor is it clinical. "How bad off are you?" she asks frankly.
no subject
But he doesn't. And, at first, she thinks that he is just really, really committed to his cover. But, when she meets his gaze, it's like he doesn't even know her. For a moment, she thinks that she sees a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but then it's gone. It's like a punch to the gut, the idea that he's forgotten her. It shouldn't be, of course. People in her line of work don't make friends, and certainly not with enemy agents. But, he's been in her mind ever since their paths crossed at the Embassy ball, and now he looks at her like she is one of them.
"Night," she says, giving him a slow and searching look. They've really done a number on him, haven't they? "Well, evening. It's only nine thirty." She hooks her foot around the edge of the door and pushes it shut behind herself. The tray goes onto the threadbare blanket barely covering the dirty mattress shoved up against the corner, some of the items spilling from it, the pages of his file fanning out and scattering across the floor.
Natasha's heart pounds in her chest as she crosses the short distance between them. Has Hawkeye really been reduced to this? There's a clear routine to the twice-daily check-ups, and she's ignoring them entirely. She cups his chin with her hand and shifts his head this way and then that, carefully looking at his eyes. The touch isn't precisely gentle, but it isn't harsh either, nor is it clinical. "How bad off are you?" she asks frankly.