bornrussian | This Gilded Cage

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This Gilded Cage

Natasha will never know how hard Clint had to fight to be allowed to bring her back to Stark Tower rather than having her put in a confined cell on the helicarrier until her memory returns, or a squadron of therapists declare her 'safe'. All she can see is the luxury of the cage she has been put in.

It's not a small cage, by any means. The apartment of sorts she apparently shares with Clint sprawls across an entire floor of the huge tower. Its impressive panorama windows overlook New York. It's filled with state-of-the-art technology that makes it feel disconcertingly like living in the future. The oversized fridge is filled with her favorite foods, and there's even a bottle of high-end vodka tucked away in the freezer. It should be hard to feel trapped there, but yet she does.

The first day, it's fine. They spend hours talking shared memories and memories that by rights ought to be shared but aren't. But with each subsequent day, Natasha grows more and more restless and more and more aware of the complicated lock on the door.

So, when Clint gets called away a few days into her 'stay', Natasha takes the opportunity to go exploring. The lock on the door proves too challenging, even for her. (Especially with no tools to work it with.) But, the air vent in the bathroom is just big enough for her to squeeze through after using a spoon to screw loose the grid covering it.

She wanders into the huge workshop about an hour later, drawn in by the music blasting through the doors. Her first instinct upon hearing it is to go the other way, to avoid being caught and captured. But Clint keeps insisting that she's not a prisoner here, and it's time to test that promise. Still, she slides the door open with utmost caution, and slips in quietly.

The workshop is not like any other space in the tower. At least not any of the ones that Natasha has seen. For one, it's less slick and polished. For another it's cluttered with tools and various mechanical parts. It doesn't feel as soulless and empty as the rest of the place. She trails her fingers absently along one of the workbenches as she proceeds deeper into the workshop, in search of whoever is making the noises she can just make out under the too loud music.

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Natasha doesn't know what's changed, but suddenly Tony's tension level sky rockets. She can feel his muscles practically locking up underneath her hands. And she doesn't understand why. A moment ago, they were both perfectly at ease and then something changed and now Tony might as well be on the moon for how far from ease he is. The worst thing is that she can't figure out what she did wrong.

Her brow creases lightly in question for about half a second, before she catches herself at it and it smooths out again. She can't quite hide the flicker of sudden and unexpected hurt in her eyes though, or how the tension from earlier and then some snaps back into her.

"I don't know about that," she says with a one-shouldered shrug, her tone as easy as Tony's. Spy, remember? She can lie with the best of them. Like it's nothing, she untangles her hand from under his and pulls it away as she lets her other hand drop from his hip. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans, curling them up tightly. "You never know what they're going to do with you while you're out."

Edited 2012-06-18 03:00 (UTC)

He relaxes ever so slightly as she steps away. Not fully; some level of tension remains in the line of his shoulders, the way his hands wander restlessly over the partially disassembled engine components spread out on the workbench. But here in his workshop...here of all places he doesn't feel the need to put up the front of cavalier indolence that was his armor long before Iron Man was the barest spark of inspiration.

It shouldn't reassure him that she's looking tense again too. It really shouldn't. But this at least it familiar, having her at a distance, behind various defenses. It's infinitely easier to deal with than the strange intimacy of a moment before. He has no idea what he was thinking. Not that he didn't want to help, but like this she was like a wolf in a trap. No matter how much sympathy you might feel there was still a fair chance of getting your hand ripped off if you got too close.

"I figure once they've got you sliced open they can probably do pretty much whatever the hell they like anyway," he responds, quirking an eyebrow.

It was only a matter of time before the tenuous sort of intimacy between them broke. But Natasha sorta thought she'd be the one to break it. And the hurt twisting up her stomach probably has more to do with the unfamiliar feeling of rejection than anything else. Because of course it couldn't last.

She wanders away, putting some distance and the length of a work bench between them. She makes a great show of peering curiously at the little bits and pieces littering its surface in between surreptitious glances darted in his direction, flickering over the tense set of his shoulders or the way his hand flits over the engine parts like a particularly indecisive butterfly.

"But at least you know what they're doing to you," she argues with a wince. "You won't go in to have a bullet dug out of you and wake up with a kidney gone or a bomb nestled in your guts." The latter had happened to one of the girls. Marusya. Sweet little blonde thing. She was failing out of the Program and determined to get at least some use out of her the Red Room turned her into a human bomb without telling her. Then on her next mission, they detonated her once she was in range of the multiple marks that needed taking out. Her death was messy and immediate, but most of all useful.

"I woke up with blonde hair once," she offers, picking up a screwdriver and turning it over in her hands, digging the business end against the pad of her thumb and twisting it absently. "Gave me one hell of a shock."

Eventually he does settle to the involved process of reassembling the engine. With every gear and piston that slots neatly back into place, a little tension ebbs from his stance. This is as close as he ever comes to being at peace; hands moving with unhesitating precision, the components scattered over the workbench coming back together into an intricate whole under his touch. In a startlingly short space of time what had been an apparently chaotic jumble of cogs and levers is becoming recognizable as the engine it started out as.

"I guess that makes sense," he concedes, lifting a bolt and inspecting it for a moment before screwing it into place. He hadn't ever really thought about it from that point of view before, but now she comes to mention it- yeah, that's a whole new level of uncomfortable and disturbing. And seriously, what kind of life has she had that she thinks about things like this?

"Huh." He pauses and gives her a long, speculative sort of look. "...I can't picture you as a blonde. That's weird."

There's something almost soothing about watching all those little pieces growing into a whole under Tony's hands, and one of Natasha's quick glances over just sort of... sticks. She doesn't know where this strange sort of fascination with things being built rather than torn down comes from. Because she never used to have a problem with being what she is. Tearing things down gave her purpose, made her feel alive. Used to be it was the only thing that filled up the aching emptiness that seems to have settled in the center of her, spreading a little with each passing month. But, regardless from where it stems, the fascination is there now, and as Tony works, a little bit of the returned tension bleeds out of her.

It's strangely comforting the way that he'll talk to her without looking at her. Clint looks at her all the time, and it's nice not to have such a captive audience for once. She sets the screwdriver down on the workbench opposite of the one he's working on, puts her hands flat against the scarred surface and jumps up on it in a smooth motion. Her feet dangle in the air and her left heel bangs lightly against the solid table leg.

"It's different," she acknowledges with a small shrug. Seeing herself in blonde hair for the first time had been unsettling. "It makes my face look softer. Younger. I never liked it." But it got the job done, and it was easier to blend into the crowd afterwards. But it wasn't her, and there aren't so many facets of her that she could afford to lose one.

His eyes flicker to her as she hops up to sit on the workbench, hands not pausing, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he returns his attention to the engine. He's pretty sure their Natasha would hurt him for thinking this - he's pretty sure this Natasha would hurt him for thinking this - but there's something weirdly endearing about her right now. Which, he absolutely did not just have that thought and would not admit to it even facing a firing squad. But...yeah.

"I went blonde once," he comments, leaning down to bolt the sump pan back on. "Tried to, anyway. It didn't really work out that well." He smirks to himself and elaborates. "Some stupid bet. I must have been...what, about fifteen?"

Instead of the screwdriver, Natasha picks up what looks vaguely like two wide cogwheels stuck together on a metal rod which is about the length of her hand from the heel of her palm to the tip of her index finger. She turns it over absently in her hands. The pad of her thumb catches against the teeth of the left cogwheel, and it turns with surprising ease. But, her attention doesn't actually waver from Tony and whatever he's building.

Natasha tilts her head to the side and frowns as she considers Tony's face. Her eyes narrow slightly and then she nods slowly. "I can sorta picture that?" She crinkles her nose slightly. It's not a bad mental image as such. Let's just say she's glad that he stuck with the brown. "Did you at least win the bet?"

"I did," he confirms. And that's the main thing, right? With a smirk he elaborates; "I got into an argument with my lab partner about whether or not the peroxide we were using was the same stuff they put in hair dye. Turns out I was right, but I'm not sure it was worth it." He'd be the first to concede that the overall effect had been kind of ridiculous. But hey, there's no end to the number of poor judgement calls that can be excused by being fifteen and stupid.

Natasha shoots Tony a wide grin in congratulations on the victory. Whether it's a bet, a mission or a game, the only thing that matters is winning. All other things are secondary to that. Well, maybe not all things... "Depends, I suppose. How long did you spend as a blonde?"

He gives a faintly bemused little smile in return, spanner twisting in his hands as he pauses in the act of tightening a bolt. It's strange to see her grinning at him like that. Nice, but strange. "About a month," he replies. Just long enough to satisfy the demands of pride - what, like he was going to admit it'd been a terrible decision - before he surreptitiously acquired some actual dye to return his hair to something approaching its natural color.

Natasha tilts her head to the side, and the grin is replaced by an exaggerated frown as she pretends to think it over; weighing winning the bet against a month of blonde hair. "Worth it," she finally says with a decisive nod of her head. "But just barely."

She ducks her head and twists one of the cog wheels two times around its rod. "They dyed my hair back after two weeks that time," she offers, darting a quick look up at him. "Would've been sooner, but the mission was a bitch to finish."

"The red suits you better," he says. He's trying again to picture her as a blonde and it's really just not working for him at all. It's the black and red he associates with Natasha, the widow's colors; it just looks right on her in a way that defies any sort of rational explanation. There's a spark of curiosity about the mission she's mentioned, but he doesn't ask.

The last bolt winds in tight against its washer, and he sets the spanner down on the workbench. Cams next, yeah? Or maybe the valves- no, getting ahead of himself there. Definitely the cams. "Pass me a screwdriver?" he asks without thinking, extending a hand in her direction.

"The brown suits you better," Natasha retorts with a quick grin, her heel drumming incessantly against the table leg.

Surprise flashes across her features at his question, followed by a flicker of something darker that might be apprehension, and her foot stills midair. But it's only a matter of a second before a very pleased sort of smile lights up her face. "Uh, sure." Whatever thing she's been fiddling with goes down on the work bench on a pile of other fiddly little things with a soft rattle and she picks up the screwdriver from beside her thigh instead. She hops down from her perch, walks over to his workbench, leans across it and holds the screwdriver out with the handle first. "This one good?"

Tony glances up. "Yeah, that's perfect," he says, giving the screwdriver an approving sort of look and taking it. Screwdriver in hand he sets about the excessively fiddly business of replacing the valves.

"Good." Natasha leans her elbows against the work bench, somehow finding a bit of clear space amidst the clutter and she watches Tony with some interest as he's engrossed by the task at hand.

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This Gilded Cage

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