This Gilded Cage

[bornrussian]

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.

Comments

[nottheworsthing.livejournal.com]

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.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

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."

[nottheworsthing.livejournal.com]

"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.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

"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?"

[nottheworsthing.livejournal.com]

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.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

"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.