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]

Now in fairness, it should be pointed out that he almost never notices Natasha approaching unless he just so happens to be facing her at the time. The woman moves like a cat. And of course when he's absorbed in a project in the workshop, the rest of the world might as well cease to exist. Add to that the music blasting full volume, and the screaming whine of the angle grinder just audible over it, he wouldn't have been distracted from his current task by a tactical air strike. Tinted goggles sit over his eyes, reflecting the sparks flying from the unsprung component unfortunate enough to have attracted his attention.

The workshop is liberally cluttered with the disassembled remains of his latest adventure in owning a Ferrari; sections of bodywork propped up against one wall, the engine in pieces on a workbench, suspension and drivetrain components all over the floor. Though it might look like sheer chaos to the untrained eye, here and there a glimpse is visible of an underlying order. He knows precisely where every last nut and bolt came from and where they need to go. This particular attention to detail is not reflected in his own appearance. He's dressed in jeans that have seen better days and an Iron Maiden t-shirt that's seen better decades, both pocked with minor burn holes and stained with oil and resin. Occasional stray sparks are landing on his bare forearms. He doesn't appear to notice.

It's only when the music drops away abruptly that he looks up. The sparks die out and he lifts the goggles to sit on his forehead, further disheveling already-wild hair. He sets the grinder aside, blinking at the unexpected figure of Natasha like a man emerging from a trance. He's somewhere in the middle of a bout of creativity-induced insomnia - or possibly the other way around - and sleep is a distant memory at this point. "Oh, hey," he says vaguely.

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