9 times out of ten, Nat is the most grounded, unflappable, composed and cool-headed person in the world, even if (for instance) their contact dissolves in front of them. Literally. Which has happened. And of that one time out of ten that she's not, ninety-nine times out of a hundred (of that one time out of ten) she just gets pissed off and a pissed off Natasha is bad news for pretty much anything she encounters.
But that one time out of a hundred of those one-times-out-of-ten, something hits her brain just the wrong way and lets some of the carefully controlled and neutralized fucked-up out.
The first time she doesn't shove it all back in like you'd to for a gut wound where your intestines fall out is the time that Clint realizes she actually trusts him (inasmuch as she trusts anyone, ever). And this is hugely gratifying and heart-warming and totally, utterly fucking terrifying when he finds her standing in front of a mirror she apparently smashed with her hand (which is bleeding), staring at the fractured reflection like it's got the secrets of the universe or has pissed her off recently.
(These are remarkably similar expressions, in Tasha.)
" . . . Natasha?" Clint says, cautiously. Then he searches for something to say that isn't going to set off Mount Vesuvius and settles on, "You're bleeding all over the tiles."
Natasha frowns and stares at her hand like she's not sure she's ever seen it before or like someone redecorated it while she was out. "How do you know?" she asks, in a weird and distant voice.
"Uh," Clint says intelligently, reflecting that "dealing with the Black Widow's mental breakdowns" is sadly not a currently listed training course at SHIELD. "I can see you. You're right there?"
Now Natasha turns her stare on him and he fights the urge to take a step back, because that . . . well, he hasn't seen that stare since before he decided not to kill her, and it's still fucking scary. But he just stands where he is, and she asks, "How do you know it's me? And don't say you know what I look like, Barton. Looks are nothing. Bodies are nothing. We're nothing. We're not even real."
There's probably a right answer to this, like, an approved and brilliant one. After a minute, Clint just shrugs and says, "I think if you were anyone else and I walked in on you being crazy and punching mirrors and questioning reality, I'd probably be dead by now?"
A lot of different expressions go across Natasha's face, that scrunch it up in different shapes, until she looks back down at her bleeding hand and seems to actually see it.
"Here," Clint says, ducking into the bathroom and opening one of the cabinets, holding up some gauze and bandage. Natasha lets him use the iodine wipes on her hand, but takes the gauze and bandage herself. When she's done she sighs, and looks up a bit more like herself.
"Sorry," she says, short and grudging, like she hates having to see it. On the basis that a little obnoxious is always more welcome than pity, Clint puts a mocking arm around her shoulder.
"Don't sorry about it," he says, and decides to totally break the mood by dropping a kiss on the side-top of her head.
The world pauses for a second, and then Tasha says, " . . . did you just give me a patronizing kiss on the head?" and really sounds a lot more like Natalia Romanova and a lot less like a crazed remnant of a super-spy-assassin. Clint congratulates himself.
"Yeah," he replies, and then adds, "And now I really know it's you, because I'm still not dead."
She's trying not to laugh as she shoves him away. Clint'll count that a win.
uh, mild warning for Clint using Special, Slightly Gorey Imagery
But that one time out of a hundred of those one-times-out-of-ten, something hits her brain just the wrong way and lets some of the carefully controlled and neutralized fucked-up out.
The first time she doesn't shove it all back in like you'd to for a gut wound where your intestines fall out is the time that Clint realizes she actually trusts him (inasmuch as she trusts anyone, ever). And this is hugely gratifying and heart-warming and totally, utterly fucking terrifying when he finds her standing in front of a mirror she apparently smashed with her hand (which is bleeding), staring at the fractured reflection like it's got the secrets of the universe or has pissed her off recently.
(These are remarkably similar expressions, in Tasha.)
" . . . Natasha?" Clint says, cautiously. Then he searches for something to say that isn't going to set off Mount Vesuvius and settles on, "You're bleeding all over the tiles."
Natasha frowns and stares at her hand like she's not sure she's ever seen it before or like someone redecorated it while she was out. "How do you know?" she asks, in a weird and distant voice.
"Uh," Clint says intelligently, reflecting that "dealing with the Black Widow's mental breakdowns" is sadly not a currently listed training course at SHIELD. "I can see you. You're right there?"
Now Natasha turns her stare on him and he fights the urge to take a step back, because that . . . well, he hasn't seen that stare since before he decided not to kill her, and it's still fucking scary. But he just stands where he is, and she asks, "How do you know it's me? And don't say you know what I look like, Barton. Looks are nothing. Bodies are nothing. We're nothing. We're not even real."
There's probably a right answer to this, like, an approved and brilliant one. After a minute, Clint just shrugs and says, "I think if you were anyone else and I walked in on you being crazy and punching mirrors and questioning reality, I'd probably be dead by now?"
A lot of different expressions go across Natasha's face, that scrunch it up in different shapes, until she looks back down at her bleeding hand and seems to actually see it.
"Here," Clint says, ducking into the bathroom and opening one of the cabinets, holding up some gauze and bandage. Natasha lets him use the iodine wipes on her hand, but takes the gauze and bandage herself. When she's done she sighs, and looks up a bit more like herself.
"Sorry," she says, short and grudging, like she hates having to see it. On the basis that a little obnoxious is always more welcome than pity, Clint puts a mocking arm around her shoulder.
"Don't sorry about it," he says, and decides to totally break the mood by dropping a kiss on the side-top of her head.
The world pauses for a second, and then Tasha says, " . . . did you just give me a patronizing kiss on the head?" and really sounds a lot more like Natalia Romanova and a lot less like a crazed remnant of a super-spy-assassin. Clint congratulates himself.
"Yeah," he replies, and then adds, "And now I really know it's you, because I'm still not dead."
She's trying not to laugh as she shoves him away. Clint'll count that a win.