Natasha, Clint knew, had been trained to lie. She’d practiced and perfected the art of controlling her tone, knew exactly what inflections to make in order to sound convincing. It was what had made her invaluable to SHIELD, to the Red Room. She could fool anyone, if she put her mind to it.
Clint saw through it every time. It was why he’d made the decision not to kill her in Russia, when SHIELD had deemed her a threat and sent him to neutralize her. He’d looked at her, and he’d seen through it. Seen through all of it. He’d known she was worth saving, and he’d been right. Clint wasn’t sure why he was able to do what most people couldn’t. Maybe it was because he had a lot of experience with being fooled, because he’d fallen for so many lies. Maybe it was because he knew Natasha, better than anyone. He didn’t know. He hated himself for it, sometimes. She should be able to lie if she wanted. She should have that option.
So he didn’t push. He didn’t say anything about her tone as she cracked the joke (it was almost flawless, would have fooled anyone but him), didn’t ask her to talk about anything else. Instead, he smiled and nodded. “We should come up with a system. Label the dumpsters. It’d make it easier for me to tell you where I’m at.”
Okay. I believe you. He felt a pang of guilt at the words, hated himself a little more. She probably didn’t believe him, not entirely, and he was only lying for her sake, anyways; there was no need to make this messier than it had to be, no need to throw more fuel on the fire. Still, he’d always hated lying to her. It made him feel like he was no better than all the other people who’d done just that. He didn’t respond to her statement with anything more than a nod, not quite trusting his voice.
He listened carefully as she spoke again. It’s what she said. And didn’t Clint get that better than anyone? Hadn’t he put an arrow through his phone because of what Jessica said, because even remembering that the texts existed made his stomach churn and his hands tremble? “Yeah,” he agreed, “I guess she’s good at that. Do you… do you wanna talk about it? What she said to you?” Natasha deserved that, too, deserved to have someone listen to her, support her. Clint would always be that person for her.
“Okay. Something else is good. What do you want to do?”
He was being kind, allowing her to get away with lying without questioning the diction. Natasha already had a long list of debts to repay Clint for, starting with the call he’d made years ago. Although she’d never admit it, he'd saved her. If their fight hadn’t ended in that discussion, both of them bloody, breathless and bruised, she would have sacrificed herself, allowed him put an arrow through her chest. She had always prepared for a short life, at least in this case, it would have been on her terms. Hell, it would have been preferable to what awaited her.
But it hadn’t come down to killing blows, they’d both come out alive, although scathed. The scar from that first arrow through her shoulder had never faded. Neither had the bullet wounds in his legs.
Perhaps it all came down to timing. Hawkeye’s name was barely a whisper. If it was a little louder, she would have been more well prepared for him, would have shot to kill instead of to hinder. More likely, however, it was because of the person that Clint was. You couldn’t deny that there was something better in the world when he spoke with conviction, couldn’t deny that hope was still alive when he caught your eye, couldn’t deny that there were people worth fighting for when you got to know him.
What was one more debt to someone like that, even if it was a small one?
“I like the sound of that,” she said, and this time, her smile was almost genuine. “We can name them after cities we’ve visited together. No one else’ll crack it that way.”
If he could offer her an out, she could offer him one as well. Natasha didn’t ask anymore questions about what Jessica had said, and maybe that was for the better. There were somethings that were better left unknown.
She was silent for a moment, pondering his offer. What was there to say about it? Jessica had been drunk, her words shouldn’t have fazed her. They were meaningless. But this was what this was about, like he’d said. He deserved a small piece of the truth, a small piece of what little humanity she had to give. (Even if she hated herself for it). “She wanted something from me that I couldn’t give her,” she said slowly. “And so she lashed out. She understands people well enough to know what might hurt them.” Her tone turned flippant by the end, “It’s far from the worst things I’ve heard, Clint.”
“I can think of a few things,” she said suggestively. “We can order a pizza.”
