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Natasha’s back is warm against Clint’s as they wait for their mark to show himself.
It’s one of their nicer safe houses. Not only are they smack dab in the middle of Paris, but the apartment has both a view of the Eiffel Tower and pedestrian traffic, high enough to enjoy the view but low enough to get a good look at every passerby. The window seat that they’re perched on allows them a perfect 180 degree view of the street, with their combined peripheral vision meeting in the middle.
Nothing is getting past them.
Which is good, because they are on hour five of this stakeout, and are playing ‘I Spy.’
It’s Clint’s turn, and he grins when he notices the street performers that have just bounced their way onto the street corner.
“I spy with my little eye...something black and white.”
He can almost feel Natasha roll her eyes from where she’s pressed against him.
“It's the clown isn’t it?” Natasha asks with disgust. “You know I hate clowns.”
“Nah, that’s a mime. Clowns are even creepier,” Clint responds.
“Hard to believe,” she murmurs dryly.
“You never saw the clowns that were with us when I was a carny. Now those dudes were nasty as hell. Would spit their chewing tobacco into their hand and then hand a kid a balloon animal.”
“Ugh. I don’t know how you spent so many years in such a hell hole.”
Compared to the hell hole of his childhood home, it was a walk in the park, but Natasha puts on a colorful combination of anger and protectiveness whenever he talks about his past. It is gratifying, but also kind of scary, so he keeps the thought to himself. Besides, “I think you win when it comes to childhood hell holes.” He tries to keep his own protective streak out of his voice as he says this, as even peripheral mention of the Red Room has the tendency to encourage it to express itself via copious amounts of violence and swearing, which is counterproductive with a stakeout.
Her back moves against his own in the way that he knows she’s looking at him over her shoulder, and for a moment he wonders if she’s somehow read his mind. But if she has, she doesn’t comment.
“It wasn’t all bad,” she says in a soothing tone, the way she often does to keep his anger at bay against the atrocities of her childhood. “Those three years in the sleeper were nice. Actually, our fake parents took us to the circus once when it came to town. Yelena nearly ate herself sick with cotton candy and popcorn. I remember being blown away by the acrobats and knife-throwing act. Man, that guy was a sight to behold. And there were so many animals. Ones that I had never seen before. Elephants, tigers. Not the kind of things you see in Russia."
"Sounds like you had a great time."
Natasha's back pushes gently against his own. Taking a deep breath.
"We did, but. Well. Yelena wandered off and nearly got herself killed, and that set off Alexei's fake dad instincts like crazy. I swear that car ride home lasted a decade."
Clint chuckles. All this circus talk triggers a memory, from long ago but definitely not forgotten. He chuckles as he says, “She wouldn’t be the first, if it makes you feel better. More than one kid wandered away from mom and dad and got into the back to get a closer look in my circus days. I remember one time this kid got a bit too curious and found herself with a hungry lion very interested in her.”
Natasha goes stiff against his back. “A girl got into a lion enclosure?”
“Yep. Still don’t know how she managed that. Would’ve ended up cat food if ol’ Toby didn’t like me as much as he did. But Toby was a bit of a diva. He probably wouldn’t have hurt her, but he sure had that big cat growl going and I know she was terrified.”
“How old was she?”
Clint thinks back. “Eleven? Maybe twelve? I don’t know. But I remember she had pink hair and fierce eyes. Such a little spitfire. I had been practicing my knife-throwing routine when I heard Toby growling, and once she had calmed down and saw the knife in my hand, she asked if she could throw one. Very much against the rules–we could’ve gotten sued if her parents caught wind of it–but something about her made me say yes. So I stood behind her and showed her how to hold it and aim and throw, and this little hustler must have come from a knife-throwing family, because she gets three dead center, first try.”
Clint can hear the grin in Natasha’s voice. “Maybe you should be glad she didn’t actually hustle you then.”
“Guess so.”
She leans back heavier against him, stretching her legs out in front of her. “You know. when Yelena wandered off, she ended up in the back where all the costumes and props were.”
“Yeah?”
"She said that there were two guys back there."
Something about her tone makes a lead ball form in Clint’s gut. He can only too easily imagine all the traumatizing things a kid could have witnessed–or experienced–in the back tent of a circus…
“One of them was just… getting the shit beat out of him by this other guy. Just took punch after punch. He didn’t even fight back. Like it was normal. Like he deserved it.”
Wait. What..?
"He was the knife-thrower. This guy with all this incredible skill, and he was just letting someone beat the crap out of him."
It...it couldn't be...
Natasha sits straighter, going stiff against him. “And she just got...so angry. He was amazing, and he just let someone do that to him, despite everything he could do.”
The lead in his gut explodes into bullets of confetti.
"And....she...couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, and so she grabbed a knife, and hid behind the curtain.”
This can't be real.
“And threw it so it would take a nice chunk out of the asshole’s ear. Boy did he howl.”
“Tasha,” he says, overcome with an explosion of bittersweet memories and mind-boggling realizations. He rubs his nose. Blinks rapidly. Lets out a huff toward the window. "It wasn't Yelena who wandered off. Was it?"
Some of the tension seems to ease out of her at the sound of her name. Her back melds into his, her head leaning back against his shoulder. Then, softly. "No."
“I…I can't believe it," he breathes out, with shock at just who that little girl who wandered into that lion enclosure was. With regret that she witnessed such a harsh part of his past. With fierce affection that–even then–they were saving each other’s asses.
All these feelings come out as fat, warm droplets that roll down his face, and he wipes them away but they just keep coming. “Tasha. I can’t believe...”
Her shoulder blade shifts and pokes into his spine. Wiping her own eyes, maybe. “Me neither.”
“Did you know?”
“Not till you mentioned the knife-throwing.”
“I can’t believe it. You…you got into Toby’s enclosure. What were you thinking?”
He feels her shrug against his back. “I didn’t see the lion. I just…needed to get away for a bit.”
”You could have been killed.”
“But you didn’t let that happen.”
“I know but. Damn, Nat. You were just a kid.”
“And you were a full-grown man that let that asshole walk all over you.”
She has gone very tense against him once more.
Clint swallows thickly. “That was Barney.”
Her anger cools at this information. “Oh.”
Yeah. Oh. “It wasn’t...always," he feels like he needs to clarify. "Just when he drank too much or got into it with one of the other carnies. I don’t think he even realized he was...well. Turning into our dad.”
If she has further opinions about Clint's family trauma and how it relates to his chronic lack of self-esteem, she doesn't voice them. But her body goes soft against his once more.
But Clint has his own retroactive regrets about that day, and they have nothing to do with Barney. “I should have gotten you out of the Red Room that day.”
“I should have gotten you out of that circus that day.”
“You were still a minor.”
“And yet I still knew what was best for you.”
“You were trapped. God, Nat, I had no idea. If I had known, I could’ve gotten you out so much sooner.”
“No, you couldn’t have. Like you said, I was a minor, and a Russian spy. You were a twenty year old abuse survivor and loser carny who didn’t even have his own shit together. You would have been labeled a kidnapper at best, a child predator at worst, and we’d have been hunted by both the police and the KGB.”
“We could have done it, you and me. And… I should have done something. I would have, you know, if you’d told me. I liked you, even back then.”
“Perv.”
“Not like that, asshole. I’m being serious.”
“I know. Sorry. I liked you too, even though I couldn’t understand why someone like you would just allow yourself to be thrown around like that.”
Clint can feel his throat growing thick. His vision growing blurry. “I remember that day. Vividly. That was the first time anyone gave even the slightest shit about what happened to me in... I can’t even remember how long. I knew it was you. It had to be. I went to look for you but couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“The show was starting. I didn’t want Alexei getting mixed up into anything. Although he ended up finding out anyway.” She pauses. “I don’t really remember any of those circus acts except yours. You were…incredible.”
He looks down and wipes futilely at the wetness that spots the wood of the window seat. They increase in size and intensity when he feels his back go abruptly cold and arms come around his shoulders.
And he shakes his head in disbelief. That a twenty year old carny and eleven year old spy would meet in a filthy circus in rural Ohio, having no idea that that little girl would one day become the best friend he could ever have.
Natasha's chin lifts from his shoulder. "That's him."
Clint blinks away blurry vision and follows her gaze out the window. "Yes it is."
Her chin comes to a pointy rest on the top of his head. "Would you care if I pretended that this asshole is Barney?"
Clint grins. "Only if you don't have an issue with me picturing Dreykov."
"Not a one."
"Then let's get going, partner."
