Chapter Ten: Atlas

By the time Clint took his seat, the theater was empty but for the bartender, wrapping up cleaning routine. Clint settled into the table he and Natasha ate at near an hour ago. It'd been cleaned but Clint found a few wayward crumbs. Minutes ticked by without word from Pitor or Natasha. Now and again he heard a noise; the shifting of curtains or a half-caught cough.

He was getting hungry and could use a drink but the bartender was gone now, leaving Clint alone in the suddenly cavernous theater. When the crumbs started to look appetizing, Clint made to stand. Just then, lights flickered, indicating an upcoming performance. He sank back down, thirst and hunger forgotten at once.

It was a while yet before anything happened but Clint didn't mind, now that he had something to focus on. He lost sense of time, waiting for Natasha. A nervous joy soaked into him. He was finally going to see Natasha dance; see his soulmate performing the one thing that made her eyes bright. When she'd seen the other dancers, Clint had to restrain himself from reaching out for her. Joy, joy, joy, radiated through their string. Clint was sure she was in love. Perhaps not with him, but Clint would do whatever it took to see that expression in her again.

Plus, from how elegantly she handled herself on the battle field, Clint knew he was in for a show.

His patience was rewarded when the curtains rolled open, Natasha alone on stage in the dark. Clint leaned forward, eyes cataloging her stance. She'd been given new clothes for the dance, white leggings and a tight white blouse. Her hair had been tied into a bun and red fabric colored middle of her chest. The Black Widow had been turned white.

A spot light illuminated her at the same time music started, a slow piano song Clint recognized but couldn't place. Three notes into the song, Natasha started to move. Her expression was carefully neutral and her movements slow as a heart beat at sleep. It followed the unhurried song. Clint felt lulled. As she danced, their string followed along, flitting back and forth from middle to pinky finger – lust to affection.

The music picked up, as did Natasha's movements. Clint had no idea what the technical terms were for what she did, legs and arms and torso twisting as she explored the stage. He'd ask her later. For now he watched.

As the tempo increased, Natasha's movements followed. Soon she was leaping through the air and Clint touched his chest where their string felt so light he feared for a moment it would fade away. Silly thought; the string was a darker shade of red than ever before.

Natasha did a final jump and the music cut out. She struck a last pose, arms crossed over her chest as the light went off.

It was over.

Did he clap? Was that something people did at ballet? Clint wanted to clap but the curtains started to close. He stood so quick his chair flopped over. Clint whistled loud enough to be heard over the thunnk of the chair and started to clap. Natasha's shoulders shook just as the curtains obscured her. Clint knew by the sensation from their string that she was laughing.

Clint didn't bother to pick up the chair as he sprinted for the stage. When he parted the curtains, Natasha was almost out of sight by the left wing. Luckily for him, her white clothes stood out like neon in the dark.

"Tasha! Nat, wait!" Natasha paused and watched him over her shoulder. Clint could just kiss her.

He hurried forward and did, turning her around for a quick peck in case she rejected his buoyant affection. Clint had a sense she wouldn't.

"That was –"

Awesome? Beautiful? Amazing? Undeniably sexy; you're my soulmate so let's get to business.

"That was something."

Natasha's trademark eyebrow rose. He'd never seen a gesture so sarcastic before. The pull at her lips let him know she was amused. He kissed her again. This time he felt their string pulse with affection from her. Even if Natasha wasn't physically responding, her soul was.

"Are you going to dance again?"

"No. Perhaps another time. I would like to go, now."

Natasha was happy but there was a definite weariness to her voice. Clint noted that she was somewhat out of breath. It was the kind of fatigue that came with doing too many fun things, like children collapsing after a day at the circus. Clint had seen it enough times when he had performed that he recognized it. The look was cute on Natasha, though he wished she wasn't too unused to enjoying herself.

"Sure. Why don't you change and – uh – we'll head out."

Natasha nodded and slipped away, content to be silent. Clint stretched his shoulders before heading back out of the curtains to their table. Pitor was waiting there for him, plucking crumbs from the table. The chair was set straight. Clint almost felt guilty.

"She is beautiful," Pitor told him. He laughed at the size of Clint's grin but the archer didn't care. He felt like he was walking on air.

"Are you kidding me? Beautiful doesn't even cover it."

Too full with energy to sit, Clint stood close to the table and spoke with Pitor. When Natasha came from one of the back rooms, dressed in the clothes she'd been in before, he couldn't remember a word he'd said but the giant lug wasn't offended. He laughed again and waved the two off. Natasha nodded to him and led Clint out into the hot summer night's air. Lights were going out through the carnival, dark in patches and glowing in others. Trash coated the ground, broken bits of popcorn, gum with shoe treads in it, paper and wrappers being swept into dustbins. Most of the crowd was gone now, those left exiting by the same direction. Clint bumped Natasha's shoulder with his own and when she turned to him he was pretending to be focused on a powered down roller coaster.

"Thanks for comin' with me tonight," he told her. She scoffed at him. "So, your place or mine?"

"We live at the same facility."

"So," he turned to her, waggling his eyebrows at her. She put a palm to his face and shoved him away. "I don't have any roommates."

"Funny, neither do I." She'd never been trusted enough to have them. In boot-camp everyone was kept under the same, strict conditions. If she attacked someone in their sleep there was a room of fifteen other recruits to fight her off. The same could not be said for the rooms in SHIELD.

"You're no fun," Clint objected.

"Someone has to counter you out." He bumped her shoulder again.

"Your dancing was great by the way."

"It was sloppy. I haven't practiced ballet in months and it showed."

"Could have fooled me."

As they exited the park Clint stopped the stare back on it. Growing up in the circus had been rough but he wouldn't have wanted it otherwise. To visit that type of life again, to share it with Natasha, had been good for him. He felt lighter. Healthier despite the poor quality food. It was nice to play civilian again, to know what it was like for the people he fought tooth and nail to protect. When he glanced at Natasha again she bore a similar expression.

"Let's go home," she told him when she caught him staring. Home. He tucked an arm under hers and led the way back to his car.

:::::::::::::::::::

They were quiet on the ride back, Clint driving this time. Although they were in silence neither bothered to turn on the radio. The air was tense, far more so than before Natasha took the stage or even when they'd first come to the carnival. Neither wanted sound from the radio to snip the upcoming conversation but likewise, neither knew how to begin said conversation. Clint tapped the steering wheel and Natasha crossed her arms tight over her gut like a seat-belt. Light from lampposts and other cars filtered through the car window.

At the second stop light Natasha began to speak.

"When I was young, too young to read, my family was killed." She told him about the fire, about the mutant who had rescued her, and her utter confusion. Her parents had been killed by the secret police, as the mutant had told her. She didn't know if that was the truth or not. She didn't even know how she'd been separated from him because most of her memory had been wiped by agency after agency.

She could tell Clint wanted to interject but she warned him to be still until she finished. Natasha was terrified she wouldn't be able to say anything otherwise. At the fifth stoplight she told him about her first agency. Most of her memories of that time were gone. What remained were flashes of things, training, fighting, and being taught basic necessities from reading to how to protect oneself in an attack. From the training ground she was sold to another agency when she reached puberty. From there she was taught to kill and how to seduce.

Clint's hands tightened on the steering wheel and behind them a car honked because the light was green. He cursed and sped off but didn't say another word so Natasha continued. She explained what she could, fragments of memories, drowning a man in a hotel bathroom, bashing in another's nose into his skull, letting an elite business woman do what she willed with Natasha's body so she could steal information. She told Clint about the multiple of ways she'd been used to kill or for sex. She told him about the child she'd had to strangle, the way his bright blue eyes wept and bulged like they'd pop. She told him about the man with a raspy voice and a bad toupee she let paw at her until he let his guard down enough she could cut off his hand to use for security clearance. She told him about the headaches, the bone weary sickness and alienation that came from having her memory wiped. She told him about the nervousness of other Black Widows around her, how even killers were wary. Natasha explained Winter Soldier, how similar and broken they were and that out of every person she'd met it was only he that she'd wanted to have sex with. Her memories of Winter Soldier were so bright they hurt.

Natasha told Clint about the hospital fire when they were nearly home and Clint had to pull off the road. She couldn't stop talking. A stopper on her bottled up heart had been loosed and it couldn't be put back. She spoke through a shaking voice and Clint tore off both their seat-belts before pulling her into his arms. Natasha fought at first, terrified, half caught in the heat and agony of that fire but Clint was there, whispering nonsense to her. Her hair was damp from his tears and she buried her face into his shoulder, smearing tears as snot into it but Clint didn't complain, not once.

He didn't say, "I'm sorry" or "You're so brave" or any other useless phrases. He held her as much as she held him, each of them sobbing for reasons that couldn't be pinned. Loss? Anger? Something more. Clint wept for the child soldier, the prostitute, the broken doll who'd come to life when no one wanted it. He wept for himself, for his soulmate, for every scar on their hearts. Above them the car's light flickered and the engine sputtered and the seat-belt warning clicked. Cars flew past them, rocking their own on the tiny dirt road Clint had pulled into.

"I didn't mean to," Natasha croaked. Her voice wasn't working right and her eyes were blurry. Her head throbbed and she could feel Clint's heart pulsing under her jaw. It was alive, beating for them both because Natasha felt cold and dead compared to him. "I didn't mean to put the gun in my mouth. It happens sometimes. When it's –" She choked back the next words and squeezed her eyes shut. It happened when it was all too much. She acted without thought. When her world collapsed on her Natasha's instincts told her to get out before she was compromised. It'd been ingrained in her from her stolen childhood.

"I want to live."

At the words her heart lurched. Clint's arms tightened around her but it didn't feel like a cage at all. Her throat burned and she couldn't see but Natasha had never felt more alive than the day she was born.

"I want to live," she repeated. "I want to live."

::::::::::::::::::::::::

It took significantly longer to get home than either of them had intended. Too shaky to return to her own room alone, Natasha let Clint guide her to his room. They lay in the dark, Natasha's toes touching Clint's socks as he pulled a thin grey sheet over them both. She wasn't sure which of them was holding the other but she didn't care to ponder it. Neither spoke. There wasn't another noise in the room aside from pipes shifting in the walls and the groan of the air-conditioning.

Clint wanted to tell her everything, about his parent's death and what it was like in the circus. Most of all he wanted to tell her about the string, glowing in the dark like embers. But Natasha had fallen asleep, or into a much of a sleep as she could. Her eyes closed and moved under their lids. A frown caught her lips but when Clint kissed her brows they loosened and she relaxed.

Another time. He closed his own eyes and tried to replace the images of Natasha killing children with that of her ballet.

Author Notes: As deeply I apologize for the absurdly long hiatus I also thank each and every one of you who follows this story and has spoke to me or encouraged me to keep writing just by letting your presence be known. This chapter is short but it has been a long time coming. From here things are going to get rolling. Budapest is next.

I highly encourage you to listen to the song, "Prelude: The Atlas March". While listing to my music on shuffle this song began the literal moment I wrote "I want to live" and is quite possibly the best song to accompany that moment.

Thank you all again and see you soon(er).