Chapter Text
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
It is not a helpful thought but try as he might, Clint cannot seem to escape it.
Of course, in so many ways these words have been haunting him since long before he let Steve drag him into his freshly acquired personal guestroom at Stark Tower. And holy shit is it a mind-fuck to be back here, walking through a tower he hasn’t set foot in in years, guided by a voice he last heard from an android worthy of carrying Mjolnir—before Thanos came and ripped the Mind Stone out of Vision’s head, left nothing but an empty husk behind, talk about fucking metaphors. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
None of it.
Thanos wasn’t supposed to come and he sure as fucking hell wasn’t supposed to win. Laura wasn’t supposed to die. Cooper, Lila and Nate weren’t supposed to go before him. He was a black ops agent with a redacted past on the wrong side of the law, a public persona and an attitude problem, he wasn’t supposed to outlive everyone he cared about.
They were supposed to be safe, even if he couldn’t be with them, had lost them long before they turned to dust for the sole crime of being in the wrong percentage. Had lost them before Laura had allowed him back into the house but refused to share the bedroom, before she stopped answering the phone when he managed to call, maybe even before he picked the bow back up because Steve asked him to.
But that’s an older wound, one that has scabbed over even though it still stings when he pokes at it. Yet another regret to carry, a personal failure Clint has had to learn how to live with. Things hadn’t been fine by any means but Clint had tried and Laura had tried—more than he deserved, perhaps—and all that pain and exhaustion and lonely nights and those uncomfortable conversations hadn’t mattered in the end.
In the wake of the Decimation, not much did.
Clint hadn’t let it. He hadn’t felt much of anything afterwards. Not until Natasha’s—
Not until Natasha.
Vormir is a gaping wound that refuses to close, still bleeds sluggishly, with no sign of slowing down. Every second, every word, every reaction on that cursed place is burned into his memory. He was too slow. Always too slow when it matters.
Losing Nat had always been a possibility. They weren’t in a business that promised peaceful retirement and neither of them had seen a point in pretending otherwise. But. Not like that.
Natasha had taken an impossible choice for herself, had made it for them both, and a part of Clint, a part that is much larger than he is willing to admit, hates her for it.
For leaving him. For making him continue.
Then Tony.
It sucked, Clint won’t lie. But if he is honest, he barely felt the loss by that point. There was no space for anything but a thin, worn-down satisfaction to finally see the Mad Titan and his forces obliterated. No space for grief or even relief at the return of the people they had lost.
Clint had been empty. A paper-thin shell, hollowed out from the inside.
But even then he had known that the dramatic headlines and unnecessarily long eulogies had been bullshit. He had dealt out enough death to know that there was no poetic justice in any of it. Tony had burned himself out for the universe because someone had to and he had the opportunity and Tony Stark had always been the kind of man who did the job himself, whether it was his responsibility to do so or not.
Clint kind of hates him for that too. Because how do you forgive those who have saved the world after you stopped considering it worth saving?
How do you forgive yourself for giving up?
So. It’s probably fair to say that even after Thanos’ defeat—too little, too late—life wasn’t going to be all sunshine and roses. The chances of his divorce finally going through, now that Laura was back among the living, had been pretty good still, though she probably would have waited until after they had gotten Nat’s affairs in order.
Because Laura was decent like that. She had also taken one look at Clint and warned him, subtly so the children wouldn’t hear, that he better get a hold of himself if he wanted to continue to be a part of their lives and Clint…
Clint hadn’t known what to say to that. Where to fucking start.
If there was anything left of the man Laura had married years ago, Clint didn’t recognize it anymore. Didn’t even know if he wanted to. But he couldn’t say that when things were so fragile between the two of them, when his children were shooting them both anxious glances, when not even seeing Lila's smile made a dent into the numbness in his bones, so he had swallowed down the words and nodded, accepted the gauntlet Laura had thrown down.
And now, after all the shit they have been through, all the shit they still have to clean up and figure out, the rug has been pulled out from under his feet again.
2012.
They’re back in 2012. Before Thanos. Before the in-fighting. Before even Ultron. And this time there is no plan to collect the stones, no deliberate jump, no controlled choice. Because after all the mind-fucking bullshit he has somehow, unwillingly, lived through, getting his brains rolled by Loki again had of course been exactly the character-shaping experience Clint needed to relive.
Not.
The worst part is that this time he doesn’t just remember every second he spent as a puppet under the scepter’s seductive influence like he did last time—this time he fucking misses it.
The Mind Stone may be batshit-crazy—seriously how did they get Vision out of this thing—and ready to throw them at Thanos’ feet a decade ahead of the schedule but it also bathed the world in shades of blue and made his thoughts go quiet. Which made it the closest to peace of mind Clint remembers feeling since half the universe crumbled to dust.
Give him a couple of days and he might have a crisis about that too. As it is, his calendar looks pretty booked for the foreseeable future if the displeased furrow between Steve’s eyebrows and puzzled confusion on Thor’s face is anything to go by, so he may have to reschedule.
One disaster at a time.
Yeah. Clint barely swallows down a snort. Right.
Natasha would like to say that she notices something is off immediately—and if anyone asks that is what she will claim and good luck trying to prove otherwise—but the truth is, it’s not until a good five minutes after Clint has woken up, heavily concussed and beat up but himself, in the back of their not-quite-stolen getaway car that she realizes it.
Which is a solid two hours after Stark catches on.
Stark.
Granted, Natasha has had other things on her mind. Like the alien capable of mind-control getting a hold of the one person she might actually one day admit to count as a real friend without lying, should the stars align and the confession suit her purpose. Or the invaders that may follow on said invading alien’s heels.
But that is no excuse to discard the many, many inconsistencies she has observed but ignored or brushed off as irrelevant instead of questioned like her instincts have insisted with increasing alarm ever since she has watched Rogers and Banner hover over Stark like he might disappear in the middle of the helicarrier the second they take their eyes off of him.
There had been speculation in Rogers' file that he may be positively inclined towards Stark on the grounds of his history with Howard Stark but even if SHIELD’s subsequent attempt to discourage a connection with such a volatile asset had failed that still doesn’t explain the depth of Roger’s emotional reaction to Stark.
Don’t even get her started on Banner.
Stark stands for everything Bruce Banner has done his best to avoid since he got his monstrous green addition. The way he has actively sought out Tony Stark at his most sarcastic and defensive makes no sense whatsoever. Nor does the tension between Banner and Rogers, one that screams of frustration born out of long-held disagreements stretched out over years, not a twenty minutes long acquaintance.
And all that doesn’t touch on the fact that the Asgardian crown prince Thor has treated all of them—Stark and Natasha included—like long lost friends.
Not just in the way he’s greeted Stark with an actual hug either. Big, boisterous statements are easier to fake, though what aim such a pretense would serve Natasha can’t hope to guess, but it is the little things that have given her pause and almost succeeded in distracting her from her primary goal of getting Clint back.
The loaded glances. The unfinished sentences that were understood by the others nonetheless. The way they stepped into a formation on instinct the moment the explosion shook the helicarrier, like they knew exactly how everyone else would respond. Like they had been in that position before.
She set it aside because she needed to focus on Clint. So that is what she did.
Natasha doesn’t regret that because Clint needed her and now she has him back. Bloodied and fucked-up but himself.
That said, she does regret letting all those hints go without comment, just a little, because Clint may be himself but it only took her five minutes in his company to realize that he is most definitely not the same.
And sure, suffering under that level of magical brainwashing is bound to be traumatizing, Natasha expected as much. What she didn't expect was for Clint to tackle her in a hug that almost got all of them killed in a car accident of all things the moment he regained consciousness—which has, sadly, still turned out to be the most in-character response she has witnessed from him thus far—but he doesn’t tap their agreed upon all-clear signal out against her shoulder. He doesn’t flinch or tense when he catches sight of Loki—and yeah, the guy might be a victim too if Rogers' word is to be trusted, but how would Clint know that? And even if he does, that doesn’t explain the complete non-reaction to his presence.
Most telling though is the moment in Stark’s elevator, right before the doors open and they step out onto the roof. It is a small thing, a lightening-quick motion someone else might have missed, but Natasha is watching him closely and she knows exactly what she saw. Mere seconds before stepping into a potentially life-threatening situation, Clint doesn’t look towards her. Instead his gaze flicks to Rogers, to Banner, to Thor, and he takes his cue from them.
He’s subtle about it and he does clock her and Stark too, as she would expected, but that first reflex doesn’t lie.
So, while it might have taken Natasha longer to catch on than she would have prefered, she does know that something is off. Something that goes beyond the complete insanity this assignment has turned into.
The question now is what she is going to do about it.
Natasha leans back in her seat, a position that reinforces the relaxed air she has been carefully feigning ever since they have entered this slightly run-down local restaurant whose staff has been handling their unexpected and strange customers surprisingly well so far and slowly lets her gaze roam over their curious group—takes in the way Thor pushes more food onto Loki’s plate every time their wannabe conqueror finishes his last bite, how Clint keeps shooting glances her way, not so much like he is trying to communicate and more as though he is checking whether she is still there, while Rogers and Banner throw unexpectedly cutting barbs at each other when they aren’t each trying to pull Stark into a separate conversation—and does what she does best: she plots.
Clint can’t speak for the others but it doesn’t really hit him at first. His world is made of shades of soothing blue, and he honestly can’t tell whether he came back to right before Loki put him under or sometime after. Not that it makes a difference.
His first clear memory is waking up in the back of a car to the sound of Natasha teasing Steve about his driving skills.
He thinks it must be a strange, roadtrip-like version of the afterlife at first. In his defense, it makes much more sense than the truth.
It would be a bold-faced lie to claim that Natasha and Clint don’t keep secrets from each other.
For one, there are a couple of hundred things that Natasha will never share with anyone, from long-blurred childhood memories to details about various missions that never made it into the inofficial debriefing, never mind the official report for a multitude of reasons. For another, they are both professionals who understand the duties their job entails and all the limitations that come with it. Neither Natasha nor Clint share sensitive information about their respective missions when they aren't sent out together or extenuating circumstances are at work, and they are both good at respecting each other’s privacy and personal lines in the sand.
Like the safety of Clint’s living and breathing family, whose existence he has gone to great pains to hide from his fellow agents because you can never be too careful when faced with such a tempting piece of leverage.
So when Stark reluctantly offers them a place to sleep at his pretentious tower for the night—after Banner tentatively asked if he would mind the company and Rogers honestly pulled out a pair of surprisingly effective puppy eyes—and Natasha slides into the elevator with Clint before the doors close while the rest of the group is distracted by one of Stark’s passionate rants in response to an inquiry by Thor that had Natasha roll her eyes, she doesn’t expect him to immediately blurt out what is going on and fill her in on every little detail that she may have missed.
And not just because—as Stark has so conveniently demonstrated during their arrival—the elevator is not actually private.
She does expect some sort of clue on how to proceed though.
What she gets instead is a smile from Clint, loose and easy, like he thinks that will somehow keep her from making note of the way he tensed when he first registered her presence.
She knocks their shoulders together because Clint values physical confirmation of their camaraderie and she usually makes an effort to reaffirm their bond after a hard mission. If there is something wrong—worse than what she is already assuming—she doesn’t want to tip him off.
"How are you holding up?" Natasha takes care to keep her tone light, let the unvoiced 'I’m here if you want to talk' do the work for her.
It’s what she would be asking even if Clint was acting completely normal, considering that less than five hours ago he was a mind-controlled drone dancing to some unknown puppet master's tune.
"'m good." Clint murmurs.
Leans back against her shoulder for a moment before he pulls back and turns his head sideways to face her.
"You?"
Natasha raises her eyebrows. "I’m always fine."
Clint shakes his head with an unamused snort, but Natasha catches a glimpse of… anger? grief? in his gaze before he averts his eyes.
"Of course you are," he mutters and when he smirks at her, a wall snaps into existence between them that Natasha hasn’t encountered in a long time.
"Night, Natty." Clint calls out over his shoulder as he steps out of the elevator.
"Don’t think your little episode today will keep me from killing you in your sleep, Clint," she says warningly and pretends she doesn’t notice the pained edge to his laugh.
She waits until the elevator doors are closed before she lets the playful annoyance drop off her face.
Strike one.
"So what, we save the world and all we get is getting stuck in this new, lousy timeline?" Clint aims for a joke to lighten the increased tension in the room—Bruce and Steve are an unpredictable combination on a good day, and from what little Clint has been around to witness those 'good days' make a rarer appearance than Halley’s Comet—but the words come out too flat to pull it off.
Whatever.
His mind is still swirling with Bruce’s theory involving a backlash fueled by sudden release of cosmic energy due to the increased vulnerability of the timeline thanks to the fractures caused by multiple usages of the Infinity Stones, particularly the black box that was their initial destruction at Thanos' hands. It included multiple reminders that 'this isn’t my area of expertise' and 'we really should check with someone more versed in this discipline' of course. Never mind that said discipline involves the cornerstones the entire universe has been built on and can be taken apart with, as they have found out by experience.
Honestly, even if they did get their hands on an expert on the Infinity Stones, they would probably have to kill them. Clint has no illusions about their luck.
They’ve ended up here after all.
"I mean, it is always possible that I’m wrong." Bruce grimaces. "But it was one of the option Tony and I were discussing before..."
"Nope," Clint interrupts before the conversation can slide down that particular minefield of a path again. Been there, done that, not been impressed by the view. "Don’t say that. I like the idea of some parallel me living it up big time in the future."
Bullshit. It’s utter bullshit. But somehow Clint manages to smile through the words. It’s a reflex, no humor left to bolster what should be a simple white lie and feels more like the emotional equivalent of running a marathon without training, but it will have to do.
"So we all agree then," Steve speaks up in a subdued voice. "This is the real deal."
That kills whatever false amusement Clint has managed to gather while trying to figure out which one has drawn the shorter end of the stick; he or his potential double in the future they have been dragged out of.
He has yet to reach a conclusion either way.
"And this surprise trip hasn’t come with a ticket back," Clint adds because someone has to say it. Might as well be him.
The thing is, Natasha isn’t in the business of sports. She is in the business of murder and information. Usually in that order. So if there is one thing life as a Black Widow has taught her, a lesson that every second spent in SHIELD's employment has reinforced, it is that one strike is one too many.
She has already tried the direct approach out of her care and respect for Clint but he has shut her down. There won't be a second chance and Natasha isn't going to waste time pretending otherwise. Not when Clint is clearly involved in something big—and just as clearly trying to keep her out of it. Without using any of their usual codes that would let her know that everything is under control and the sharp-mouthed idiot hasn’t gotten himself in over his head. A reassurance that should be all the more necessary after his stunt with the Tesseract.
That he hasn't given her anything to work with is just as much of a statement as Clint’s refusal to take her up on that offered talk has been.
But when a door closes, there is always going to be an opportune moment to pick the lock or simply break it down, as long as you're willing to wait for the right moment. Which is why Natasha has spent exactly fifty-nine minutes in the personal suite Pepper Potts assigned her with a bright smile and a cutting comment about industrial espionage charges that almost could have been passed off as a joke, pretending to get ready to sleep, before she snuck out.
And by 'snuck out' Natasha means she asked JARVIS where his boss is because there is no point in pretending the AI isn’t controlling the entire building. This way, at least, she is saving time and making use of her resources. And maybe avoiding a security incident. She is getting the feeling JARVIS wouldn't be too thrilled to catch her sneaking around without an idea what she is looking for.
If she also stops by Clint’s room on the way and confirms that his bed is empty, well, that is the second strike Natasha doesn’t need to act but stores away for future references all the same. It never hurts to be prepared. Especially with what she is about to do now.
Under different circumstances, Stark wouldn’t be Natasha's first choice of accomplice. And not even because he is an arrogant jackass who has more fake smiles in his arsenal than Natasha has identities and an unproductive tendency to drown his self-hatred in alcohol. It’s because, Iron Man or not, Stark is a civilian. One with too much money and influence, a brilliant mind and an up-and-close experience with prolonged torture, but a civilian nonetheless.
On the rare occasion when Natasha has the luxury of choosing her teammates, she always leans towards the professional ones and Stark is so far on the other side of the spectrum, he might as well somersault off the edge.
However.
Stark is also, as previously stated, brilliant, resourceful and more persistant than any dog with a bone could hope to be when confronted with a mystery he is emotionally invested in solving. Not to mention he is within easy reach. It doesn’t hurt that he has clearly taken note of some of the same irregularities in their companions' behavior Natasha herself has noticed, and faster than she has too.
Yeah, she is still not over that.
There are worse people to work with. As a matter of fact, she has worked with a lot of worse people in the past. Natasha will simply have to be professional for the both of them.
…and potentially apologize for one or two incidents during her short stint as Stark’s secretary, since it has been made unmistakeably clear that neither Stark nor his people have forgotten them.
Urgh. Consequences. Such a pain in the ass.
This is why Natasha prefers assassinations to the more political and or strategic missions. No one expects her to make nice with her victims afterwards, nor does there tend to be a need for it, given that dead bodies lack the ability to appreciate good manners. Or to demand compensation.
No matter. She wil do what needs to be done, like she always does.
When the elevator arrives on Stark’s personal floor, Natasha almost expects him to greet her the moment the doors open, possibly while twirling around on a chair, drink in hand, in a credible imitation of a B-rated movie villain. But the living area is dark and JARVIS remains quiet, not giving her a hint as to whether Stark is on the way or not.
After a couple of seconds, Natasha decides to take matters into her own hand.
There are only so many doors before she is bound to find Stark’s bedroom and there is literally nothing she could see behind any of them that would stop or even slow her down right now. That said, it is a relief when Stark opens the third door she tries, fully clothed and looking no closer to sleep than Natasha feels herself, despite the eventful day they have had.
"We need to talk, Stark."
"We need a plan."
Clint yawns so wide his jaw cracks. Raises his hands in defense when Steve shoots him a look. Seriously, it is not his fault he doesn’t remember the last time he slept. Somehow he doesn’t think his recent career switch to brainwashed minion came with regular breaks and basic self-care.
"I’m not arguing that, Cap. But we’ve already fucked up the timeline beyond repair." And it’s not on him either. Clint was a perfectly-well-behaved minion of evil until Nat—lovely, vicious, dead Nat—slammed his head against the wall so hard he saw black holes instead of stars, thank you very much.
"Friend Clint is not wrong." Thor purses his lips. Going by the longing way he is eying the door, Clint suspects it will be a matter of minutes before they lose him to the lure that Loki, alive if not necessarily sound of mind and fresh off the torture train, presents.
Thinking about Natasha tensing at his touch, wary but warm, Clint can relate. He tries not to think to hard about that.
He is pretty sure he used to hate Loki for unmaking him. Still does, probably. If he could be bothered to work up the energy.
"The wormhole has not been opened as it should and we have to assume that The Other felt it when our Captain broke his hold on my brother." Thor pauses. "Much has been changed by our interference."
Which…might not actually be a good thing, now that Clint is working past the initial shock of coming face to face with two people he watched die, sacrifice themselves like they had the goddamn right to make that decision and then bow out, leaving him and everyone else to pick up the pieces, now that he isn’t running on adrenaline, a heavy concussion and hysteria alone.
Panicking about it isn’t going to fix anything though and Clint is just about ready to drop dead. "How about we get some sleep?"
At Steve’s incredulous look, Clint shrugs unrepentant. "We’ve already thrown the manual out the window, Cap. We’re gonna need a plan but if the world hasn’t gone completely off the rails, we have over ten years before Thanos comes knocking for real. Another night isn’t gonna make a difference and I don’t know about you, but I’d feel a lot better if we decide on a course of action with a clear head."
Or as clear-headed as any of them can hope to claim, at least, but he figures that doesn't need saying.
"No offense, Natashalie," Stark begins in a voice dripping with offense, "but I don’t see the need to get dragged into your personal relationship squabbles."
It’s pointless posturing and they both know it, given that Stark is currently pushing various buttons on his ridiculously complicated coffee machine in preparation for what is going to be a busy night. But since he is clearly committed to the act and throttling him won’t move things along any quicker, Natasha indulges in his antics.
"So you’re not in the least bit curious about why Rogers and Banner are dancing around you like they both want to ask you to the prom. Nor why a Norse god apparently knows you by name," she drawls sarcastically. "Right. That sounds just like you, a man with no interest in unexpected developments."
Stark sniffs.
"For the record, I’m in a happy committed relationship and clearly my reputation precedes me."
"Mhm."
When Natasha doesn’t do anything except stare at him with her best unimpressed expression, Stark sighs theatrically and makes a vague gesture into the air.
"JARVIS, pull up the surveillance footage from the helicarrier. Current and archived."
Natasha blinks, genuinely impressed when two life-sized views flicker into existence in front of her, one from the command center this morning, the other from Director Fury’s personal office right now, if the time stamp in the upper left corner doesn’t lie.
She doesn’t say anything but Stark scoffs anyway.
"Come on, it’s not like Barton was subtle. And I didn’t just hack SHIELD for the fun of it, you know."
Yeah, Natasha has been trying not to think about that.
'That' being the moment Rogers, Banner, Thor and Clint discussed the fate of the scepter without considering leaving it in SHIELD’s hands for even a second. Followed by the telling look Clint had shot Fury and Coulson. Not like they were being difficult or ridiculous, no. Clint had looked at them as though they were an obstacle and he was calculating whether working around them would be worth the effort or whether he should simply blast straight through them.
Natasha is familiar with that look. It is usually aimed at their enemies.
She would really like to know when and why Director Fury has become an enemy—potential or otherwise—in Clint’s eyes. Never mind Phil. She likes Coulson because he is competent, knows how to play the game and has his agents’ back when it matters, but it has always been Clint who has treated their preferred handler like family or a year-long friend instead of a supervisor.
Coupled with how he is trying to keep her out of it…
If Clint has lost faith in SHIELD—and he has, there is no way he wouldn’t just toe the line of committing treason but walk straight over it right in front of their superiors if he hadn't—then there has got to be a reason for it. A reason Clint hasn’t shared with her, either because it is confidential, unlikely in this situation, or because he isn’t sure he can trust her.
Considering the latter possibility hurts. Natasha is genuinely surprised by how much it hurts. But she can’t afford to let sentiment interfere with her judgement.
"I’ve known Barton for years," she offers instead because she needs Stark right now, and since he doesn’t trust her she needs to give him something to trust instead. Understanding her motivation, or parts of it at least, will have to do. Stark is a smart man, he’ll be able to infer the rest. Besides she hasn’t made a secret of her attachment when Loki had Clint in his claws, she might as well use that to her advantage. "We get on well. So trust me when I tell you that until this morning I would’ve sworn up and down that the only person Clint is closer to inside SHIELD is Phil Coulson and, well. You saw."
Natasha doesn’t know how to describe how Clint stared at Coulson during the earlier call. It wasn’t a hostile expression, not really, but troubled. Guarded. Like he was looking at a vaguely familiar stranger and weighing whether he should bother to ask for their name.
Stark whistles. "Sounds like trouble in spy-radise. More than the obvious, I mean."
"You’re hilarious."
"It’s one of my best qualities, right up there with my handsome good looks and well-dressed appearance."
Natasha snorts and doesn’t comment on the fact that Stark is currently wearing a ratty AC/DC t-shirt and sweatpants that are stained with what she hopes is motor oil.
"Alright, let’s ignore the miraculously instant bromance of our little boyband of four for a minute," Stark continues after a moment. For once he looks serious. "Have you seen hints of this tension with our least favorite secret agency before today? Not just from Barton—and I’m honestly not surprised about Banner, his greener half hasn’t had many pleasant encounters with the government, shadow departments and otherwise—but Rogers has been with SHIELD since he woke up, right? Where did they fuck up with him? Because I gotta say, Fury looked hella surprised that his new favorite toy refused to play ball."
"No."
That is the most frustrating part. In the past hour Natasha has gone over her last few interactions with Clint pre-alien-mind-control with a fine-toothed comb, looking for signs she missed that only stand out with the benefit of hindsight.
She hasn’t found any.
The last time the two of them met up in person, a few days before Natasha got send out on her last mission before this entire clusterfuck started, Clint had been his usual self. Stupid jokes, unhealthy caffeine addiction and constant quips included. They had been at one SHIELD’s official training facilities, surrounded by colleagues and superiors alike, and Clint hadn’t displayed any signs of unease, discomfort or even stress.
A couple of weeks before that, Natasha crashed Clint’s debriefing with Coulson out of boredom. The two of them had been their usual selves, Coulson fondly exasperated and Clint toeing the line between tolerated back talk and outright insubordination like the stubborn asshole he is.
Nothing in those memories explains the cold, distant interaction Natasha witnessed in Stark’s public living room this afternoon. It’s not even the revelation that Clint doesn’t trust SHIELD, because he is a much better liar than he likes to make people think. It’s the ease with which he openly displayed that distrust.
Like it is normal.
"And you’re sure that his brains aren’t still rolled upside down? Maybe got stuck in the wrong place when you tried to knock some sense into him?" Stark asks, tone blasé but eyes dark.
Unfortunately he has a point, so Natasha swallows the inconvenient and irrational desire to defend Clint’s sanity—not a position she ever saw herself in, to be honest— and gives the question the consideration it deserves.
There’s no precedent for mind-control through an extra-terrestrial scepter with magic properties, never mind proper proceedings to test for foreign influence of this kind, though Coulson is undoubtedly in the process of developing them at this very moment. It won’t help them right now though, and after what she has observed so far Natasha doubts that Clint will willingly submit himself to whatever their handler comes up with. So unless they count Loki—and she doesn’t know the Asgardian prince, meaning that while there is no reason to doubt Steve’s assessment that he has also been controlled, they won’t be able to tell how said control has potentially affected him. Whether it has left something behind—they have no one else to compare Clint’s reactions to.
Natasha knows Clint though. She trusts in the relationship they have built over the years, and she refuses to let herself question it now the way Clint apparently does. That doesn’t mean she is not preparing herself for its potential dissolution or betrayal and considering her options, of course. The years out of the program have softened some of her sharpest edges, but they haven’t changed the core of who she is.
Nevertheless Natasha trusts her instincts and she trusts her judgement when it comes Clint—up to a point—and so her answer to Stark’s question, a question she has been asking herself since Clint came up shouting, his fingers digging into her arms and side, leaving bruises in their wake that his frantic gaze didn’t seem to see, doesn’t change.
"He’s acting different than expected but not in the way he did under the specter," she confirms. Meets Stark’s hard gaze evenly. "And he’s not the only one being overly familiar."
Even if he hasn’t been completely freed, how come that Rogers and Banner reciprocate his newly acquired wariness? And don’t get her started on the inexplicable bond between the four men. One of them is a Norse God and Banner’s run around the globe is well-documented, Natasha has seen his file.
Stark purses his lips, fingers dancing between his holograms, multiplying them to show surveillance footage of various interactions of the group, between Banner and Rogers, between Thor and Banner, between Thor and Rogers and Banner, between Clint and Rogers, between Clint and Thor. His gaze flickers between the scenes as he watches them play out on repeat. More holograms pop into view that display Banners’ movements through India, Rogers’ far more stationary locations since his awakening and even what are definitely highly-classified files on Thor’s last documented visit on Earth.
Her pointed stare earns her a self-satisfied smirk that makes her want to shoot someone. Preferably Stark.
"Hey, if he didn't want me to sniff around, Fury shouldn't have let me step on the helicarrier." The asshole preens. "Not that it would have kept me out, of course, but it sure made things easier."
Thankfully the self-congratulatory air doesn’t last more than a few seconds. Smug is not a good look on anyone, although Stark can pull it off better than most.
"From everything I've seen, it's obvious that they knew each other before," he states matter-of-factly. Natasha has come to the same conclusion but it is always nice to have confirmation from a second pair of eyes. "The funny thing is, I can't prove it. Quite the opposite. There is plenty of evidence that they were never consciously in the same city at the same time—or country, in some cases—but you simply don’t get that level of targeted animosity from complete strangers."
He zooms in on an exchange between Banner and Rogers in the helicarrier. The barbed words, filled with unspoken meaning that clearly land right where they are supposed to, the bitterness in Banner’s tone, the grief in Rogers’ eyes.. All of it is too intimate, speaks of a month- if not year-long backstory and it makes no sense but Natasha trusts her ability to read people, to pick their motivations and relationships apart based on body language and involuntary reactions, and Stark is not too far behind her in that department.
You can’t fake mutual understanding on that level, loaded with disagreements and resentment as it is. Not without the other person being in on the performance, which would once again require a pre-existing connection.
"Even if we assume that their first meeting has been covered up," which it must have, for Clint to have come in contact with the other three before this day, "the timeline doesn’t fit." And no matter how much Natasha twists and turns what she knows around in her head, she can’t make it fit. It's not like Steve Rogers has been around for long.
"We’re dealing with alien invasions and Jedi mind-control sticks now," Stark points out with a curl of lips that tells her all too clearly how little he appreciates the latter. "That opens the floor to other possibilities. Like mind-reading, mental connections, shared dreams and illusions, getting dropped into another dimension or whatever the fuck the Tesseract does—and mark my words I’m gonna figure that glowing nightlight out—a non-linear experience of time and," and here Stark pauses with an exaggerated shudder of disgust, "magic."
Natasha snorts at his theatrics but has to concede the point. "When you have eliminated all which is impossible than whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
"Did you just quote Sherlock Homes at me?" Stark squints suspiciously at her. "JARVIS, did you hear that? Please tell me you have recorded this moment for posterity’s sake."
"Of course, Sir."
For a digitized voice, JARVIS conveys a surprising amount of humor. When he speaks to Stark, that is. Natasha hasn’t missed the frosty tone directed her way.
"So we know that they know each other somehow and are willingly working together in some capacity, despite clearly not liking each other," she summarizes to get them back on track. "Any idea what shared goal could unite these four in particular?"
"What am I, a master spy? Isn't that your job?" Stark gulps down the last bit of his third cup of coffee. "If I had to guess, and everyone knows I’m a gambling man, though sadly not for real thanks to some truly spectacularly mistrustful casino managers, I swear, you indulge one time and suddenly you’re persona non grata in all of Vegas, I’d say it has something to do with the pretty blue lightbulb Fury, in his infinite wisdom, chose to poke until it spat out an alien conquerer. How sure are we that the entire invasion spiel wasn’t a convenient excuse to get the two Christmas lights into Asgard’s hands anyway?"
Well. That is certainly an option Natasha hadn’t considered yet. But the more she thinks about it- "No, I’m fairly certain the mind-control was genuine." Not to mention that if Clint planned to steal the Tesseract and get it into the hands’ of his alien friend, she would expect him to, well, do it better.
Without bringing down the helicarrier, Fury’s wrath and the entirety of SHIELD’s attention on his head, to start with.
"And very attention-grabbing," Stark agreed. "Huh. Let’s table that for now, although I do think a chat with our most-recently-failed-overlord wouldn’t hurt, just to cover our bases. The attempted invasion could have been a distraction. Reindeer Games certainly put on enough of a show for it. And if it wasn’t, it still seems like one hell of a coincidence that the weird space rock at the center of it ended up in the hands of the only free-walking local alien. That we know of."
He drums his fingers against his chest restlessly, right on the spot where Natasha knows the fabric of his shirt is covering the arc reactor.
"Alright, let’s shift gears. Speculation isn’t gonna get us anywhere. What I need is more data. You think your spy buddy is gonna read you in if you confront him?"
Natasha allows herself a moment to reconsider, go over her observations for the twenty-seventh time. In the end, she is unsurprised to reach the same conclusion as before. This is the reason she has come to Stark instead of Clint, after all.
"No."
She doesn’t know what her tone conveys but Stark doesn’t press or question her. Only nods as though he expected that answer and keeps talking.
"Cool, cool, not like I didn’t suspect the whole teamwork fairytale Fury tried to sell me was bullshit. Other, less convenient options it is. J, you wouldn't have happened to notice anything on Barton and the rest have discussed without us around that tells us what they’re up to, would you?"
"Apologies, Sir. I have been unable to access any recording devices in Mr Roger’s guest room," Stark’s AI says in a tone that could chill the arctic sea. "Mr Banner, Mr Barton and Mr Odinson have left their respective quarters forty-two minutes ago and gathered there. None of them have spoken a word by themselves, nor have I been able to observe further interactions between each other."
Stark hums. Going by the way his lips twist, he is just as displeased to discover these blindspots as JARVIS is to report them—and just as obviously isn’t going to address them with her in the room. Natasha wouldn't expect anything less.
Nor does she plan on saying anything inside these walls that she doesn’t mind the inventor having on record later on, anyway.
"No worries, buddy, I’m sure we’ll figure something out," Stark continues with a deceptively light voice.
Like the fact that Steve Rogers, who has never met Stark before this day and possesses little more than the barebones of an understanding of modern technology if his file is to be trusted, has circumvented Stark’s personal AI inside its own domain without raising alarms is nothing to write home about.
"Looks like we’ll have to figure out the origin story of our disaster bromance the hard way." Slowly Stark’s borderline-scowl transforms into a challenging smirk. "And I know just the place to start digging."
Natasha crosses her arms. "And that would be?"
Stark’s smirk widens.
"SHIELD."
When they finally call it a night, Clint doesn’t go straight back to his new room. He takes a detour up one flight of stairs and down the hallway, where he lingers in front of Nat’s door for a solid five minutes before he turns on his heels and finally heads to bed.
There, he lies down on top of the comforter and stares at the blank ceiling above him for a long time.