There was something almost cathartic in the full disclosure of events to Clint, as Natasha had not spoken of them in such a linear fashion since they happened. The only person in the hotel with which she might’ve made such a full disclosure to was Rogers, and he’d been there for the events and knew first hand. No matter how clinical she’d made her retelling of the events, it did her some good to speak of them in even the most factual of terms. She had not expected Clint to balk, or otherwise make any grand display of emotion as that was simply not his way, nor was it hers. The quiet calm with which he took the news was almost as comforting to her as the hug he’d given her downstairs.
She took the drink when he offered it to her, moving to sit her glass of watery ice down on the floor and take his mostly fresh one, rubbing her fingers through the condensation on the side of the glass as she pondered his question. She took a drink before speaking because sometimes she felt like vodka was a cold form of humanizing medicine, and she wanted to get her tongue loosened up enough to talk to the one person she could give a (mostly) full disclosure to. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “It’s not what we thought it was.”
Natasha’s sins numbered many, but perhaps her greatest was that of pride. She’d spent a good long while thinking she was so goddamn good at her job, so goddamn smart, and she hadn’t even noticed that the heart of what she was building and working for with her friends was rotting from the inside out. It stung like betrayal to know that. It hurt even worse to know that Fury, a person she would’ve trusted second only to Clint, had not trusted her the same in return. Natasha had always viewed the world in what she had assumed was the cold, harsh light of rationality and experience. Therefore, having her illusions shattered like so much glass hurt twice as bad.
“Besides,” she said, the word echoing in the glass as she moved to take another drink, then licked her lips as she swallowed, “if we get too nostalgic, Rogers got word that Coulson is going to start up SHIELD again. I guess we’ll see.” She paused, then shook her head as though to rattle a thought loose. "Oh. Also, apparently Coulson is alive. I haven't seen it for myself and I'm not sure how the hell he managed that, but Rogers got word of that, too."
no subject
She took the drink when he offered it to her, moving to sit her glass of watery ice down on the floor and take his mostly fresh one, rubbing her fingers through the condensation on the side of the glass as she pondered his question. She took a drink before speaking because sometimes she felt like vodka was a cold form of humanizing medicine, and she wanted to get her tongue loosened up enough to talk to the one person she could give a (mostly) full disclosure to. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “It’s not what we thought it was.”
Natasha’s sins numbered many, but perhaps her greatest was that of pride. She’d spent a good long while thinking she was so goddamn good at her job, so goddamn smart, and she hadn’t even noticed that the heart of what she was building and working for with her friends was rotting from the inside out. It stung like betrayal to know that. It hurt even worse to know that Fury, a person she would’ve trusted second only to Clint, had not trusted her the same in return. Natasha had always viewed the world in what she had assumed was the cold, harsh light of rationality and experience. Therefore, having her illusions shattered like so much glass hurt twice as bad.
“Besides,” she said, the word echoing in the glass as she moved to take another drink, then licked her lips as she swallowed, “if we get too nostalgic, Rogers got word that Coulson is going to start up SHIELD again. I guess we’ll see.” She paused, then shook her head as though to rattle a thought loose. "Oh. Also, apparently Coulson is alive. I haven't seen it for myself and I'm not sure how the hell he managed that, but Rogers got word of that, too."