Work Text:
Well, we all have a face
What we hide away forever,
And we take it out and show ourselves
when everyone is gone
Billy Joel — Stranger
Natasha is a professional spy. She has worn masks all her life. Whether it's for work or her own safety, she does it so easily, as if at the snap of her fingers. La femme fatale or girl next door, pretty fool, penitent sinner. A flick of eyelashes, a raised eyebrow, just a subtle change in body language—and a new mask is on.
Over the years, she'd had to change hundreds of masks. Maybe more. She doesn't count. She looks into the cracked and dirty mirror in just one another trashy hotel in Budapest and doesn't know who she's looking for there.
There have been so many masks over the years that Natasha has forgotten who's the woman behind all of them. Who the real Natasha is. It seems that all those masks have rubbed against her skin forever.
Sometimes it seems to her that there is nothing underneath. The real Natasha is simply does not exist. She's a blank sheet ready to put on any personality you need. A faceless puppet, pulled by the strings by the Dreykov.
And then Natasha meets Barton.
He is absolutely impossible, really. His face is just too sincere and plain for a spy. It terribly shows all emotions so clearly.
Barton makes Natasha laugh a lot; Barton teases Natasha; Barton plays tic-tac-toe with her; Barton watches the Budapest on fire with her.
Barton looks at her and sees something she does not see.
Barton tells her old jokes and Natasha laughs, throwing back her beautiful head, laughs for the first time in years. They're each others shoulder to lie on. The back to feel safe.
Natasha looks in the mirror of trashy hotel in some godforsaken town while Clint sleeps in the next bed. For the first time in years, Natasha sees a woman behind all those masks. She's finally find her in his eyes.
The real Natasha, the one who is she with Clint.