Chalant Isn’t a Word, Is It?

lovelyirony:

@polar-biscuit had this beautiful art of nat seeing maria in the gym and pausing so i wrote something about it 

Natasha
Romanoff and Clint Barton signed up for additional sparring sessions because
a.) They got kicked off field duty for about six weeks due to bringing
sandwiches on board and nearly getting spotted by the enemy and b.) Clint
wanted to listen to Rocky and it was
only justified during sparring sessions because the overseer was a Rocky nut. Natasha didn’t mind the
soundtrack, or getting a refresher course on boxing. Her fighting dealt more
with the faster and more graceful way of fighting—not using your hands. Hands
transferred DNA, and Natasha would much prefer her DNA with her at all times.

It was
actually pretty relaxing for the both of them to be able to train and fight
without any actual expectations or time limits. They could work on cool fight
moves that would never be used in real life situations, such as the Rave
Pinwheel of Death, and Holy Shit—Lasers! Natasha was actually laughing by the
end of the sessions, and Clint learned a lot more about his friend—some things
expected, others not so much.

Maria Hill is
known throughout SHIELD for many reasons, the first and foremost being that she’s
the youngest Deputy Director they’ve ever had, and she’s the first female one since SHIELD started. But people
sneer as they say her name, calling her a bitch or a snob. She keeps to
herself, has a neutral expression, and no one actually knows what she does
outside of her job. She’s always one of the last to leave, first to arrive.
Coulson’s theory is that she’s a robot, but he would never let her hear that or
his coffee creamer would no longer be in stock.

But yes,
she’s known throughout the agency for many reasons. There is one more, because
Natasha has let her guard down, and she pauses for a split-second when she sees
Maria Hill wrapping her hands in tape, sports bra and Nike shorts on. Maria is
never seen outside of her jumpsuit, and it’s a rare opportunity for Natasha to
see Maria past her professional persona. She looks, for as long as she can
before Maria’s head starts to turn and Natasha quickens her pace by a second.

“Oh my god,”
Clint says. “You like her.”

“Shut up,”
Natasha snaps. “You saw nothing.”

“I saw
everything besides you actually waving or saying hi. Why not? You could’ve
gotten out there, asked her how she was doing.”

“She looked
busy.”

“She was
stretching. No one’s too busy with stretching to not talk with Black Widow.”

And there’s
the crux of the problem. Natasha doesn’t want Maria to talk to the Black Widow.
She wants her to talk to Natasha. But it won’t matter, because Maria probably
has better things to do with her time. Natasha doesn’t know what she’d do.
Watch movies. Cook pasta. Anything else, because Natasha is secretly not Suave
At All or Sexy, She Doesn’t Even Know How to Pose Outside of her Job. (Clint
keeps mentioning she can T-Pose?)

Clint starts
annoying her. “There’s Hill,” he signs, making the hand go in the shape of a
hill. Wow, he’s so smart. Natasha
can’t believe the CIA rejected him. “Look, its Maria. You should go talk to
her.”

“Clint I
swear I will make sure your dumb locker decorations go missing.”

“Not my mini
shag carpet!” Clint exclaims in mock horror. Maria Hill glances their way.
Clint grins and waves. Natasha hopes her face is impassive as she arches an
eyebrow. Maria nods. Natasha elbows Clint in the ribs as she walks off to go
get changed into gym gear.

The climax of
all this is when Clint falls sick—Natasha told
him that the shady pizza place that opened across his street was a money
laundering front and definitely not a “sign from God, that beautiful lady
finally loves me,” like he thought it was.

Natasha goes
to the punching bags and treadmill. She’s not going to skip out on the gym,
even if she could technically drop by a coffee shop and get her favorite drink
with two shots of espresso and vanilla.

Usually, she
gets into the gym at ten in the morning. It is early enough that she doesn’t
feel like she’s been wasting her life until that point, but late enough that
Clint doesn’t complain about wanting to die every five seconds. Maria gets to
the gym at two in the afternoon. But Maria Hill is at the gym at ten o’clock,
hair tied back in a bun, tape wrapped around her arms and hands, and a towel
around her neck. Natasha kind of hates the fact that she’s going to have to
work out and also be in the presence of her crush. Life is supremely unfair.

“Good morning
Romanoff,” Hill says curtly. “Where’s Hawkeye?”

See, that’s
the thing that Natasha likes. Maria Hill never calls her Black Widow. She calls
her Romanoff. Nat likes that. “Barton’s home with food poisoning as company,”
Natasha answers. “Shady pizza places will be his resting place.” Maria spares a
smile as she surveys the gym.

“Wanna spar?”

“Sure,”
Natasha says, nonchalantly. But she’s so chalant about it. So fucking chalant. Is that even a word?
It’s not, but it should be.

They stare at
each other across the mats. Natasha is assessing weaknesses, strengths,
everything. Maria’s eyes are like an eagle’s watching everything. They launch
towards each other, and Natasha is surprised when Maria pulls a sharp left,
causing Natasha to rebalance herself when landing. She finds that she likes the
fact that Maria is now already so unpredictable.

They fight
well together. There are a few hiccups—there have to be—but Maria and Nat
understand each other. They even get a couple jokes and compliments in between
water breaks. “You just never lose a night of sleep over your capabilities, do
you?” Maria asks, breathing hard. “Jesus, your feet are like tiny little
stabbing tools…”

“Size six,”
Natasha says. “I can show you how to make them feel like knives later.”

“I’d like
that,” Maria responds, a rare smile curving her face. Natasha thinks that is
when she looks the best. Sometimes, Maria smiles and things are good. Natasha
nearly smiles back.

“You can show
me how you do that bitch stare at Sitwell,” Natasha says. “He hates it.”

“That’s why I
do it, that prick,” Maria says. “Jasper’s such a dick.”

“God, I know.
He keeps trying to get me to his team of
all-men-who-can-talk-about-grills-for-three-hours-straight,” Natasha comments.
Maria snorts.

“They really
can.”

Maria joins
the sparring sessions. She laughs more. Natasha and Maria joke.

And then IT
happens.

The six weeks
are up, and Natasha is kind of panicking because she liked hanging out with Maria, and now she’s going to be doing
missions and not seeing Maria. So sure, Natasha might be panicking about not
being friends with Maria anymore or being close, like maybe they’ll drift apart
and Natasha was so close to asking
her to hang out and maybe eat noodles or something—

It shouldn’t
matter. It does, but it shouldn’t. So Natasha steels herself for sharing quick
glances across the hallway with Maria Hill—Deputy Director Hill—and leaves it
be. Clint knows not to talk to her for a couple hours. She needs her space. “I’m
getting Chinese tonight, text me if you want any,” he had said before going
down to the weaponry to break in a new long-range crossbow they had ordered
special.

Maria finds
her. Natasha is leaving—fifteen minutes earlier than she usually does. And
Maria, the last one to leave, finds her. “Wait up Romanoff,” Maria says. She’s
actually hurrying, doing that awkward fast-walk thing so she doesn’t have to
flat out run. Natasha’s heart speeds up, and she doesn’t try to calm down in
the slightest.

“What am I
waiting for?” Natasha asks. (The irony of her asking that question kills her.)
Maria smiles, although grimaces at the last second.

“I, um,
wanted to talk to you. About something.” Natasha has faced down killers. Men
who want nothing more than power and little else. Women who would laugh and
drink wine as the world ended. Maria’s simple phrasing shouldn’t terrify her.
(But it does, oh fucking hell, it does.)

“Shoot,”
Natasha says, trying to act as casual about it. “Talk about the something.” Natasha
doesn’t know when she’ll stop sounding awkward, but here she is. Still sounding
like she’s an awkward twelve year old.

They’re to
the side of everyone, out of earshot and peering cameras. (Leave it to Maria to
know where cameras don’t record.) She looks nervous and tense. Natasha really
hopes this isn’t some emotional outpouring that’s negative or something
similar.

“So um,”
Maria starts. “Jesus Christ, I can’t fucking talk,” she mutters. “Look, I’m
going to be real with you. I liked hanging out with you a lot. I’ve never
really done anything like that. Fighting while talking. They usually just think
I’m a bitch and don’t talk.”

“You’re
funny,” Natasha says. “You have a terrible sense of humor, but it’s funny.”
Maria smiles at that. “So, what else is up? Surely you didn’t just come to tell
me that you liked hanging out.”

Maria nods, taking
a breath in. Not letting it back out. She’s more nervous than Nat thought. “I
liked hanging out, and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee. On
Thursday. Because we both have a couple hours to kill because Coulson has to
terrify some of the new agents into complying with his pamphlet about office
safety.”

Natasha lets
out a smile that has Maria let out an even wider
smile, and she says “sure, why not? There’s this coffee shop a couple
blocks up that I’ve been dying to try.” Maria smiles, nods quickly.

“I’ll see you
tomorrow, Romanoff.”

“Looking
forward to it.”

And if
Natasha grins like a maniac and has a little bit more energy in her steps, only
Barton really knows.