(A/N: We all saw it in the Captain America movie. And there's a story behind every piece of jewelry. Especially where the Black Widow is involved.)
Nocking Point
She doesn't wear jewelry.
Earrings can be ripped off. Bracelets can impede the wrists. Necklaces can be used as choke devices. The fool who chooses to buy jewelry is only wasting money on battle handicaps.
She doesn't wear jewelry.
She doesn't wear jewelry, ever, at all, no negotiations.
::-::
The first time she sees it, it's on a display stand in a mall at the heart of Paris through which she is tailing a human trafficker. There's something about the way the sun pierces through the skylight and reflects it into the corner of her eye that catches her attention, and the moment she sets her gaze on it, her step falters.
Keep moving, she berates. Why would something as trivial as a necklace catch your eye?
She continues walking forward and she thinks no one has seen her. But the Hawk is her partner, and although he's perched two floors above, it's his job to see what no one else sees.
::-::
The second time she sees it, she's with Steve Rogers and it's at a mall in Hong Kong.
It stops her in her tracks for a second, makes her turn—that innocent, simple little gleam of silver against the dark velvet stand.
"Hey," Steve Rogers says, urgently. "We need to keep moving."
She makes up an excuse about how they need to blend into the crowd by feigning interest in the surrounding shops. He points out that, with him being blond-haired and blue-eyed and her having a mane of fiery red, they blend in about as much as scarecrows in a field of strawberries.
Touché, Captain. Touché.
::-::
The third time she sees it, she's back with Clint Barton and it nearly takes her life.
She's in the middle of a very sticky situation which may or may not involve a stolen jewel, a deserted back door street, and several men from the Italian mafia when the familiar glint of silver sparks the corner of her eye. She might have gained a permanent bullet hole where her brain used to be, had Clint not shot the gun out of her assailant's hand with his deadly aim.
"Losing your touch, Tasha," he says, only half teasingly.
She keeps her face flat. "I just gave you an opportunity to show off. You should take it with gratitude."
He smirks, but she can see the concern in his eyes. She's not too happy herself. Why? Why does a necklace keep distracting her?
You know, maybe it's more the fact that it's an arrow necklace, and less that it's an arrow necklace, if you catch my drift.
"Shut up."
"Tasha?"
"Nothing."
She's going insane.
::-::
The fourth time she sees it, it's because Clint Barton puts it in her hands. She pops open the little velvet box and sees it—that simple, innocent little gleaming arrow, hanging on a lovely silver chain that is completely, utterly, one hundred percent impractical and un-Natasha Romanoff and—
He sees her blank gaze and takes it back. "Well, then, I guess—"
"No," she blurts before she can stop herself. Then her mind takes over. "No, don't give it to me."
An unreadable glance passes his eyes. "I wasn't going to."
"You... weren't?" She can't help it. She sounds like a child.
"Nope." He tilts his head, a contemplative look in his eye. "But I do need a stand to hang it on. Oh, Tasha. You'll do nicely."
Her mind is blank when he steps behind her and threads the necklace beneath her hair and around her neck. Stand? I'm a—no, he's just teasing—but how did he know? He picked the exact—
"I now see the advantage with inanimate jewelry stands," Clint says. "They don't squirm half as much."
"Wouldn't be a problem if you didn't have more trouble fitting a necklace clasp than you do picking a lock," she fires back immediately.
"Oh, them's fighting words," Clint chuckles. "I expect that I shouldn't be anticipating a 'thank you.'"
"You called me a jewelry stand. I haven't kicked you. You should be thanking me."
Clint sighs—a strangely foreign sound to her ears. "Would it kill you to tell the truth once in a while, Tasha?"
"Most of the time, yes."
"Natasha."
She is silent.
"Do you know why I got this for you?"
She quirks an eyebrow.
"If you stared at it any longer," Clint says, "either your eyeballs would start bleeding or your brain would. And one would be credited to an enemy bullet."
She tries to find a snappy response. None come.
Because the thing about telling a lie, no matter how good you are, is that within it, there must be one grain of truth. And the only truth is that the solemn, tiny weight of that little arrow on her chest gives her a warm glow. As if Clint were with her, embracing her in all his strength and intensity.
Who the hell are you? Jane Austen? You need to stop reading chick lit, Natasha.
I don't even read chick lit.
Yes, you do. You read it in your brain, where it's invented.
Shut up.
"You're welcome," Clint says, nudging her teasingly.
She fixes him with a blank gaze for one moment, two, three. "I hope you're prepared to pay for my therapy bills," she says, and walks away before explaining anything more.
To say that she leaves Clint Barton confused is an understatement. But she only considers it as adequate payback to how confused he has left her.
::-::
She doesn't wear jewelry.
"You're keeping this safe. For me. Okay?"
She doesn't wear jewelry.
"It only makes sense. Where else are you gonna put it, your nonexistent pockets? Or a bag that you happen not to carry?"
She... doesn't wear jewelry.
"Again, Tasha, I'm not giving it to you. You're my stand." (She'd kick him if she weren't arguing with herself.)
She doesn't. At all. No negotiations.
But she can keep it safe. For Clint Barton. Until he needs it back, which, judging from the mischievous glint in his eye, will be never.
You're compromising.
Shut up.
She's just holding it. For Clint. Because she owes him a debt.
And it reminds you of him.
I said, shut up.
She really is going insane.