There is one person in the world who knows everything about Natasha Romanov that there is to know. Clint met her at her worst and seen her through to her best and everything in between, and it marks in everything they do, that they've killed and died and bled and cried for each other and will probably do it again.
/
Tony brings Jarvis into headquarters less than a month after the official team is formed, and connects him to all the appliances two weeks after that. Natasha wakes at five for her morning run and finds Tony trying to convince the disembodied voice to shout diet advice at Bruce everytime he opens the fridge.
"You are programmed to obey me," Tony says petulantly.
"I seem to be having a problem with my auditory circuits," Jarvis says, and Natasha snorts.
"Stop corrupting your friends, Stark," she says.
"Good morning, Ms. Romanov," Jarvis says. "Care for some tea?" On the counter the electric kettle whistles very faintly.
"I'm a coffee kind of girl, myself," she says, but matches his tone for politeness. Being polite is the second thing her father ever taught her. The first was how not to scream when her fingers were broken, one knuckle at a time.
"Coffee," Jarvis says, and the expresso machine dings. Steam rushes over the edge of a tiny cup, and Natasha warms the tips of her fingers on the porcelain.
"Thank you," she says.
"Stop flirting with my artificial intelligence," Tony complains, and Natasha ignores him out of habit.
"Enjoy your run, Ms. Romanov," Jarvis says as she heads out the door.
"Natasha," she corrects, and doesn't think much of it.
/
Natasha loses her virginity at fifteen. She trades it to get her mark alone and vulnerable, his sweaty palms against her hips and his wet breath on her neck. Afterwards he rolls off and offers her a cigarette.
She stabs him in the throat with a butterfly knife and smokes it while he bleeds out.
/
Natasha's usual alarm is a generic harsh beeping, and she usually wakes two minutes before it goes off. So when she's woken ten minutes before the time she usually does by the opening strains of "The Dance of the Snowflakes" her fingers find the grip of the gun under her pillow before she decides this probably not the doings of a strangely themed supervillain.
"My apologies," Jarvis says in a muted murmur. Her lights come on, dimmed to allow easy adjustment for her eyes. "I thought perhaps you would enjoy a break from routine."
"How did you know I liked the Nutcracker," Natasha asks, more curious than upset.
There's an almost embarrassed sounding crackle of static. "Agent Barton purchased a copy of the ballet for you last year. I have access to his internet history." Natasha arches her back, cracking her spine with a sigh.
"Would you care for a cup of tea, Natasha?" Jarvis asks, and Natasha flexes her bare toes on the floor.
"Yes," she says, enjoying the smooth accent colouring his syllables. "thank you."
Natasha forgoes her run in favour of sitting curled next to a window, an afghan over her lap and black-bitter tea curling over her tongue, Jarvis playing gorgeous Russian librettos through small speakers just for her.
/
"Hey," Tony says, drumming his fingers against the glowing ring in his chest. "Jarvis has to go down for some maintenance tomorrow."
Natasha puts down the bore brush, gun oil under her fingernails. "What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing," Tony says, and shifts on his feet. "I was going to adjust some of his programming, and since you and him have been so close lately..."
Natasha frowns, slotting her baby Glock back together. "If there's nothing wrong with him why do you need to change him?" Natasha likes to believe people will change themselves. She fits the pistol back into its holster on her hip. Tony is looking at her with a funny look on his face.
"Good point," he says finally, and walks away, scrubbing at his face with one hand.
/
"Good morning, Natasha," Jarvis says, right in her ear, and it is.
/
There are two people in the world who know everything there is to know about Natasha Romanov.