~x~X~x~
compromise (and those who disagree)
~x~X~x~
It is with reluctance, tainted by fear, that Director Fury authorizes Natalia Alianovna Romanova as an initiate in care of Clint Barton, called Hawkeye. The threat she poses is too significant to ignore. If they aren't going to put a bullet through her skull — an action that the Hawk has adamantly protested — then they must redirect her talents towards less destructive ends.
A weapon like Natalia will always spill scarlet; its edge is not dulled by time or struggle. At best, her specific skillset will eliminate dangerous men; at worst, she will damage S.H.I.E.L.D.'s infrastructure from within.
"This is a new beginning," the Hawk says, laying a hand on her shoulder. She avoids his gaze. "You can accomplish anything. Become anyone."
Natalia gives a small shake of her head. He cannot understand the truths branded upon her heart, precisely engraved upon her mind.I am the daughter of the Red Room. I am an asset to Russia, a rifle of the Soviet regime, a blade in the hands of the KGB. I serve; I do not change. I do not become.
"You can start by choosing a name," says the Hawk.
Natalia blinks hard, grasping for English words. Her initiation into S.H.I.E.L.D. is contingent upon some attempts at assimilation. Speaking English is required, though her accent remains thick. "What does it matter?"
"The agents will need something to call you," says the Hawk. "Black Widow is... unnerving."
Natalia twists a strand of scarlet hair around her finger, then untwists it. "I have always been Natalia Romanova."
"Something similar, then?"
"A cover is assigned, Hawkeye. Not chosen."
The Hawk furrows his brow. At length, a slight smile spreads across his face. "Natasha," he says, her name like a melody on his tongue.
"Natalia," she corrects, a bitter harmony.
"Natasha Romanoff."
"Romanoff is a man's name."
"Which makes it an effective cover."
"Go to hell," she says; in the Russian tongue, if only to spite him.
~x~X~x~
The S.H.I.E.L.D. break room is curses and spit and sharp elbows in the small of her back. Natalia holds her head high, her fingernails pressed into her palms as she walks, resigned, through the crowd of students. The Hawk follows close behind, casting pointed glances at troublemakers, but he cannot be everywhere at once.
Names riddle Natalia like bullets, some creative and colorful, others simply cruel: bloody traitor, damn assassin, Soviet whore. Rarely, the insults culminate in blows, but these are quick, deftly disguised by the press of bodies. A sharp kick to the back of her ankle. A food tray shoved into the side of her throat.
By the second day of training, Natalia has mastered her routine. Walk to the counter. Collect her meal. Walk towards a table. Watch as the other initiates at the table disperse, usually pausing to swear or spit in her general direction. Sit down. Eat. Listen to the soft, steady voice of the Hawk as she eats.
The Hawk always speaks to her, regardless of what they are doing. English is foreign on Natalia's tongue, the shape of the words unnatural — and she only ever spoke to her handlers if she were asked a direct question, so she hardly ever responds to the Hawk's casual observations. Oddly, though, his running commentary is comforting.
No one has ever felt the need to engage Natalia in conversation; it is good to feel not merely watched, but truly seen.
~x~X~x~
On the third day of training, a student with hair like golden flames shoves another boy aside to hurl the barb of ugly whore into Natalia's face. She is hardened into steel, but the low remark still scratches the surface. And it stings.
Wordless, Natalia eats her rations without tasting them. She has hardly tasted anything since her arrival here, and on the occasion that she has eaten something better, richer, her stomach has rebelled immediately and violently.
After several minutes, the Hawk pauses his usual banter to say, "They're wrong, you know."
Natalia stares at her food tray. "I have held many men in the dark, Hawkeye."
The Hawk touches her elbow, gently. Of all the things that have changed since deserting the Red Room, Natalia thinks that gentle touches are the strangest. It is not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
Unthinking, she looks at him.
"I am not disputing the whore part, though I can think of less unpleasant words for who you were." The Hawk holds her gaze, unassuming. "You are the furthest thing from ugly."
"So people tell me."
"I mean it."
"Other men have said the same."
The Hawk looses a small, short laugh. "I am not other men," he says.
A chorus of curses trails Natal—Natasha when she leaves. The Hawk circles her wrist with his fingers; perhaps to steady her, perhaps to restrain her. But with his measured gait at her side, she feels beautiful and no one can convince her otherwise. She stares straight ahead as she walks away.
~x~X~x~
On the sixth day of training, Natasha is sweat-soaked and shaking when she enters the break room. The Haw— Clint Barton worked her hard today, making her repeat the combat drills until her blood marched to their rhythm. Upon taking a seat, Natasha is desperate for a drink.
But a gang of initiates surrounds her table, leering, smirking. One seizes her hair, yanking her head back. Another steps between her and Clint, making threats that Natasha barely hears — the first initiate slams her head into the table with a loud, loud crack.
Only when Clint shouts, "I can see you discharged for this," does the gang withdraw. Natalia breathes hard, slowly lifting her head; her neck aches from the sudden movement.
Clint pins her with his eyes. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Natasha says, taking a long-awaited drink of her water. Ten minutes later, her stomach is in knots.
Clint offers to ask the kitchen staff about a possible mistake, but this wouldn't be the first time that good food and a frequently starved stomach led to an unpleasant turn of events. Natasha refuses his assistance. Rising to her feet, she leaves for the restroom.
The bathroom is among the only places where Clint Barton, her new handler of sorts, cannot follow. Natasha is glad of it. It is humiliating enough that she, the legendary Soviet spy, should be driven to her knees by an actual meal that refuses to stay down; it would be worse if her handler witnessed her weakness.
As Natasha walks to the bathroom, a gang of seven initiates quickly files out behind her. Her chest clamps, and not only from nausea. She increases her pace; they do the same.
Her heart in her throat, Natasha breaks into a sprint, but it is already far too late. The nearest initiate tackles her headlong. The strength has gone out of her body, and he subdues her easily. Suddenly she has no doubt that the attack in the break room was merely a diversion, and that something was promptly dissolved in her water.
Natasha struggles, gasping. Another initiate passes a kitchen knife to the boy upon her back. She opens her mouth to scream — surprised to find the English archer's name upon her lips instead of a Russian curse — but a third boy kicks her in the neck, silencing her voice. "Do it," he hisses to their leader.
The initiate angles the knife against Natasha's throat. A surge of nausea rolls through her, and her vision flashes crimson. In blind fury, she throws her entire body back, twisting as her assailant loses his balance. All at once, he is on the ground, thoughtless, breathless, with her knees upon his ribs. She jerks him upright, then turns to face his friends. They stare, wide-eyed.
"Drop the knife, child." Natasha speaks in a quiet, even voice. Slowly, she angles the assailant's arm. "Or I will break your arm."
"The hell —"
She digs her nails into his throat. "I will ask you one more time," she says, unflinching.
The other initiates stare, slack-jawed, wide-eyed.
The assailant swears. "Filthy Soviet scum —!"
Natasha twists the arm back, back, back. The motion is automatic, a piece of her base programming. She drops the assailant. Clutching his broken limb, he screams as he falls to his knees.
All at once, Clint Barton charges down the hallway — but the attackers run straight past him, heedless of his possible discipline. It is the Black Widow that strikes fear in their hearts. She watches their flight, unblinking.
Clint looks to the broken-armed boy, then to Natasha. "Why did you do this?"
"It is not enough to best them." Natasha's eyes are fire. "I destroy them," she says, kicking the fallen boy firmly in the chest. He whimpers. "I have no need for your English. They understand the language of pain well enough." She curls her hands into fists. "And they will not touch me again."
Clint Barton blinks. "No," he says softly. "No, they won't."
He comms a medical examiner, but he does not stay to comfort the broken-armed boy. Instead, he leads Natasha away from the evidence.
"On record: Two boys got into a fight over sports teams. One underestimated his own strength. The broken arm was the result. A tragedy, but an accident. We'll forgive them this time."
Natasha grips the archer's arm. "You aren't angry?"
A shadow crosses Clint Barton's face. "No," he says, his gaze steady on hers.
Natasha shivers. Alliance is subjective; fear is dependable. But all she sees in the archer's eyes is awe — and she doesn't know English words to describe how her legs turn to water, how her heart speeds, when he looks at her like that.
~x~X~x~
The next day, the assailant is forced to train with one arm in a sling. No one touches the Black Widow again.
No one, save for the archer.
He tends her wounds and whispers new names into her hair: agent, partner, 'Tasha. She wears these English words like armor, but they are born of hope and not of fear. What she intends as a barrier serves as a tether.
She is 'Tasha, and he is hers.
~x~X~x~
'Tasha, he breathes, her lips tracing his as they form the word, learning its shape and its taste and its sound.
'Tasha, he breathes into her scarlet curls, until she falls asleep.
'Tasha, he breathes into the darkness, but when daylight dawns, she is already gone.
~x~X~x~