Sometimes, Natasha can't sleep. Not due to insomnia, like Tony, or Bruce, but because of nightmares. Since the day she escaped from the Red Room, she has kept every single one of her memories, even the little snippets of rosin and tulle, and treasured them. The smell of rosin reminds her of a simpler time, one where she wasn't constantly on the lookout for enemies, or having to seduce a happily married man. Her time in the ballet company was supposed to have been erased, but smell is a powerful trigger, and over time, the Red Room's programming has become weaker. It is both a blessing and a curse. Not having to submit to 'treatment' has made sure that she can trust what has happened, as much as her paranoia (not paranoia, cautiousness) can let her. There is always the chance that there are fail safes, but that is a risk she has to take. But it also means that every bad thing that has happened stays. That time when she was forced to kill an innocent child, or when the gang she was contracted to take out found her and kept her captive for a month. She still don't trust Korean men with mustaches.
Natasha's phone rang, shattering the quiet of the warm Monaco night. She deftly slid it from her purse and answered.
"Hello."
"Hello Widow. Did you succeed?"
"Of course. Have I ever failed?"
"Only in Budapest."
"I told you not to bring that up anymore."
She could hear the smirk in her handler's voice when he replied,
"You may have the junior agents quaking in their boots, but not me. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about your love of French pastries."
"Good. I wouldn't want to have to worry about disposing of your body. How is Hawkeye?"
"He's fine. Got out clean, ten minutes after you left."
"Okay. Goodnight."
"Goodnight Widow."
Curled up in bed, skin still flushed and pink from her bath, Natasha opened her copy of Ageyev's Novel With Cocaine when her phone rang again.
"Widow. We have a problem. Taser has gone missing, and it doesn't look voluntary."
"Sir?"
"We need you to come in."