Today I killed, he was just a boy

Eight before him, I knew them all

In the fields a dying oath...

I'd kill them all to save my own

Deliver me from this war

-NightWish

"Natasha," Pepper always sounds so formal on the phone. "Hello."

"Hi. How are you?" Her voice came out a little rough, probably due to the fact that her throat had just been caught between a very strong pair of hands.

"I'm doing well. How are you?"

"Great." She replied as she drove her heel into the man's solar plexus. He doubled over as his ribs cracked and he tried to draw a breath.

"That's wonderful. Do you want to call me back? You sound busy."

"No." Pepper's words unintentionally hid the sound of a cracking skull from her. "Why did you call?"

"I was returning your call."

Natasha rolled her eyes and stretched her shoulder out. It gave a pop in protest. "I was returning your call last week, which I missed. So why did you call in the first place?"

"Oh. I was calling to invite you to dinner next Tuesday-" the receiver crackled as Pepper pulled it away from her mouth. Natasha could hear another voice in the background, presumably Stark. "I was, but I was just informed that you were busy."

"With whom?"

"Tony."

"Ah." She huffed as she pulled the large man's thumb up to the print scanner on the wall. It unlocked with a tinny chime. "What are we doing?"

"Going out to dinner, apparently."

She didn't attempt to argue. She couldn't care less where she had dinner that night, be it a restaurant or her own couch. And Tony wasn't the worst to dine with. He made good conversation and always picked up the tab. "When and where?"

The receiver muffled for a moment before pepper's voice returned. "He'll pick you up at 6:30. Dress nicely."

"Yes ma'am." Natasha murmured, only half sarcastically. Pepper was one of the few people that deserved to be called ma'am. "I have to finish this, if you don't mind." She said finally as she heard three sets of approaching footsteps. She figured this fight would be easier with two hands.

"Of course, dear. Lovely talking to you."

"And you, Pepper," she replied, then clicked the phone shut.

An excerpt from the SHEILD files

[there is a barely audible click as the recording begins]

"Please state your name and SHEILD id number for the recording."

"Natasha Romanov. 167449."

"I am Doctor Robertson. This is part three of your comprehensive psychological evaluation. Keep in mind, everything you say here is completely confidential—

"In accordance with the HIPPA laws, yes, I know," [Natasha interrupts.] "You're recording for my personal records and SHEILD's file on me. We've been through this before."

"You're more hostile than the last time we spoke. Do you wish to talk about this?"

"No."

"Do you experience this anger in your daily life, or only during evaluations?"

[Silence ensues. The doctor clears her throat.]

"Natasha, you have to open up more. I cannot clear you until you share with me what's going on inside your head."

"I don't understand this."

"Understand what?"

"Why I need to be cleared."

"This is just standard process. I understand you are already completing missions, though, yes?"

"Yes."

"And how does that make you feel? To be working alone?"

"I've always worked alone."

"What happened in your most recent mission? How did you dislocate your shoulder?"

"It's a long story."

"A fight? A fall?"

"A fight."

"Did you do more damage to him than he did to you?"

"He's dead, doctor."

"Does that bother you?"

"People die all the time."

"Yes, they do. That is the purpose of this evaluation. We want to know how death has affected you.."

"Clint wasn't my handler. He was my friend." [Natasha pauses.] "When my handler died, you didn't put me through extensive evaluations. You said sorry and sent me on my way. Every time I kill on a mission, you don't even acknowledge what I've done."

"We're just trying to figure out how much you know."

"How much I know about what?"

"Do you know how Clint died?"

"Don't answer my question with a question."

"Did you go to his funeral?"

"Yes, of course I went to his funeral."

"So you believe he's gone."

"Dead people don't come back, Dr. Robertson. Are we done here?"

[the sound of pen scratching on paper.] "Yes, we are. You may go."