The door opens two days later and Barton enters. He's moving fast, like he's worried. But he's moving too slow; casual.
"Natasha?" he calls into the darkened suite once he's entered. She can hear it in his voice: he thinks it's a trap.
He says (one of her) name(s) again. The door falls closed; she hears it. Barton opens other doors and calls for Natasha. Then he opens the door to the bedroom and finds her in her web.
"Jesus," he says. He comes to her side. "Are you alright?"
She shakes her head.
"Here. C'mon. Let's get you out of here."
He doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't demand to know what's going on, what led to this moment. Agent Clint Barton pulls a girl out of a spider web. He takes her on his raft of safety. But it doesn't matter. All the water's gone now.
—
"This isn't what we meant when we gave you the assignment," Maria Hill says.
Natalia finally gets to meet the boss she'd been so concerned about. Barton stands beside Natalia; they face off with Hill. The woman is so young that it's almost comical. She is definitely someone's protégée. Natalia likes Hill immediately, even the razor-sharp severity she wears about herself as armor.
"I think this is better than what you asked me to do," Barton says.
Three hours later, it's been settled. Barton vouches for her. Natalia is now in his custody while they get proper paperwork for her. While they figure out what to do with a spider when they wanted a dead girl.
—
It's the sixth hour of her interrogation. They call it a debriefing. Barton was right — these people are dicks.
"I'm not going to say anything about the Red Room," Natalia says. "It's one of the conditions of my release."
"Then break those conditions," the black man says. He was the one at Haxenhaus. Now the man wears an eyepatch. She can't stop looking at it. She's like a child.
She shakes her head at the futility of the conversation.
The black man sighs and softens. It's a tactic that Natalia has used herself. Useful for manipulating situations. He says, "Look, if you're worried about them coming after you—"
She cuts him off, "I'm not worried they'll come after me."
"Then what is it? Your loyalties get left behind in Moscow?" The eyepatch is combative again.
Her loyalties didn't get left behind. They were sent away. She goes dark on the eyepatch. Fuck him.
He calms down again. Tries to go back to being nice. "We can protect you from them. You honestly believe that they just let you walk away?"
She leans forward. "I don't know how you Americans do it, but where I come from, even liars and cheats have a code. I won't talk about the Red Room, and they won't come after me."
"Then what good are you?"
She doesn't know.
—
It's February by the time they let her out of their compound. She moves in with Barton (because she has to) in New York City. Really, it's a seventeen-mile move (gotta get used to using these godawful Imperial units). Natalia doesn't think for a second that the apartment isn't stuffed to bursting with bugs and surveillance equipment. Her first day is spent disabling or interrupting their signals. Just so this S.H.I.E.L.D. knows she can do it. So they know she knows.
It's lonely here. Barton is away a lot. Natalia likes the loneliness. It's easy to spin a web around herself and dissolve. She doesn't cry and sob. She just cocoons in blankets and melts into puddles of static. Sleep is torture viewed through red lenses. Sometimes this goes on for days. Natalia would never get out that cocoon — she'd let herself starve — if it wasn't for Barton's dog. Lucky is left in her care when Barton is away. She has to leave the web to feed the dog and take it out. When they're inside and her head's gone back to Russia, Lucky lies at her feet and chews on things he's not supposed to.
—
Word comes down: She has an assignment and a title. No longer is she Natalia Romanova, Red Room defector. Now, she is Natasha Romanoff — it's what the papers say — probationary agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. with restricted allowances.
No leaving the country.
No leaving the state unaccompanied.
No missions may appropriate S.H.I.E.L.D. property without written consent.
No driver's license may be issued to her under any of her names.
No living unsupervised. Check-in with custodian nightly.
No ducking calls; check-ins are three times a week, unscheduled. So she better be ready any time they decide to call.
No calls or other communication may be made on non-S.H.I.E.L.D. devices. (Not even trying to hide the fact that they're watching her every move.)
No use of weapons that are not issued directly to her by a superior and qualified S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or officer.
The assignment packet reminds her at the end, in bold letters, NO SELF-APPOINTED MISSIONS — MAY ONLY PARTICIPATE IN MISSIONS ISSUED BY A SUPERIOR AND QUALIFIED S.H.I.E.L.D. AGENT OR OFFICER.
For her very first mission, they've assigned her to "surveillance/security detail" for one Capt. Steven G. Rogers. Apparently Captain America hasn't been taking well to twenty-first century New York. Natasha must present herself as a friend, ease him back into the world, and fend off any threats — because the revival of an icon is sure to bring out the crazies (Barton's words).
How convenient the assignment is — it was what she was going to do anyway. She might not even have to break any of their rules for the time being (later though, she's pretty sure she's going to be breaking every one of those rules and then some). After all, finding Steve Rogers is only half of her promise.
—
She practices her opening move with Lucky. He really is a great dog.
—
Steve Rogers seems to only move at night. When there are fewer people and less noise. She follows him and watches him haunt this city he no longer recognizes. After five days, she stands where she can see him and lets Lucky's leash slip through her fingers. The dog takes off running as planned.
"Oh no," Natalia says. Jogs after the dog. Rolls her ankle in an imaginary hole in the ground, a made-up crack in the pavement. (Maybe she's not pretending at all.)
Steve Rogers runs so fast that Natalia's hair flutters in her face when he goes by. She sits in the dirty snow and holds her ankle. He comes back to where she sits with Lucky. The dog trots happily beside him, tongue lolling.
"Are you alright?" he says.
The photos didn't do him justice. Natalia's stunned by the sheer size of him. In the night, he seems apart.
"Yeah," she says. "Just having the worst night of my life."
He looks uncomfortable now. He doesn't know what to say next. Natalia spares him and gets up. Staggers for dramatic effect. Her ankle! Is it broken? Is it sprained? Rogers puts an arm out and steadies her. Lucky watches them with his one eye, all drool and smiles.
"Hey," he says, "take it easy. I could, uh — I could walk you home. Y-you know, if you'd like. It's late."
"Would you?" she says. "I've only been here a few weeks. Always afraid I'll get lost. But my custodian's dog — and, well, here we are." She feels like Klara.
"Where're you from? Originally," he says.
"Russia."
"No kidding?"
"None."
"What made you decide to up and move?"
"Uh. Personal reasons. Work."
They make slow progress down the walk.
"Mind if I ask what your line of work is?"
"I have a very specific skill set," she says.
"Heard that before," he says.
It makes her laugh. So she repays him with the truth. "I defected from a, well I guess the best way to describe it is to call it a spy school."
He seems surprised. "S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"How'd you know?"
It's annoying to feign a limp for seven blocks. Steve Rogers keeps one hand on Lucky's leash. His other arm is around Natalia, supporting her when her completely healthy ankle gives out. All she can think about is how both of Steve Rogers's arms are made of flesh and bone. No cool metal to offer relief from life. They trade minimally-revealing facts about each other along the way. At the door to Barton's apartment, Natalia thanks him.
Rogers says, "Hey, I didn't get your name."
She holds Lucky's leash with two hands. "Oh. I'm Natasha."
"Steve," he says and offers his hand.
She shakes it, feeling silly. Goes back to holding the leash tight. "Maybe I'll see you around," she says.
"Yeah. Yeah, maybe," he says. "Good night, Natasha."
"Good night, Steve."
It's a start.
Note:
TBC in a new story. Hope I see you there!
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