Tarantula and the Black Widow went on their first joint mission in Illinois, of all places. It was a simple mission to steal some top-of-the-line facial recognition technology from Argonne National Laboratory, which was not far from Chicago. Peter was integral with his ability to stick to walls, easily infiltrating through vents that should have been too small and vertical for points of ingress and letting her in through the roof door after disabling security.
They got what they came for in a matter of minutes, but the pickup with their contact wasn't scheduled until tomorrow night, so they went to a hotel in Chicago posing as mother and son. It was the easiest lie she'd ever told. With a whole day to kill and fake ID's on their side, they decided to spend time in the city.
Peter was awed by all the tall buildings and shining skyline, though he was never unaware of the potential dangers and exit routes at street level. It reminded him of home with a pang, but it was still nice. They went to the Museum of Contemporary Art for Natasha and the Museum of Science and Industry for Peter. She took him to the Navy Pier, and he lit up at the rides and games available— 'Just like Coney Island!' according to him.
When he spotted an ice cream store, he practically vibrated in excitement. Seeing him shoot her the puppy eyes was the first time in a long time she'd seen him really act like a kid. They got in line, and when they made it to the counter, Peter's eyes swept over the options eagerly. While he was looking, she ordered a strawberry cone for herself.
"What would you like, little dude?" the kind teenage girl at the counter asked him warmly. "Wanna try anything?"
"Can I have a bite of the Supermoon, the Churro, and the milkier chocolate, please?" he asked, pressing his nose against the glass case.
Natasha blinked at the slight Russian accent his English had picked up, though he didn't seem to notice. The worker did, though, and had narrowed her eyes, so Natasha smiled disarmingly and ruffled his hair, getting his attention so he didn't miss the cover story. It was too late for her to copy him and pretend they were Russian tourists, since she'd already spoken with a perfect Midwest drawl. She could hardly believe that he was so used to speaking Russian that it was more instinctual than his New York accent. Had she changed him too much?
"My husband and I just adopted Maksym from Ukraine," she explained lightly. "He's already so good with English, though. We're very proud."
Peter played along, shooting a matching disarming smile. "I know all the words, but the sounds are still different," he said, keeping the accent.
The worker cooed, buying it and his adorable pride in his language skills. He was quite the little actor, and Natasha was impressed.
"You're doing great, sweetie," the girl praised, handing over his samples. "Keep practicing and you'll get it."
His face lit up for every sample spoon, but the winner was chocolate. They took their cones to the nearest bench and watched the seagulls as they ate. She was mostly watching him, but he either didn't notice or, more likely, didn't mind.
"They should have ice cream in the cafeteria at the base," he decided, licking drips off his fingers. "I forgot how good it is."
"I'll bring it up next time I see the superiors," she joked, earning a tongue stuck out at her. "Tell you what, though. How about we get ice cream every time we can when we go on missions?"
He beamed. "Like a tradition?"
"Yeah," she agreed, sliding an arm around his shoulders and booping his nose with hers. "Every time there's time for ice cream, we'll get some."
They stuck to that tradition for all their missions. They grabbed a slice of normal life wherever they could. They explored the world, tried new foods, and just found time to sit outside in the sun and read or play games in local libraries. The Tarantula was as professional and dangerous as the Red Room expected, but she made sure that she let Peter Parker be a kid while still training him to survive in their world.
She never felt like she was doing enough for him, but she did what she could.
Peter and Natasha were eventually assigned to their longest mission yet: an undercover op in San Antonio to get classified intel from a diplomat, Gabriel Nuñez. They would be there for a month, at least. Natasha's cover was Peter's mother, and she would work on gathering intelligence with a job at the Spanish consulate while Peter befriended Nuñez's daughter at school and got himself invited over for a playdate so one of them could distract the family while the other one stole a flash drive from a hidden safe at the diplomat's house. They had an apartment and fake names, and they'd have to be good at pretending to be normal because Gabriel Nuñez had been targeted by spies before, making him wary. The idea was that he'd never suspect spies of involving a child in intelligence acquisition.
They got settled as Nadia and Perry Robbins and got Peter enrolled in the same private school as Lila Nuñez without issue. Natasha might have been forced to sabotage the other applicant to the file clerk job in order to secure her position, but at the end of the day, Stella Baskin could probably live with one coffee-ruined shirt and a little embarrassment in front of an interviewer who didn't think someone who had "forgotten" her resume could be trusted with keeping track of important documents. All in all, things progressed smoothly.
During their free time, Natasha and Peter enjoyed the River Walk and went to art museums. For once, she didn't turn anything into a lesson and just let Peter enjoy it, even if she had pointed out a few ways to figure out a person's recent history by paying attention to the details during people watching. That was just for fun, though. They also attended a ballet at the performing arts center. Giselle was lovely, and it made Natasha miss her time dancing with the Bolshoi as her cover. It was perhaps the most enjoyable mission they'd been on yet, allowing for plenty of down time to pretend to be normal people.
Peter was naturally charming, and Lila's interest in science made it easy for him to connect with her. They were fast friends, and she invited him over for a playdate on their first weekend in the city, sooner than they could have hoped. The kids did experiments in Lila's "lab" (a renovated spare guest bedroom) while Natasha took a "tour" of the house, flirting with the diplomat to distract him from the fact she was casing the place. It took two more playdates, spread out over three weeks, to locate the safe and get the drive from it. All they had to do now was keep their covers for another week, time enough for Natasha to get the supplementary files from the embassy office and replace the drive in Mr. Nuñez's safe with a duplicate from Best Buy.
It was their second to last day in the city, and Natasha swiped the paper copies of the digital files at work while Peter was at school. Feeling like she ought to celebrate Peter's hard work on his first longer-term undercover op, she swung by the ice cream cart on the way to pick him up from school. It was a decision that she couldn't have known would save her life— not to mention changing it forever.
~0~
Clint Barton had been assigned to the Black Widow's case as a back-burner priority for years. He was supposed to keep an eye out for news of her and try to build a profile of intelligence on her. It hadn't yielded much until recently, other than a sort of rivalry between spies.
He still didn't know her real name after all this time, and he'd only seen her face briefly, from a distance. She'd seen the light glance off his scope and smirked at it, winking and blowing a kiss before vanishing like smoke into the crowds of a Moroccan bazaar. He knew who she worked for, though he knew very little about the Red Room, and he knew how good she was at what she did, which was very good. Up until recently, what he hadn't known was any way to find her or predict where she was going next.
It had been a game of cat and mouse, with him chasing her all over the globe and coming up just short, in a kind of deadly dance of who could find and eliminate whom first. Somehow, he'd always come out feeling like the mouse in their just-missed-her encounters. She had that effect on people.
He had worked his ass off trying to pin down her patterns, and he had noticed something changing recently. Before, she had always been alone, but now she seemed to travel with a partner. Small, agile, probably enhanced or outfitted with some serious tech. This addition was what made it possible to track her, because even though her reputation as the most ruthlessly capable assassin in the world protected her from snitches, the same protection did not extend to her new friend. So he asked around, and he found out that the rumor mill placed them in the States, San Antonio. Well, the rumor mill was one informant kind of new to the game who seemed far too cheerful to possibly be aware that handing out this information was going to get him killed, but him being an idiot worked in Clint's favor. He could just have an agent warn the guy about informant protocol later, but first he had to track down his old nemesis before she slipped away again.
It had taken awhile to canvas the area for the Widow, but he eventually found her working at an embassy. He observed long enough to determine that she was stealing documents before following her via the rooftops. She finally stopped in a relatively underpopulated area, at an ice cream cart of all things. It felt a little weird to be taking out the Black Widow while she bought an ice cream cone, but he'd waited too long for this chance to pass it up. He drew back his bow, lined up the shot, and then hesitated when the vendor handed her a second ice cream cone.
He didn't know what about that made him stop. Maybe wondering who it was for made him think she could lead him to the mysterious new partner, or maybe he was just wondering what kind of person could be someone that the Black Widow would share her ice cream with. Either way, he relaxed his draw and followed her more instead. She walked up to a school and he tensed again, readying a shot. She hadn't been known to hurt children in the past, so it was unlikely that she was here to harm one of the students, but he couldn't be too careful when it came to kids.
She only stood there for less than two minutes before the bell rang and students began pouring out of the school. He was watching her face carefully through the scope, so he saw the moment her face changed expressions and he almost let go of the arrow out of shock. The Black Widow was smiling, very genuinely, at someone she spotted in the crowd. The grin bloomed across her face and she was positively beaming. It floored him so bad that it took a second to notice one of the kids breaking away from the herd to sprint straight at her, and that shock didn't get better when the kid tackled her at the waist in a hug, making her laugh and kiss the top of his head. He thought he read the kid's lips forming the words, "Hi, Mama." Clint couldn't believe what he was seeing.
He put the bow aside and hurriedly scrambled for the long-distance listening equipment. Once he had it going and tuned in, he put the scope back up to his eye without the bow. He watched her crouch down to the kid's level and hold out both cones to him, still smiling.
"Chocolate or strawberry?" she asked, lifting each one a little higher as she named it.
The kid scoffed, "As if you even have to ask." He then grabbed the chocolate one and took a massive bite of it.
The Black Widow stood up and said, "I'm told variety is the spice of life."
The kid arched an eyebrow in a way that oozed dismissal. "You know what's also a spice? Cocoa, and it's delicious enough to be better than variety."
"Cocoa isn't a spice."
"Agree to disagree. Besides, chocolate is objectively the best flavor! It's just the facts."
"Those are bold words for someone within striking distance," she hummed, suddenly bumping her ice cream cone against his.
"Oh ho! Do you wish to engage in combat?" he asked in a comically deep British accent, adopting an exaggerated fencing stance with the ice cream as the foil. "En garde!"
She smirked and copied him, pretending to sword fight with the ice cream cones, dancing backwards and dramatically avoiding strikes. Both of their scoops got hopelessly mashed and mingled, but they didn't destroy either of the cones or lose any ice cream. Before long, she surrendered by withdrawing her cone and licking it.
"I concede, but I think we both won because now we both have chocolate-strawberry ice cream," she declared, reaching her free hand down towards him.
He shook it like he was gracefully accepting victory in a gentleman's duel before switching hands and just holding her hand as she turned and walked him away from the school. Clint had a call to make. If the Black Widow had a kid, that changed things. He couldn't make that kid an orphan even if she'd done the same to others. If the Black Widow loved this kid as much as it looked like she did, that meant she wasn't an unfeeling killing machine, and that might change the way he interpreted orders to eliminate her as a threat.
Thinking quickly, he followed her to her home, and once he'd marked the apartment, he changed out of his tactical gear into a suit and tie. Approaching her would be easier if he didn't immediately look like someone sent to kill her. Besides, she knew that her rival from the past few years was an archer, so showing up with a bow might be a good way to get shot on sight. He knocked on her door with as much confidence as he could manage, trying to be ready for anything. He was not prepared for what he saw.
It opened to reveal a woman who looked both exactly how he remembered and nothing like he expected. She had her long red hair up in a messy bun with a stick through it, and was wearing black yoga pants and a maroon T-shirt that was loose enough to hang off one shoulder. It said "Girl with a great personali-tea" on it with a little smiling teacup beneath the words. She was barefoot and wearing a little black apron with ruffles, and she was looking at him with a curious but pleasant smile.
"Can I help you?" she asked lightly.
"I hope so, ma'am," he replied with his best charming smile. He flashed his fake CIA badge and continued, "My name is Agent Scully, and I'm with the CIA. Our intelligence has led us to believe that there's a dangerous Russian spy in the area, and we're hoping you'll be able to answer some questions for us."
He knew from the brief flicker in her eyes that she knew his badge was fake, and from her microscopic change in expression that she knew he knew she'd noticed. There was a calculation in her gaze as she stepped aside and let him in. He nodded his thanks as he walked by her. The kid from earlier was reading a book on the couch and shooting sideways glances at him. Instead of looking at Clint head-on when he lowered the book, the kid turned to the Black Widow.
"Mama, who's this?"
"This is Agent Scully. He's here to ask us what we know about Russian spies in the area," she explained. "I'm not sure how much help we'll be, but we can try."
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs?"
"Ms. Nadia Robbins," she introduced, shaking his hand. "And this is my son, Perry."
Clint smiled and turned to the kid. "How old are you, Perry?"
He eyed Clint skeptically. "Old enough to know not to talk to strangers."
He had to chuckle at that, waving away "Nadia's" attempted apology for her son's rudeness. "No, don't worry about it. Clearly you've taught him good safety precautions about random men asking him questions. I get it."
She nodded, seeming pleased by his answer. "You can sit in the armchair, if you like. I'll join my son on the couch. Can I get you anything to drink?"
"I'm good, thanks." No poison coffee for him, no ma'am. He settled in the chair and took out an empty notebook, pretending to read over something. "If you don't mind, we'll get down to business. Have you seen anyone new in the neighborhood recently? Especially an intimidating woman traveling alone."
She shook her head, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, no. We're actually pretty new to the neighborhood ourselves. Just moved in a month ago."
"Place looks good so soon after a move," he remarked, raising a brow. "You two must have been some busy bees."
"The place came furnished," she replied smoothly, shrugging. "We didn't travel with much, so we didn't have a lot to unpack. It's easy to be tidy if you keep the clutter low."
He nodded, writing nonsense down. "Understood. So, if you haven't seen anyone new, have you noticed anyone behaving strangely? Coming or going at odd hours? Having a lot of scary-looking guests visiting? Carrying weapons?"
"Well, that covers a broad area, Agent Scully. Brenda down the hall has night school followed by a graveyard shift. Nico from the apartment below ours runs his palm reading business out of his home. And there are at least two police officers and a private detective on the first two floors alone," she listed. Her lips twitched with amusement. "Are any of them Russian spies?"
"Fair enough," he grunted, writing down more nonsense. "What about at work? Anybody there acting suspiciously?"
"Do you even know where I work?" she questioned casually. "You didn't know my name."
"Close enough to walk to," he remarked, nodding to the visible soles of her shoes by the door. "Judging by the wear patterns on your nice work heels. That means it's in the area, which means it could be a place of interest. Where do you work?"
"At the embassy," she answered. "I'm a file clerk. As for suspicious activity, the only activity that I've noticed happening at work that shouldn't be is the fact that my married boss is hitting on me." She rolled her eyes. "I don't suppose sexual harassment claims are your jurisdiction, Agent?"
"No," he agreed, frowning sympathetically. "One last question before I leave you to enjoy your evening... do you have any affiliation with the Russian intelligence sect known as the Red Room?"
He bore his eyes into hers and she stared back unflinchingly. Their gazes held for what felt like hours, and he wasn't sure what he was expecting to break it, but it certainly wasn't for her to turn away first and duck her head, biting her lip. Holy shit, was she seriously about to confess everything? He leaned forward in anticipation.
"I— I must confess, Agent Scully... that I do," she admitted, voice suddenly tinted by a Russian accent. "You see... my husband, he was a member of the KGB. His job was always very top secret, but he would sometimes tell me the more interesting work stories, knowing they would never leave our bedroom. One of them was about a program that trained young girls to become killers. I never knew anything beyond that, but one day, my husband disobeyed an order that he said had to do with this Red Room, and he was branded as a traitor. Then they—"
She cut herself off with a hand over her mouth, eyes welling with tears. She turned her head away and the kid put his arm around her and said something in Russian in a soothing tone. She clasped his hand and said something back, foreheads pressed together. He knew this had to be an act, but it was a convincing one— enough that he felt like he was intruding on a private moment of grief. Hell, he didn't even know that the kid was actually her son, let alone if they were talking about his dead father.
She collected herself and looked back at him, rasping, "They killed my Alexei. I knew that they would come for us, make an example of our family, so we fled. Pyotr and I came here with new identities to start over, to hide. I was afraid to say anything in case you thought I was the Russian spy you're looking for, but when you mentioned the name of the program my husband died over... I thought maybe you could help us, protect us if they've found us and sent someone after us here."
Damn, she was a good actress. He nodded convincingly, put the notebook away, and leaned his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers against his chin very seriously.
"Ms. Robbins— Nadia— I'm sorry to tell you this, but the woman who was sent here is an incredibly dangerous spy and assassin known as the Black Widow. Her skill is legendary. I myself have been chasing her for years to no avail. We don't even know her name."
She looked appropriately alarmed at that, drawing her son closer to her side. "Are you saying there's nothing you can do to stop her from hurting us?"
"It will be hard, but... I do have one advantage that she doesn't know about," he said conspiratorially.
She leaned forward, wide-eyed. "What's that?"
He drew his gun in a flash and had it pointed at her head in a heartbeat. He flashed her a cocky smirk. "I saw her face once in Morocco and I have a really good memory about faces."
The kid made a startled sound and sat up straighter. Nadia only smirked and raised her hands slowly. She was looking at him like he'd fallen right into her trap and it honestly had him a little worried that maybe he'd only thought this was his idea.
"The archer," she purred, looking positively delighted. "I can't believe it's taken us this many years to get a face to face. I knew you never thought you had me fooled with that CIA badge from a costume shop and that ridiculous fake name. Honestly, did you think that just because I'm Russian, I've never even heard of the X-Files? It was cute that you picked the woman's name, though."
"Yeah, I don't know if you've seen the show, but she's the less crazy one and I like her better. Besides, Gillian Anderson, c'mon," he said without shame. "Nice to finally get in the same room with you. Thrilled I've lived this long into the encounter. This meeting is defying my expectations in a lot of ways, but the kid is definitely the biggest surprise."
"I'm Peter," he said helpfully. "I really don't like that you're pointing a gun at my mom."
"You're really his mom?" he asked skeptically. He saw the barest twitch in her eyebrows when the kid said 'mom,' like she wasn't expecting him to continue the charade. "I thought he was like, a junior Red Room agent or something. Heard they start them young."
Anger flashed across her expression, but not at him, oddly. She was looking slightly to the left of him, as if staring down some memory. "He is. He's also my son. I'm the only one I trust enough to train him."
"He killed anybody yet?" he asked, feeling cold at the possibility of an answer he didn't want to hear. The kid was, like, ten. Taking a life that young could really screw him up. Not to mention that Clint really didn't want to arrest someone who should be in elementary school.
"No," she said firmly, scowling. "And he won't, if I have anything to do with it."
"You're not setting the best example then," he observed, tilting his head at her. "Saw your handiwork on the Sao Paulo mess." He whistled low. "Damn near enough to give me nightmares even after all the bullshit I've seen on this job."
Her face twisted in pain, briefly. It looked a lot like regret, but she buried it so fast he could almost believe he'd imagined it.
"I don't want to talk about my past in front of my son," she bit out, glaring. "I would prefer you mind your language in front of him as well. And if it's not asking too much," she drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'd strongly prefer you not kill me in front of him, either."
"Unfortunately, my assignment is to kill you," he hummed. "Has been for years."
"Why all this talking then, beforehand? If you've got me where you want me at last?"
"Because you bought two ice cream cones," he answered honestly, putting down the gun.
She was baffled at that answer, but her kid took advantage of him relaxing and dove forward in a roll, popping up to snatch the gun from his fingers and then rolling backward, popping up in a perfect ready stance with the gun aimed at Clint's head. Now it was his turn to raise his hands over his head.
"Wow, that was impressive," he said honestly. "Nice moves, kid."
"Mama taught me everything I know," Peter said proudly, beaming. "You're gonna get your butt kicked now, but thanks for not killing my mom."
"You're welcome. Wait, wha—"
He suddenly found himself pinned to the ground by the throat, a knife resting under his chin exactly where the jugular vein was. He gulped, mildly stunned, and stared up at the Black Widow, who still looked like a mom relaxing at home while inches away from inciting his swift death. Today was a wild day.
"Speak," she commanded calmly, "and convince me to let you live. Explain yourself."
So he told her about tracking the Tarantula here, and finding her after three weeks of work and tailing her for most of today. He concluded with the ice cream stand. "I didn't know what you were doing with two ice cream cones, but I wanted to see the kind of person the Black Widow would buy ice cream for. Then I saw how you were with the kid, and I thought that the heartless murderer from the Black Widow stories, the inhuman shadowy hand of death, didn't match up at all with this woman play-fighting with a kid she'd bought ice cream for. So I decided to see if I had you all wrong, and if I could offer you a different deal."
"Peter, make sure the pirozhki don't burn," she called, before turning back to Clint and easing up on the pressure of the knife just a bit. "What kind of deal?"
"How about instead of me having to take you out— or, you know, you killing me and then having to avoid every schmuck after me who tries to take you out and probably killing them, too— I offer you a job? You defect, come work for SHIELD, and nobody has to be murdered?"
"You're offering me a job?" she asked incredulously. "With the American government?"
"Yeah," he agreed easily. "I mean, there would be paperwork and stuff, but I have the clearance necessary to make the offer."
"You're disobeying orders," she observed, in a tone that implied she was impressed.
"Think of it as making a different call," he countered. "Can't be a threat to the country you live and work in!"
She removed the knife from his throat and offered him a hand up. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet with considerable strength that left him stumbling. Her expression was thoughtful.
"I'm going to need time to consider it. Care to join us for supper?"
He looked to where Peter was setting a tray of little pies on the stove, and he would have been sorely tempted based on the food alone, never mind getting the Black Widow to betray the Red Room. "Is that what the delicious smell is coming from? Because if so, my answer is a hard yes."
"Sit at the table. I'll pour the tea. Think of what you want to say to make your case for why I should accept your offer."
He sat. He thought. He ate an incredibly delicious tiny pie filled with meat and some vegetables. It was like pot pie, but different and honestly better. He may or may not have moaned at his first bite. The tea was also good, even if he was more of a coffee guy. It was really strong, and tasted kinda like cherries. When dinner was finished and Peter had cleared the dishes, Widow folded her hands and leaned towards him across the table.
"So, have you thought of your argument?"
He nodded, wiping crumbs from his mouth with his sleeve. "I have. I think that no matter how you might have felt about the Red Room before, training Peter to do what you do has changed things. You don't want him to have to kill anyone, but if you stay where you are, he will. My best reason for joining SHIELD is that your son can stop being an agent and just be a normal kid. I promise not to say anything about Peter's training, and will back up whatever lie you decide on for why he was on this mission with you. You should come with me so you can make the kind of future your son deserves to live in."
"I will admit, it's a compelling argument," she hummed, furrowing her brow. "Truthfully... I have wanted to leave the Red Room since they asked me to teach Peter how to kill. If we simply leave on our own... we will be found, and killed or worse. With the resources of the American government behind us, it's more plausible that I will be able to keep Peter safe."
"We'll get our best people on the job of new identities and protection from hostiles," he assured her. "I don't know if this sweetens the pot, but this would be like a regular job. You'd have your own home, three weeks' paid vacation, benefits, insurance— including dental! Other than longer missions, it would be like a normal nine to five thing."
She nodded, considering. "I will have to discuss it with Peter. What we do is his choice."
She turned to her son and spoke in rapid-fire Russian, and he returned in kind. Clint knew a handful of Russian words, so he caught snatches— "what life do you want," "different risks," "parents," "my mother," "leave me," and "never, I love you." When they finished, they embraced, and then she turned back to Clint with a softer expression than she'd had since he knocked on her door.
"We accept. They'll never believe I'm dead if they recognize my signature while I'm working in the intelligence community, so it would be a waste of time to fake that. But we need to fake Peter's death or they'll never leave him alone."
"I'll make some calls," he said simply, pushing his chair back to rise. "What names do you want on all your new paperwork?"
They exchanged a look. "Natasha and Peter Romanoff," Peter answered. "What's your real name?"
"Clint Barton," he replied. "Nice to meet you both."
In the middle of one of these phone calls, he paused and asked, "Hey, can we have the info on that diplomat you were going to give to your old bosses?"
"Sure," she replied, shrugging.
"What was it even about?"
"Oh, Mr. Nuñez was selling passport numbers to identity thieves in the Lithuanian mob," she answered casually.
Clint blinked. "Okay, that is definitely a thing we should have been on top of, thanks."
They whipped up a convincing body double of Peter for autopsy photographs and faked his death by confrontation with a rival black ops group to the Red Room. They also pinned the disappearance of the body on them, so nobody could verify that the corpse was a fake made of ballistics gel. The trackers in both their arms were removed and destroyed, and that was the last thread to cut in order to free them of the Red Room. Natasha and Peter left San Antonio on a private flight to New York, but the place they landed was not JFK.
The helicarrier was gargantuan and high-tech, and Peter had to be tugged down the hall every few minutes because he would get sidetracked by some incredible piece of equipment that he had to get a closer look at. Clint led the way down the length of the aircraft to the director's office. It would be an understatement to say that Director Nicholas J Fury was... underwhelmed by Clint's choice to recruit her instead of killing her.
"What the hell were you thinking, Agent?"
"Sir, please— It's not like I could have just killed her in front of her kid."
"Yes, you could have, Agent Barton," he barked. "Kids are resilient. He would have gotten over it in a nice foster home somewhere after enough government-funded therapy."
Peter raked an unimpressed look over the man in the trenchcoat. "These are supposed to be the good guys?" he scoffed.
"Why is this toddler making moral judgments at me?" he asked Clint, and Clint shrugged helplessly.
Peter retorted, "Maybe if you presented some evidence of having morals, I wouldn't be so quick to judge."
"No comment about the toddler part?" Fury asked.
"Dude, I know that the comeback of 'I'm ten, not four you bald bastard' is pretty weak," he snorted, rolling his eyes. "I didn't see the point of addressing it when my age is not the issue. The issue is that killing my mom in front of me is a messed up thing to suggest, and that you're ignoring the fact that instead of performing a government contract kill, Clint gave you a valuable resource."
Fury crossed his arms. "Go on."
"My mom is the best spy in the world," he said proudly. "She's a legend. In your circles, her terrifying reputation is a good thing. It gives you street cred, connections, and the power of fear. She's the most capable espionage expert alive, and that kind of talent can't always be taught. It's like in chess, but instead of just taking the other guy's queen off the board when you capture her, you get to add her to your ranks. Instead of just removing a powerful player, Clint got her on your team. I think that's objectively better, don't you?"
Clint was really impressed at the kid's solid argument, and pretty grateful that he was using it to make Clint look good to his pissed off boss. Fury regarded Peter in silence for a moment before bestowing a rare smile on him and uncrossing his arms.
"You make a good point, kid. Alright, so maybe Barton's not an idiot."
"Thank you, Sir."
Fury ignored that and stared hard at Natasha. "But be warned of this— you're getting a second chance here, and there will not be a third. Got it? That means that if I catch one whiff of double-dealing or betrayal, you're dead. There won't be a trial or a plea deal or a prison sentence. If you're suspected of being a double agent, there will be an investigation, and then if it turns out you stabbed us in the back, you get killed. No compromise. No middle ground. Are we clear?"
"I have a question," Natasha replied.
"Yes, you can freelance for any allies or pre-approved neutral parties."
"No, that's not it, but thanks." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I was actually wondering what happens to my son if I die. He can't go back to Russia."
Fury nodded like she'd taken a step towards earning his respect. "Until and unless you meet someone else you wanna make a godparent, your partner is in charge of arrangements."
"Partner?"
"Barton. He recruited you, he keeps an eye on you," Fury explained.
She looked him up and down and seemed to be satisfied with what she saw. "You're decent with kids. You'll do."
"Gee, thanks," he huffed good-naturedly. "I'll do my best to make sure it never comes up."
She heard the sentence for what it was: a promise to watch her back so she could come home to her son, and she looked at him like she'd realized something important about his character. She nodded and thanked him quietly. He just shot her a small smile. Fury didn't have a lot of patience for genuine human emotion, so he cleared his throat and called attention back to him.
"You have quarters on board until such time as you find a place on the ground, preferably in the city," he told Natasha. "You start work on Monday, so enjoy the weekend. Someone may find you with more paperwork between now and then, so if you go down into the city, don't stay there the whole time. You're dismissed, Agent Romanoff."
"I'd actually like to keep a place up here even after I find my own. I'd like it if Peter could be somewhere with adults who will help him if he needs it while I'm gone on missions, not that I don't trust him to stay home alone," she added, glancing at her son.
"That can be arranged," Fury allowed. "Take a day to get familiar with the place. Barton can give you the tour, and he's a decent pilot if you want to go sightseeing tomorrow."
"Thank you, Director Fury," she said, dipping her head and leading their little troupe out of the office.
"Barton," Fury said, halting Clint for a moment. "If this all goes sideways, it's on you. You made yourself responsible for her, and I hope you know what that means."
"I do," he replied solemnly. "I don't think it'll be a problem, but if it is... I'll handle it."
Fury nodded, and he left, catching up to Natasha and Peter in a few strides. "So, I'll be your tour guide today!" he greeted in a chipper voice, slipping past them to walk backwards in front of them. "Anywhere in particular you'd like to start?"
Clint gave them a tour of the Helicarrier, cracking jokes and pointing out the best places to access the vents. Peter giggled several times. Natasha gave him a maximum of three reserved smiles. He'd still call it a partial win. Finally, he showed them to the sleeping quarters area, throwing open Natasha's door with a flourish.
"It isn't much, but it's not bad," he promised. "You'll be able to lock and unlock it with your key card when you get it Monday. As you can see, the stuff you wanted to bring with you is already here. You really weren't kidding about not having many boxes to unpack."
"We travel light," Natasha said, brushing past him. "Tomorrow, I want to look at schools, and then I can use Sunday to find a place near the one we choose."
"I think we can swing that." He shot her a thumbs-up. "Sleep tight. I'll be back to take you to breakfast in the morning."
"Can we get pancakes?" Peter asked brightly. "The mess hall at the Red Room never had pancakes."
"Yeah, squirt. We can get pancakes," Clint replied, smiling. "I even know a place that does chocolate chip ones."
He was practically vibrating with excitement, and Natasha rolled her eyes, sighing, "Now you've done it. He'll be too wound up to sleep."
"Just cementing my place as the fun uncle early," he laughed, saluting. "Good luck with that."
He bailed out fast, snickering at the sound of Peter's excited rambling that faded out as he let the door fall closed. He went straight to bed and woke up at like midnight, and he actually felt a little guilty about maybe making it harder for Peter to sleep, and in a new place at that. So he got up and padded the short distance down the hall to Natasha's room. He raised a fist to knock, but stopped when he heard something through the door. He dialed up his hearing aids to listen better, and he could make out the sound of a pretty voice singing softly in Russian, and the sleepy yawns of a little boy.
It made his heart melt a little to imagine the world's most fearsome assassin singing a lullaby to her child. He also had to admit that she had a fantastic voice, a little raspy but perfectly on key. He stood and listened until her song trailed off into silence, and he heard her tell Peter goodnight. It was an incredibly sweet moment that he could never, ever tell Natasha he'd spied on. He slipped back down the hall to his room and went back to sleep feeling better about how well they would settle in at SHIELD.
The next morning, he knocked on their door at eight. It opened immediately, revealing a fully dressed Natasha and a Peter still in his pajamas, hair sticking up every which way. He laughed at the sleepy squint the boy was making as he stumbled out of bed and rummaged in his suitcase. Clint also noted that only one of the beds was messed up, but maybe Natasha was just a stickler for making the bed the minute she got out of it?
"He's not a morning person," she explained, mirth in her eyes. "He gets ready quickly, though."
"I'm gonna have to get used to that," the kid mumbled, digging out a shirt and some cargo pants.
"Get used to what?" Clint asked. "Getting up early?"
"People knocking. It's weird," he grumbled, wriggling out of his pajama shirt and putting on the new one.
Clint didn't know what to say to that, so he tried, "Sorry to startle you. I just thought you'd want to get as early a start as possible when there are pancakes involved."
His face lit up and he was alert instantly, redoubling his efforts to shove his body into going out clothes. He managed to get dressed, including shoes, in under two minutes, only taking ten more seconds to run his fingers through his hair and instantly fix it. It was strange how normal he and his mom looked. They had perhaps accidentally matched outfits— dark pants and shirts in some shade of red— but they looked like regular people instead of people who'd grown up as spies. Natasha was even wearing a purse.
The illusion was shattered when Peter tucked throwing knives into two of his pockets and Natasha took that as a cue to double check her own, including the balisong in her purse. Oh, well. They were normal enough for New York, anyway.
"Ready for pancakes!" Peter declared, bouncing on his toes.
"Let's go, then," Clint laughed, leading the way to a spare quinjet.
They flew cloaked and parked it on a SHIELD-owned building so all they had to do was walk down one flight of stairs to reach the elevator and then the ground. Clint fell in on the other side of Peter and looked to Natasha.
"Where to first, troop?"
"Pancakes!" Peter cheered.
Peter got his pancakes, and Natasha was introduced to the finer points of American diner food. She got an egg white omelette like a killjoy, but she didn't try to make Clint or Peter eat anything healthy instead of delicious, so that won her back some points in Clint's book. She also acquiesced to try a bite of hash browns, which she seemed to like a lot.
"Just like Жареная картошка," she said, pleased.
"Uh..." he hummed, not sure how to respond since he had no idea what she said. "Good?"
"Fried potatoes," Peter supplied around a mouthful of pancakes.
"Ah. Yeah, that's basically what they are, just... shredded instead of sliced."
"It's good for the texture," Natasha decided, nodding. "I will have to try my hand at these at home."
"The base never had very exciting foods, so we try to eat something nice on every mission, and now that we're out, Mama really wants to learn to cook more things," Peter explained excitedly. "She's really good at it. Even if she wasn't, it would beat having borscht all the time." He rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Don't exaggerate," she said, ruffling his hair. "We only had borscht every week, not every day."
"Twice a week, usually," he grumbled, ducking away and swatting at her hands. "I'm just saying your cooking is better."
"When did you even have time to learn to cook?" Clint asked, genuinely curious.
"Oh, I had a long-term cover as a Russian housewife who had grown up poor, but had a chance to train at the Bolshoi," she began, shrugging. "They just implanted the backstory and all necessary associated skills in my head, so I know how to make all the traditional dishes."
Clint was deeply perturbed, but he tried to play it off like it wasn't that weird or horrifying. "Huh. I had to go undercover as a diving instructor once and they only gave me a handful of one hour classes on how to not die while doing it."
"Well at least you succeeded in doing that much," she remarked with a twinkle in her eye. He could read the look under the look that said she knew exactly how he felt about the brainwashing thing, but she looked grateful not to have to get into it rather than angry for being judged, so yay. "Did you blow your cover by not knowing anything?"
"Not until it was time to arrest the guy, but yeah. He caught on when I called the mask a 'fancy snorkel,' I think."
Peter laughed at him. "That would do it."
Making their way out of the shopping district took longer than expected because they paused to buy some clothes for Peter to wear to school— ones that didn't look so much like tactical gear. He gravitated towards jeans and science T-shirts, and picked out one pair of red and blue sneakers. Clothes shopping t seemed to make him happier than it made most kids, and that was fair, since he likely hadn't ever been given much choice in what he wore. Clint carried the bags like a dutiful mall husband, just standing back and letting these two enjoy their first taste of freedom.
Peter came to a dead halt by the Lego store and actually pressed himself against the window at the front, starry-eyed. Clint came up beside him and crouched down to his level.
"You like Legos?"
He nodded vigorously. "I haven't been able to play with them for years, but they're the best."
"We can stop by after we find a place to live," Natasha said gently. "I know it's disappointing to wait, but there's not really room to build in the SHIELD quarters. Once we have a space of our own, you can go nuts at the Lego store and get every set your heart desires. Fill the whole apartment with Lego creations."
Peter grinned eagerly and accepted this with grace. "Okay. I've waited this long. What's a few more days?"
They moved on to looking at schools in the city, and Natasha had already done some research, so they had a whole list of schools to visit all over the boroughs. After about ten places that were just okay, they found the place that was perfect for Peter. It was a science magnet school in Midtown that went from sixth grade to high school, and it had decent security and excellent facilities. The teachers that they met all passed Natasha's rigorous examination, even if they looked a little scared at her intense staring and blunt questions. Peter seemed to take a real shine to the place, so it was decided.
They took the paperwork with them to lunch, Natasha filling it out and posing the occasional question to Clint while Peter ate all of his adult sized meal and stole some of Natasha's french fries, which she allowed graciously. She drew the line at milkshake theft and lightly slapped his hand away without looking up. They had Peter registered by afternoon, so they had the rest of the day to just explore the city. For some reason, Peter hesitated outside of Queens with a look between foreboding and longing.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," Natasha assured him, stroking his hair. "I'm with you either way."
He shook his head and turned into her embrace, letting her hold him in the middle of the sidewalk. "I'm not ready yet. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, little spider. Don't be sorry." She kissed his head and then tugged his hand to lead him in another direction.
Clint didn't verbalize a question, just shot a look at Natasha. She murmured, "Bad memories. We don't talk about it." He left it at that.
They kept walking, and Peter's spirits gradually lifted. They finished off the day on a high note, and the following day of looking at apartments had no such disquieting moments. They found a nice but modest place for them that even had an extra room for Peter to make into a lab slash Lego room. Clint helped them move their minimal stuff in for moral support more than anything, and made them promise to bring him to the Lego store tomorrow when they went after work and school. He kind of wanted to go because Legos were cool, but mostly to see the look on Peter's face at the freedom to go wild in the Lego store.
"Do you think I'll do okay at school?" he asked Clint nervously. "Will the other kids like me?"
"Not all of them, but that's life, kid," he told him honestly. "The ones that matter will. The ones with good taste. You're gonna do great, Peter."
He hugged Clint at the knees, which made him smile. "Thanks. Look out for Mama tomorrow, okay?"
"Promise," he said, fist bumping him. "I look forward to hearing all about your day."
Peter nodded and darted off to his new bedroom to decide how he wanted to decorate it now that he could. Natasha stayed with Clint at the doorway, giving him a searching look.
"Thank you," she told him. "For being kind to Peter, and for giving us this chance. All I want is for him to have a chance to be a normal kid after all the bullshit he's been through. You did what most people in your position wouldn't have, and as much as I hate to admit it, I owe you. I have your back, too."
"Good to know," he said, offering a handshake.
She used it to pull him closer, and she asked in a barely audible murmur, "Do you really trust me?"
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I'm willing to give you a chance to let me learn to. I don't know what your word is worth, but I believe you deserve the opportunity to demonstrate it. Think of it as probational trust."
"I'll take it," she accepted. "I must warn you that my trust may be harder to earn simply because I haven't had much cause for it in my line of work."
"That's fair," he accepted, shrugging. "See you tomorrow."
She returned the sentiment and watched him leave, sort of wondering if she'd made a mistake in defecting to SHIELD, but mostly glad to finally have space to breathe. She was hopeful that this could be a second chance for them both, a chance for her to wipe the red from her ledger and for Peter to get a real childhood. She hoped, and it frustrated her that hoping was all she could do at the moment. But then she saw Peter smile at her from the doorway of his new bedroom and she thought that maybe hope could be enough for now.