It's too early when she wakes- she isn't due at SHIELD Headquarters for hours. The sky is still that deep black of the dead of night and the birds are silent, sleeping. She runs a hand through her sleep mussed hair and sighs, kicking off the blanket before throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She sits there for a moment, clad only in an old t-shirt, and peers around her room as she tries to desperately ignore the demons in her head trying to escape, threats manifesting eerily in the shadows. Liho meows in annoyance at the disturbance from the end of the bed, arching up and sending her a dirty look before leaping off, striding away with her tail held high.
"Не будь таким ворчликом." [Don't be such a grump] Natalia grumbles, a bit grumpy herself. She follows Liho's lead out of the bedroom, easily navigating her home in the dark. She could do it blindfolded. She has before.
It's a rarity for the redhead to get a full night of sleep, her past tending to surface through dreams of torture- her own and that which she's inflicted on others. She really should be used to the sleep deprivation, and yet here she is, walking around her apartment in the dark and muttering angrily in her native Russian every time her cat lets out an annoyed meow. She enjoys getting to speak her first language, it isn't something she gets to do very often anymore. Americans don't look too fondly on Russians- even if the Cold War is technically over- including her friends. Tony would make some snarky comment about 'Soviets' and Steve would give her his usual 'English please'. She knows they don't like to be reminded of her roots, of the red in ledger, so she did what she does best- she assimilated to her surroundings. She snarked with Tony, and she teased Steve. She flirted with Bruce and rolled her eyes at Thor's never ending optimism. And eventually, she realized that she truly cares for these boys… they've become her family.
But Natasha is nothing if not a realist, and she knows she will never quite be the hero type. She's an assassin, a spy. She seduces, tortures, and kills on the regular. She might be working for the United States rather than the Russians, but she's still a tool used by a government organization to do their dirty work. Nothing has changed in that regard. Loki wasn't too far off when he'd said she's a liar and a killer in the employment of liars and killers. And, while Clint might understand to some degree, and she'd never deny how close they've become, she's still alone in this country. The only person who's ever understood, who'd been there and seen it, who'd ever truly loved her the way she needs to be loved- wholly, for her darkness as well as her light- had been ripped away cruelly.
She quickly switches her train of thought, as remembering her soldat is always a dark path to go down. He's gone. It's over. She's moved on, she has. She pulls open a kitchen cabinet door with a tad more force than is necessary before snatching out her favourite box of tea. Tea after nightmares is actually a ritual that Clint had started during those first few nights after SHIELD recruited her. She would wake up covered in sweat, letting out a shout, and Clint would appear with a mug of tea and a friendly smile. His kindness was something she wasn't used to and didn't trust, but the tea had smelled phenomenal.
Liho rubs against her legs, purring, as Natalia- no, Natasha- steeps her tea bag, the red head smiling fondly down at her truest companion. "Теперь ты хочешь быть дружелюбным, да?" [Now you want to be friendly, huh?] She laughs and bends down to give the cat a loving stroke before moving to her balcony doors with a sigh. It's no use trying to go back to sleep, years of experience has taught her that, so her only option is to wait until it's an appropriate time to start her day.
She watches the sun rise over the horizon from her terrace, her mug of tea gripped tightly in her hands, before moving to begin her morning routine. The door creaks as she moves back into the apartment- a built in alarm system she's chosen to keep- with Liho following her into the barre room. It had taken years for her to pick ballet up again after defecting from the KGB. It's something beautiful that had been turned ugly, used to break her down and mold her into the Red Room's idea of the perfect assassin. Graceful, deceptively delicate, completely in tune with her body. Now, rather than serving as a tool to control her, it serves as a reminder of her strength, of what she's survived, and an escape from her life. It's easy to lose herself in the motions, the stretching, the music. To simply glide and leap across the floor, creating something beautiful with her body rather than something bloody. She has reclaimed one of the Red Room's weapons for herself, and she does so every morning.
The sound of pointe shoes against the floor echoes amongst orchestral music throughout her apartment for an hour, shutting off at precisely 6:00 am. She stretches languidly for fifteen minutes, loosening the tension in her muscles, before she strides freshly barefoot into the bathroom for a shower. The days she's expected at SHIELD Headquarters she has a schedule down to the second, while inside of her apartment anyhow. Her path to the actual headquarters varies from day to day in absolutely no pattern, years of paranoia dictating her travels and years of strict regimen developed in the Red Room ruling her home. Thus, her apartment is scarily tidy, and has a go bag and weapons stashed in every room. She lives as if she has a drill sergeant in her head, which she guesses she pretty much does. Madame is capable of popping up at any moment.
'Natalia, you're running late. Unacceptable.'
'It was only three seconds, Madame.' Slap.
'Do not question me, girl. To the Black Room with you.'
That isn't to say she's incapable of throwing away her schedule at any moment. Her very survival depends on her ability to improvise, to adjust to any scenario and come out on top. She's prepared to reinvent her entire life at any moment for any reason, don't let the regiment fool you.
She dresses quickly in civilian wear- a pair of dark wash jeans, her favorite red tank top, and a hoodie she'd stolen from Clint at some point- and is on the road by 7:30 on her way to Headquarters. It takes her half an hour to pull into the frustratingly slow, and ineffective, security checkpoint. She taps impatiently on her steering wheel as the guard peers down at her badge like he hasn't seen it a hundred times in the past, brows furrowed and his eyes darting between her and the photo.
"Here you go, Agent Romanoff." She nods as she takes the badge back before pulling through the checkpoint without another word. Security increases tenfold on actual SHIELD property, armed men milling about and cameras perched at every vantage point. She'd made it a point when she'd first been recruited to show Fury how useless SHIELD's security really was when pitted against someone with any amount of training in stealth rather than simply brute force.
She'd popped up in restricted areas and stolen classified files, much to the Head of Security's increasing frustration. The man's patience had run out when Natasha broke into not only his own office, but his encrypted files, and he'd stormed into Fury's office with a blazing fury.
He'd found the Director of SHIELD reclined in the leather chair behind his desk, peering at him with a quirked eyebrow and the red headed agent in question leaning leisurely against the wall of windows behind him.
"You!" He'd shouted, jabbing his finger angrily in her direction and his face turning the color of a pomegranate. "She is a liability, Director! I've told you this a dozen times. She's broken into every restricted area and file in the entire compound despite multiple warnings! She cannot be trusted and I must insist she be arrested in accordance with SHIELD protocols!"
"I can assure you, Franklin," Fury'd began, leaning forward to rest his arms atop his desk. "Agent Romanoff is not the liability here, your shitty security is." The Head of Security spluttered, his fists clenching and releasing in frustration.
"We never had any problems until you brought a Russian killer into our midst!"
"Agent Romanoff is the wake up call we, apparently, desperately needed. If she can continuously break past your security, what's to keep our enemies from doing the same?"
"Precisely my point." Natasha pushed off the window wall and stalked predatorily around the desk, leaning back against it as she pierced Franklin with a calculating look. "I tried to approach you with my ideas when I was first recruited, you refused to listen. What's a girl to do?" She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and smirked. "I seem to have your attention now." The man continued to stammer and breathe heavily, chest heaving in anger. It was apparent to everyone in the room that Natasha had won.
While both Nat and Fury knew she'd simply wanted to reduce the risk to their organization caused by Franklin's lax security, something she felt was a part of her duty to SHIELD, Franklin could only see this as her attempting to make him look bad in front of the Director. Maybe the Russian wanted his job, maybe she was just a bitch, either way he wouldn't tolerate it.
"Director Fury, surely you can see how ridiculous this all is. You choose to bring in a Russian spy and assassin, who then proceeds to break every rule, every protocol, in the book and make an absolute mockery of our organization, only for you to then side with said Russian! She is a danger not only to everyone in this building, but the entire country! As your Head of Security I must insist that she be detained."
"And as Director, I must insist that you do your goddamn job." He stood roughly, nearly knocking his chair to the floor as he did so. "Agent Romanoff here has done us a favor. She's proven that your security measurements aren't all that secure, now are they? So," he sat back down, folding his hands behind his head in faux relaxation, "you're going to take her suggestions and apply them. You two are going to have this motherfucker more secure than the goddamn White House, got it?" The little man had shot Natasha a final harsh glare before agreeing and scurrying from the room, the redhead watching him go with a smirk.
SHIELD Headquarters is bustling as she steps in through the main entrance, lower level agents scurrying around and the sound of chatter echoing throughout the large room. Her sensible sneakers squeak obnoxiously a bit as she walks (they're new), and she can tell which agents are fresh out of the academy because they stop and stare at her as she struts by, still too much in awe to be afraid. The more experienced agents tend to avoid her like the plague, most even refusing to make eye contact- not that she's complaining. She's perfectly content with the amount of personal relationships she already has, she doesn't have a desire for any more. Especially now that she has Steve to keep her company when Clint is either on a solo mission or home with his family.
About a month ago Fury had started partnering Steve and Natasha together for missions along with their own STRIKE team. And, despite her reservations seeing as Steve is a total Boy Scout and she's a trained killer, they actually make one hell of a team. They work together with a harmony and efficiency that makes any task simple; missions that would've taken her a week to accomplish on her own get done in a night with Steve at her side. She hasn't worked so well with someone other than Clint since her Soviet days with her Солдат (soldier/ phonetically= soldat). The Солдат and the Паук (spider) had been lethal individually, but together they'd decimated anyone in their path, violently tearing through targets in the name of Mother Russia. They had been an incredibly well oiled machine, and her and Steve operate with a similar symmetry- only with less torture and seduction. At least on Steve's part.
She snorts at that thought, shaking her head in amusement. She isn't sure if Steve truly doesn't know what she has to do for some of their missions to succeed, or if he just prefers to live in a forced blissful ignorance, but she has a feeling it's the former. Steve has morals stronger than the vibranium his shield is made out of, surely he would have protested very loudly before now if he knew what she sometimes required to do to ensure their victories.
"Romanoff." Her head snaps to the side when Victoria Hand calls her name, her left brow raising in question. "Fury wants to see you in his office." She nods once in understanding before striding off towards the elevator. They must have a mission.
She steps into the elevator and doesn't look away from Hand, who's still staring at her for some reason, as she calmly instructs it where to take her. "Director's Office." The doors slide closed with the stereotypical ding, Natasha not moving a muscle as the elevator rises above an unreasonable amount of floors. She isn't the biggest fan of elevators, if you get caught in one during a fight your options and movements are incredibly restricted.
The elevator dings once again before the doors slide smoothly open, revealing the hallway that leads to Fury's office. There's a number of other doors that she passes, Maria Hill's office tucked away behind one of them, and one closing off the office that used to belong to Phil Coulson. A pang goes through her chest as she walks by it despite the fact that she's gone past the door more than what had to be a hundred times since Loki had killed him. Her eyes stay steadfastly focused on Fury's door, ignoring the office that has remained empty since her friend's death.
She knocks once sharply and then waits, fifteen seconds passing before Nick calls out for her to enter. "Come in, Romanoff." She pushes the door open and steps inside, swinging the door closed behind her with a decisive click while her eyes run over his face analytically, searching for any sign of emotion- signs she knows won't be there.
"You wanted to see me, sir." Her voice is as even as her face, betraying nothing except a small amount of curiosity, as she stands with her hands behind her back and her feet shoulder width apart. She doesn't need the mask with Fury, she knows that. He's one of the few people that she truly trusts, that she truly loves. He's as much her family as the Bartons are. However, it seems almost habitual to slip it on when she enters the Triskelion, instinctual. Fury's the same way, she knows, the walls come with the territory of espionage.
He smirks a little at her formality and gestures at one of the chairs positioned across from his desk, his one eyebrow raising and his hand coming to touch the tip of his chin as he leans back in his own oversized chair. "I have a mission I need you and Rodgers on." She doesn't respond, simply leaning back herself and crossing her arms, her own eyebrows rising in question. "One of our ships has fallen to pirates and our agents are being held hostage in demand for money. You and Rodgers are going to lead the STRIKE team to take back the ship and free our agents."
She shrugs a single soldier. "Sounds simple enough." Her eyes narrow his way, knowing there's more or he wouldn't have asked her here and, whatever it is, she has a feeling that Steve won't like it otherwise he would've been included in the conversation. A few moments of heavy silence pass as the two spies take each other's expressions in, communicating without talking, before Nick carries on.
"Rodgers' mission will be to rescue the hostages, but your's will be to save the SHIELD intel stored on the ship's servers." He opens the top right drawer of his desk and pulls out a small black thumb drive that Nat knows probably has all kinds of encryptions embedded on it to protect the information she'll be uploading onto it. He twists it around for a few moments, both elbows now resting on the desktop as he leans forward, before his eye darts up to stare at her seriously. "You'll upload everything you can get your hands on onto this and then bring it straight to me. No one is to know about this. Is that clear, Agent Romanoff?"
She nods once and then rolls onto her feet. "Yes sir."
He nods back and reaches forward to hand her the drive, Nat plucking it from between his fingers and slipping it into the pocket of her black leather jacket. "Go pick up Rodgers, he's on his morning jog at the Washington Monument. There's a car for you all ready to go in the garage."
She nods and gives him a small smile, that familiar buzz of excitement she always gets before a mission like this begins to buzz through her veins and across her skin. "Yes sir."
"You better come back safe, Natasha."
Her smile turns confident and crooked, her green eyes sparkling. "This is far from the most dangerous mission I've been sent on. I'll bring you that intel, Nick, and then I think you still owe me a drink." She turns to leave, red hair that's now straight, and quite a bit lighter, spinning around her shoulders as she does. Fury barks out a laugh and leans back in his chair once more, pressing the tips of his fingers together when she turns to look at him over her shoulder at the sound.
"You cheat at poker, Romanoff, so I don't think I do."
She snickers and smirks at him, neither confirming nor denying the accusation, before striding from the room and closing the door behind her. It's fifty two steps to the elevator, her shoes squeaking annoyingly the whole way. She's going to have to chuck these, they're not conducive to stealth and, even though she'd never wear them on a mission, she never knows when an enemy she's made- whether with SHIELD or the KGB- will come after her. The last thing she needs is for that to happen while she's wearing shoes that'll give away her position.
She presses the button to call the elevator and waits patiently, her mind whirring as it tries to solve the puzzle Fury has just presented her with. Why would Nick- the Director of SHIELD- need to have an agent sneak onto his own boat and steal his own information. Everything about this screams shady and paranoia had radiated off of Fury when she was in his office. He shouldn't need to steal his own intel back, and Natasha just knows somehow that whatever she's going to be uploading to that drive is something dangerous, something that could get both her and Fury killed. If she didn't know Fury so well she'd be worried… and suspicious.
The elevator ride down to the garage is silent, her contemplation only interrupted when, at the third floor, the doors slide open and a lower level agent steps on, eyes darting to and from her nervously from the corner of his eye. Natasha smirks at his tense body language, the anxious shifting of his weight from foot to foot, and his timid gaze. He's young, still practically a kid, and has to be fresh out of the academy. He practically scampers from the elevator when the doors open on the ground floor, not looking back at her once as he disappears from view and the doors slide closed behind him.
She huffs in relief when the elevator opens up to the garage and she steps out, scanning the area for whatever car Fury has ready for her. She smirks when her eyes settle on the black Corvette Stingray parked nearby, the engine left running. There's no concern of it being stolen in a secure SHIELD garage, not to mention the fact that it's rigged up with about three different GPS locating systems.
Natasha loves cars, her and Stark having bonded over fast and outrageously expensive vehicles on more than one occasion, and Fury knows this. He never fails to provide her with the nicest ones when the mission allows for it, a definite show of favoritism but neither spy cares, and today is no exception. She stands there admiring it for just a moment before walking around to the driver's side door, a single finger trailing along the smooth metal as she goes. The door swings open and she settles into the cool, black leather seat with a satisfied grin. She leans back into it, running her hands along the steering wheel in an almost caress, and allows herself thirty seconds to appreciate the beast of a car before forcing herself to refocus on picking up her teammate. She doesn't buckle up as she puts the car in reverse, a habit formed after years of being ready to make a hasty exit, and zooms from the garage way faster than she should.