Author's Note: I've always wanted to, and failed, to create a teenage Avengers fic, and this the mess that it turned into.

Characters: Phil, Fury, Natasha

Warnings: Some gore

Written: 2017 some time. :)

Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

Phil lets out a slow breath trying to remind himself, desperately, that giving the agent in front of him a throttle (no matter how appealing) won't solve anything. New recruits usually don't bother him, he loves to play with their minds and make them think they're winning when he's already won the war; but man, this particular agent is driving him insane.

His arrogance, cockiness and all around stupidity is going to get him killed and no matter how much Phil tries to patiently explain that to the man, it's hopeless. Phil wants to grab at his short hair and give a firm pull then pull on them some more because he honestly cannot take it anymore.

The man seems to think that he knows literally everything and people should bow down and kiss his feet then stare in awe at his perfectly gelled hair. Agent Tyson Green, twenty eight, dark hair, obnoxiously blue eyes and excellent hacking skills. Managed through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most secure files and yes, well impressive, didn't do wonders for the agent's around Green. His ego, however, is very happy.

Phil is a man who attempts to think the best of people at a first glance (with few exceptions), but this man, has tested, snapped, and laughed on the grave of his patience. Does Tyson even realize how obnoxious it is to boast that he, and he alone managed through all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most secure files? In a mission of life or death when a bullet may change the course of everything telling everyone how amazing he is at hacking won't do anything. Unless Tyson plans on driving everyone crazy by simply not shutting his trap.

Does he even have a silent mode? Stealth must be nigh impossible for this man because you have to be quiet well doing it. It's ridiculous, Phil's going to lose his mind before he gets a new group of people to work with. Why did he agree to this? Everyone told him this group is impossible but he doubted and snorted then said that he can beat them into shape. Oh, the arrogance. Note to self: listen to fellow trainers.

Phil closes his eyes softly and pinches the bridge of his nose as Tyson continues to talk. He's been...firmly saying that he's prepared for the next level on the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s training base and explaining why he's the man for the next mission. It's not a surprise to Phil that Tyson knows about the mission; he is, as Tyson keeps reminding them all "the best hacker S.H.I.E.L.D. has" it's just that Tyson isn't ready for the level that the mission is. Fury's been carefully selecting people for months after Maria dropped her undercover act to report to him.

Something about pirating trade of leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons that needs to be shut down immediately. Phil hasn't been requested on the team yet, but he's slightly expecting it. He will not, however, go with Tyson. He's trying really, really hard to not lose his stoic, calm, and patient outward demeanor but he's pretty sure that Tyson hasn't done anything harder than deciding what to have for breakfast yet.

He's really not ready for this type of mission and Phil isn't quite sure how to tell him. Phil releases his nose from the death grip he has on it and slowly peels his eyelids apart to stare at the man who is incapable of shutting up in front of him.

Tyson is talking with a no-nonsense tone, though Phil admittedly isn't trying to hard to understand what he's saying, more trying to figure out how it is that Tyson actually managed to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s data banks. He's smart, insanely smart but there's a level of annoying that Phil can stand and Tyson...Tyson has rocketed above it.

"...All I'm saying is that, with my level of experience in the computer, I would be perfect for the mission, Coulson. I could track the hacker's with my hands tied behind my back. You have to let me go, let me prove myself to Fury that I'm ready for a higher form of missions. These stupid training exercises are getting me nowhere, I have to be out on the field and-"

Phil's calm expression finally snaps and he raises an eyebrow. Tyson, who's been staring at his face unbreakably and talking for the last seven minutes-not pausing for breath comes to a slow halt. Ah, silence. Phil remembers it well. It's a truly beautiful thing. He should take moments out of every day just to appreciate the beauty of quiet.

"Sir?" Tyson asks, slightly hesitantly.

Phil folds his arms across his chest and lets out a breath before answering the man, "Agent Green, I understand your desperation to get out on the mission field but going with this reckless desire to prove yourself will only get you killed."

"But-" Tyson protests his eyebrows raising in distress so much they almost launch off of his face.

"Tyson," Phil says. The word comes out slightly harsher than he intended but the man silences. "You haven't even passed the training exercises for your level yet. They're there for a reason, you have to be prepared for what these things will throw at you. It's not like training, alright? The bad guys don't stop if you get hurt and you're not ready for a field mission." Phil rests a hand on Tyson's shoulder, "You're smart, Tyson, we all know that," a little too well, "and I know that you want to prove yourself to Fury. I can't, however, let you go on this mission without you being prepared for what might happen. Alright? Do you understand?"

Tyson's shoulder's slump and he releases a heavy breath. "Yes, Sir."

"Good." Phil says and releases the man's shoulder.

Tyson looks up at him, "But sir, I really think that if I could just try-"

"Agent Green, I said no." Phil interrupts, "You want confirmation? Talk to Fury."

Tyson looks at him like he might argue and for a total of three seconds Phil is almost one hundred percent sure that he's going to punch him but Tyson unclenches his fists and raises his head. "You'll see that I'm ready someday-and you'll regret holding me back." The agent storms down the hall and into a room and though Phil have expects him to childishly slam the door, he doesn't.

Heaving a sigh, Phil shakes his head back and forth staring at the empty hallway resisting the urge to smack his head against the wall. "I seriously doubt it." He mumbles to himself. Why are Level Two agents so impulsively stupid? Every. Time. Those are the ones that are the most trouble; One is cautious, careful and memorizes almost everything and can recite it back to you perfectly, three is when they start sending them out onto the field and they mature greatly but Two? Two is when they get cocky, think they're ready for everything and anything and most try to force themselves onto missions. Needless to say, it doesn't end well.

"I wonder if he realizes that my office is the other direction." Phil spins around hand flying to his gun in surprise at the voice. How he'd missed the steps are beyond him, he's just so frustrated with Tyson that he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings and now-oh. It's just Fury. Even if he had been paying attention he probably wouldn't have heard him.

Phil lets out a soft groan and shoves his gun back into it's holster. "Who knows? Sometimes I wonder."

Fury smirks, "That Green? I've heard a lot about him from his superiors."

Phil face palms, "I doubt their words even come close." He's not sure whether to scream in frustration or follow after Tyson to make sure that he doesn't actually manage to get himself aboard the mission. If Tyson is skilled in one thing beyond hacking it's driving people to their knees in frustration. The man just hits a nerve.

"You here with a mission, Sir?" Coulson asks having to put far more effort into keeping his voice level than normal. He's been expecting it, Fury usually pulls him in on the more difficult missions. He's been called his "good eye" quite a few times and Phil is admittedly proud of it. However, Green will never shut up about the fact that he went on the mission and could have kept an eye on him.

"Yes," Fury says and Phil turns to look at the director keeping eye contact with him. Fury puts a hand on Phil's shoulder, "I want you to take a few days off."

Phil struggles to keep his jaw from falling. This isn't what he expected. He's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, running mission after mission without breaks is sort of part of the job description. He's taken days off, yeah, but usually only after he was severely injured and had to. He doesn't just...take breaks. He hasn't since he was a Level Four or something. It's been years. "Sir, I'm not sure that I-" Phil starts to protest but Fury gives him the look. It amazes him, sometimes, that the director can literally say things with his eyebrows. He's had full conversations with them. Currently it's a shut-up-and-stop-talking look.

"I know you've been working hard recently, Coulson. You're wearing yourself thin. From the looks of it, you might've tasered Green." Fury says and Phil pales slightly.

"You saw the whole thing?"

"No," Fury admits and Phil can't stop the small rush of relief that crashes through him. "But I saw enough. Just three days, alright? I'll call you if I need you to come in but go watch movies for seventy two hours or something." Fury commands.

Phil wants to protest, childishly stomp his feet and yell that he wants to come on the mission but he doesn't. "Yes, Sir. But what about Maria's mission? I can take the break after."

"I'm going in." Fury says and Phil bites his lip. It's really serious then, Fury goes on missions, but only when he needs to. He typically guides everyone to where they need to go and watches from the background like a one-eyed, deadly shadow. Maybe he should just sneak aboard the craft, they might need him. He can't sit and do nothing well they all risk their lives.

"I know what you're thinking, Coulson and no, you aren't coming." Fury says and Phil runs a hand through his hair.

"I can't just sit and do nothing." Phil argues.

"You can, and you will. Now go, I don't want to see your face until Friday." Fury commands and Phil frowns before giving a sigh of defeat. Turning, Phil schools his frustrated expression before walking forward. Fine, Fury can ban him from this mission but the next one he's coming even if he has to strap himself to the bottom of the jet the whole journey there.
Phil walks through the base and apparently did a bad job at keeping his face blank because people all but leap out his way looking terrified. Phil doesn't really focus on them, more so on getting out because he just wants to get to his apartment and throw something. He knows that Fury's doing this to help him, let him catch his breath after running a long race but it just makes him angry. He's perfectly capable of helping just as much as the next one. He suddenly realizes exactly how Green feels.

But unlike Tyson, he can help. But he isn't allowed to. Ugh!

Phil finally leaves his thoughts enough to focus on something other than the fact that he feels utterly useless and can't do anything about it when he steps into the streets of New York. The buildings are rising around him, glowing like phantom mirrors; cars are passing like colorful wind and the air smells like pollution and dirt.

Phil moves forward shoving his hands into his pockets shifting his fingers around the devices within. A handful of weapons, a few trackers and a phone. It's somewhere near eight probably closer to nine PM and he's subconsciously aware that he's at risk of getting mugged. He'd love to see them try though.

Phil grits his teeth and walks for somewhere near and hour before he can see the apartment building. It looks like a pile of rocks bonded together and had hideous children. An ugly shade of red with a yellow border that reminds him strongly of ketchup and mustard spread across the bricks like paint. The inside is much nicer, it's definitely a don't judge by it's appearance kinda thing. He wasn't impressed when he first saw it. Though he's only been a handful of times in the last few months and owned the apartment for years he still is in awe by just how hideous it is.

He has the key, right? Phil pauses next to the building digging his hands through the pockets almost frantically. Because if it's not on him right now he can't get into the building because Fury doesn't want him back at base until Friday. Maybe he could call and explain that he lost his key and Fury has to take him with him.

Probably not.

Oh, this is stupid. He's a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, prepared for anything right? Nope, not for getting inside his apartment. Who needs that right? Housing is lame. Ugh! He never takes the key out of his pocket how is there anyway it could disappear? If one of the Level Two agents stole it, Phil is coming after them and will make Darth Vader look cuddly.

This is embarrassing and stupid. Where is the key!?

Phil jerks his head upwards suddenly as a low metallic ting echoes through the air. His hand immediately goes to the gun he has on hidden on his belt and he squints at the darkness in front of him. There's a dark alleyway between his apartment building and a car garage (the car garage looks like a five star hotel compared to the apartment, it's almost ridiculous. The designers must get a kick whenever they come down this street) where dumpsters are. Phil hasn't really thought about it until now but his paranoia is rising like a steady tide and he frowns before moving forward slowly.

His footsteps are silent across the dirty sidewalk and he breaks off from it standing in front of the alley. His silhouette spreads across the ground making it harder to see and Phil squints into the darkness. He can make out the outline of the green dumpster and the lonely looking boxes next to it. Not cats. Isn't there always cats around these areas in movies?

Phil shoves the thought to the side and takes a step forward again. He did hear something. He's positive, if it wasn't a cat, what was it? Maybe Fury's right, he does need a break and he's trying to attack imaginary animals and shadows for things that don't even exist. Phil sighs and gives the bridge of his nose a firm pinch.

"You're losing it, Coulson." He mumbles to himself. He should just go ask for the spare key that the people at the front desk kept for him. Or maybe he has the spare key, well...had. He can't remember. Phil turns to live pocketing the gun but freezes as a low moan of pain sings through the alleyway like lightning ripping across the skies.

He whips around suddenly far more interested in the alley than he was before and strides forward keeping a hand within reaching distance of his gun. This could be a trap and he doesn't want to be caught without a way to cut the net.

Phil reaches the end of the alley before he sees something in the darkness, the streetlights don't reach out this far and everything is blanketed in dark shadows. He blinks several times trying to will his eyes to adjust faster but it's not working.

A shadow doesn't look right among the darkness, oddly out of place like mold on a piece bread. Discarded blankets, maybe. Possibly trash left out for an unfortunate soul to trip on. Phil leans down slightly and his eyebrows shoot upwards as he realizes this isn't a lump of blankets or trash, it's a person.

Phil leans down grabbing his phone from his pocket and flipping the screen open. The light immediately blasts into the alleyway with the full intensity of a star going supernova and Phil winces slightly as his eyes mewl in protest. Phil ignores his instincts staring at the figure in front of him.

It's a young woman, sixteen or fifteen at the most, with long red hair tangled into a bun and falling down her back in a mess of rats. Her clothing is simple, dark pants with a pale grey shirt. Wrapped around her middle is a belt with a red hourglass in the center. On her feet are a simple pair of ballerina slippers that are well worn through and stained. Phil frowns at her appearance. She looks horribly sick, pale and is bleeding badly across her left arm in a gash that extends from her shoulder to a little bit above her elbow. She looks like a porcelain doll that even the most gentle of touches will shatter.

Phil grits his teeth tightly, he should call in S.H.I.E.L.D., but he's banned from contacting them or showing his face for three days. What if he'd been attacked or something, did Fury even think this through? Or what if he finds a near dead teenanger in the streets between his ugly apartment and the glorious parking garage?

What is he supposed to do? He's not a medical doctor and judging from her appearance she needs one desperately. He's trained in medical procedures, of course, he's supposed to be ready for anything-but this seems far above his level. Phil purses his lips. He has to do something, he's not going to leave her out here to die and the only medical equipment he has is in his apartment.

Phil glances at the set of stairs for the fire escape on the back of the building then back at the ballerina. Hopefully no one is looking out their window right now or it will be awkward to explain. Yeah, I just carry random unconscious half dead people into my apartment every now and thing, no biggie.

Phil's attention returns to his charge as the woman lets out another soft groan her fingers curling into fists slowly. Is she waking up? She doesn't look like she's waking up. No, she's not waking up, just shifting because of pain. Alrighty then. Phil slowly shifts his hands underneath her knees and shoulders picking her up bridal style.

The teenanger is extremily light, alarmilnly so and Phil bites his lower lip before looking towards the fire escape with purpose. He's going to make it up the stairs to his apartment and help this girl. He has a few days off from S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway, because of his banishment so he has time to help her.

Phil moves forward towards the fire escape and swings a leg over the railing to the fence around the escape hopping awkwardly on the other foot to get both his feet over it. Phil quickly scales the stairs as if he's done it a thousand times even though he never has and gives a small frustrated breath as he realizes that he still doesn't know where he put his key.

Fine, he's picking the door. Phil slowly sets the girl down on the wall next to said door and her head leans forward tilting towards the left slightly. Phil grabs a long string of wire he has in sewn into his right boot and shoves the thin metal into the lock and twists it upwards then to the side. The lock gives a small hiss as it opens and Phil gives a small smirk of satisfaction. Ha, Coulson one, lock zero.

Phil turns back to the teenager and his smirk falls. He needs to get her help right now. The wounds look serious. Phil picks her up again and steps into the apartment sideways shutting the door with his foot as he elbows the light on.

The apartment isn't huge, with a kitchen, dining and living room in the a large single space with a hall leading off to a bathroom and bedroom. He hasn't had a ton of time to decreate it, (nor has he really cared) so it's pathetically bare.

Phil moves forward and sets the teen on the couch and moves towards the kitchen ripping open a drawer that promptly dumps a package of bandages, a bottle of motrin and glue on the ground. The drawer is stuffed, ridiculously so and Phil digs through continents looking for disinfectant and a roll of gauze.

Come on, there's some in here, he used it last time he was here. He should have some, well he doesn't go grocery shopping often and usually has moldy, lumpy milk in the fridge he always keeps his medical supplies up to date. His fingers brush against fabric and Phil latches onto it ripping it from the back of the drawer and dumping more medical supplies at his feet. Ignoring the mess, Phil moves forward towards his patient with purpose making it across the room in a few strides.

The light blue walls reflect the light making it feel brighter than it really is and the red carpet stands out obnoxiously against his black boots. He really does need to find his house key though, if he has to break into his apartment every time he needs to come here, life will be...difficult.

Phil reaches the girl and leans down next to her crumpled form. In the not phone-light he can see the shadows etched beneath her eyes like bruises, how exhausted she looks even though she's asleep (unconscious maybe) and how pale she is. What happened to her is beyond him. Maybe she was mugged. Her appearance suggests otherwise, though. She looks homeless, akin to having lived off the streets for several years.

Phil clenches his jaw and rolls up her light grey sleeve to her shoulder to stare at the cut closer. It's from a knife, that much is obvious and it's deep. Phil rips off a bit of the gauze and dabs disinfectant on it before gently brushing it over the wound.

As soon as the fabric makes contact with her pale skin, the teen inhales sharply and green eyes rip open as her posture jumps into defensive. Her breaths become short, swift and shaky and Phil forces his hand to remain steady about an inch next to her upper arm watching her for another moment. She's remaining still and her eyes are wide, terrified and locked to the ceiling.

She seems entranced by it, but not in a good way. He needs to bring her back to reality to get some answers.

"Hey," Phil says gently and she jerks her emerald eyes towards his face instead. Confusion plays across her features before her expression goes blank and she grows stiff. Phil frowns slightly at the action. She's been trained in the art of masking. It isn't some sort of reflex, it's branded into her brain. "It's okay, you're safe here." He adds softly. He commands his voice to be inviting and gentle, reassuring. Who knows what this girl has been through. He's seem plenty of people after traumatic experiences to know that yelling at them doesn't help. (Though it doesn't seem like something Tyson wouldn't be above). Ah, shut up.

The girl is eyeing his hand warily and she slowly sits up, looking ready to promptly collapse. He doesn't shift, keeping the distance between them silently letting her know that he's not going to attempt anything on her she doesn't want him to. Because he doesn't want to stress her out more when she already looks more than ready to scream.

"I found you in an alley and you were pretty banged up. Can I help you?" He asks. This apparently, was the wrong thing to say. The girl's eyes widen considerably and she shifts them towards her arm slightly, looking panicked. If she would just let him help her then she wouldn't have to be in so much pain. C'mon kid, he prods silently.

The girl lets out a small sound of distress that reminds Phil oddly of the broken sound a kitten makes when you accidently kick them and his heart yearns for her. "My name is Phil Coulson, but you can just call me Phil, alright?"

The girl doesn't shift or blink, looking frozen on the spot to the couch. "I want to help you." He adds after a moment. He needs to because for some reason she has become his new mission. She needs help and he's going to give it to her. "Will you let me help," he hesitates for a second before adding, "please."

The girl slowly shifts her arm forward as if in a trance and Phil moves towards it. Ha! Yes! Victory! He gently dabs the cloth onto the wound, noting the girls heavy flinch as he makes contact with her skin. She stares at the far wall almost aggressively and Phil is suddenly very aware of the stupid art he has hanging up on it. Nothing too embarrassing, just random gifts that various agents had thought to gift him with over the years. He's never really liked any of them, honestly, but he feels obligated to hang up. There's a few landscapes, a modern art style, and one with an truly hideous, creepy, stalkerish cow. Seriously, the cow makes him uncomfortable.

It's always watching. Waiting for the unsuspecting to turn their back before it takes it's next victim.

Phil finishes wiping away the dirt from the gash and grabs the gauze laying on the floor and rips off another piece far lengthier and wraps it around her arm. Wounding around and around from her shoulder to her elbow before the entire thing is covered. It will scar, for sure, and probably feel like her very own personal shark gnawing at her arm for the next few days but she'll live.

Phil sits back on his heels and looks up at the girl who has carefully laid her hands on her lap looking down at them as if they hold all the world's greatest secrets. Phil wraps up the remaining gauze. He wants to know what happened, why she looks like she just clawed her way out from a grave and why she's here. How she got into the alley and where her parents are. If their still alive, they must be worried.

Phil bites his tongue slightly before letting the question slide off of it, "What's your name?"

The girl looks up at him again and gives a very small tilt of her head, she studies him for almost a full minute before giving a soft answer: "Natasha Romanoff." Her voice is laced with a faint Russian accent and Phil blinks in surprise. This girl isn't from another city or state she's from another continent. Natasha. Phil stares at her for a second, yeah, he can see Natasha. The name suits her well.

Phil squints slightly, "Why are you here?"

Natasha purses her lips and her left hand rubs over her right knuckles so tightly it almost looks painful. "I am...I am here because I ran."

Ran. From what?

Her parents? Her country? What?

"I don't understand." Phil says softly, it's better to be honest when you first meet people, right? He's trying to make her feel safe and lying won't be very helpful in that matter. If she's ever going to tell him anything she has to trust him and he's going to get information on where and why she ran.

"I do not expect you to." Natasha says, her knuckles starting to turn a pale shade of white. "Thank you." She says after a small moment.

Phil gives a small smile, "Happy to be of assistance. Should I call your parents? You're going to be staying the night."

Natasha shakes her head, "I do not have parents." Oh. An orphan. Maybe she ran after they died. "I can manage on my own, however." She makes a move to stand and Phil grabs her shoulder shoving her back down onto the couch. She winces slightly and he grabs the medical equipment.

"Nope, you're staying for at least tonight, alright? I don't know where else you plan on going anyway. I'm going to go grab some blankets and put this away. Do not move from this couch." He commands and rises to his feet. Natasha's hands fall limp her her lap and he can feel her quizzical gaze as he moves away from her as if she doesn't understand the meaning of help.

Phil tosses the gauze onto the counter and sets the bottle of disinfectant next to it before quickly moving towards the bedroom. He flicks on a lightswitch as he steps into the room bare white walls greet him with a window on the left far one. A bed is in the corner and next to it a dresser, the room smells of old and dust and his nose twitches slightly. Yay for dust. Phil saunters forward and leans down grabbing the bottom drawer and pulls it open. He's pretty sure this is where he put the extra blankets it not he's going to be doing a manhunt.

The drawer is, surprisingly full of happy warm blankets and he grabs the first one he sees, a deep red one. He stands and turns shoving the drawer closed with his foot before walking swiftly back into the kitchen/dining room. Hopefully she didn't make a break for it. He'll hunt her down if she did and drag her back here by her ear.

A head of dark red hair greets him from over the side of the couch and the small building anxiety diminishes. Phil walks towards her purposefully making his footsteps heavy and loud before he tosses the blanket at her face. "Here." He says as she jumps from the sudden contact. "We'll talk more in the morning, alright?" He says and the teenager just watches him warily.

He's not going to pull a gun on her, will she calm down?

He sighs internally, it's going to be a long few days. He says the next sentence more to himself than her: "Get some sleep."

Chapter Two:

The silence doesn't help settle her unease.

It only makes her remember.

It wasn't a common thing, silence, there was almost always sound. Silence meant that she'd done something wrong and she was being punished. The gunshots ringing through the air, piano playing and feet hitting the ground again and again. The rhythmic tap was haunting and made her want to tug at her hair and scream but she focused on her steps, making it perfect, as she was told to.

She's a master of stealth and knows perfectly well how to draw attention to herself and how not to. She doesn't want to be here. The strong desire to pick up and run is starting to become a pulsing ache. She doesn't want to know what he'll do to her if she does move though. She was told to stay here and when she didn't follow orders in the past it always ended in pain.

She didn't take the blanket.

Instead with careful fingers, almost as if it's breakable (which she knows is stupid but if she damages it, what will he do? She saw two guns on him and at least three other weapons) she placed on the ground beside the couch. She made as little noise as possible and waited with baited breath for almost a full five minutes before she determined that the man wasn't going to harm her.

Of all the places to pass out, Natasha. You had to pick the one ally with this man next to it. It's not like she asked for it. She was looking for food and her muscles gave out. Her arm is probably infected, she had the dig the tracking device out of it and the only thing she had was a knife. It wasn't the most pleasant experience she's ever had but now all they'll find is the small device sitting at the bottom of a lake.

Time is passing in what feels almost backwards.

It's around four thirty in the morning the last time she checked yet the night has never felt slower. She needs the man, Coulson to come out so she can convince him she needs to leave. She can't stay here. She has to keep moving because the longer she lingers the more likely they are to find her.

She can't go back.

She can't.

She refuses, they'll have to drag her kicking and screaming.

She can't stay here, she needs to keep moving. Can't he see that? The man is dangerous though, so she held her tongue.

The bandages on her arm are stiff, bulky and slightly awkward in a way that makes her uncomfortable. The last time she can remember she used any was when she was about ten and someone misfired a bullet that hit her in the stomach. The scar is ugly, jagged and she doesn't like looking at it. Though she was supposed to be devoid of emotions there was some distaste to the girl who shot her after that.

Natasha lets her head drop against the back of the couch and her hands go lax. It's dangerous and stupid to relax though, something she knows too well.

How does she get out of here?

She could attempt to leave right now but with her arm she's not sure she can sneak through a window. She wasn't really conscious until after Coulson tried to wrap her arm, but she was sort of there. She heard him climbing stairs and she needs both arms to climb. She doesn't have a weapon or a layout of the building. Coulson has the upper hand here and she doesn't know why he wants her.

She's nothing useful.

Unless the man is aware of the ransom that they put on her head. Quick, easy, money.

Ugh!

What is she supposed to do, though? Cry?

Natasha drags her gaze up to the clock, it's been twenty three minutes since the last time she checked making it six ten AM. Natasha feels her body go rigid as the sound of movement rings from the other room in the apartment. The apartment isn't small by any means, but she's seen bigger.

He's moving.

Is he going to shoot her?

What would the purpose of him wrapping her wound be, then?

Natasha gnaws on her inner lip, but forces her outward appearance to be calm. The sounds of movement quiet considerably before she hears Coulson moving away from what she assumes is his bedroom. His footsteps, she can tell are a forced, obnoxious loud because they sound bulky and awkward. Unnatural.

Coulson steps into the room and her spine gets tighter as she feels him move towards the couch. He steps into her view of vision and she resists the urge to raise an eyebrow. Yesterday, he was in a full suit, tie and everything looking professional and intimidating now? He's in grey sweatpants and a loose shirt that has to be from America's Fourth of July. The flag is waving dramatically across the white background with an older form of writing picking out bits of the Declaration of Independence that are splattered across the flag and background.

Her expression falls to a blank neutral despite her desire to laugh.

She hasn't really laughed in years and doesn't plan to start now.

Phil's blonde hair is spiked up in a tired bedhead but the faint rings under his eyes signify the little sleep he got last night. Probably more than her. He likely attempted.

His eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise as he meets her gaze, "You're still here." He notes and this time she does raise an eyebrow. Does it look like she moved?

"Yes." She bites her tongue panic splashing across her. She's not supposed to talk back, they didn't like it. He probably won't too. Natasha quickly sweeps her gaze over him for weapons. She can't see anything obvious but she's sure there's something.

Phil either doesn't notice her rising panic or doesn't comment on it as he glances at the blanket, "You didn't sleep." He doesn't say it as a question more like a statement that she feels little desire to confirm or shoot down.

"Are you hungry? You look hungry, I'll make breakfast." Phil says and moves away from her line of sight. She twists around on the couch almost immediately to follow him her sight. He...asked her? They never did. She's been running for a little over two months but the way people act outside her targets and trainers still confuses her.

Why did he ask her?

Isn't she a prisoner here.

"Admittedly, I don't think I have more than lumpy milk in the fridge so I hope you're okay with dry cereal...If I have that." Phil narrates and walks behind the counter to pull open a cupboard. His eyebrows meet in his distress as he pushes several objects through it. Maybe glass, it sounds like glass, and plastic.

After a moment he pulls out a box of cereal that her brain scrambles with for a moment to translate. Cheerios.

Cheery cereal? Really? Why? No one likes mornings. It would just make her frustrated and toss them across the room. Though she's never had any so maybe they do bring cheer-not that she really cares. She's not eating it. She trusts Phil about as much as she does a man with a gun pointed at her head with a promise to shoot. He may not bare weapons she can see but he must have some on him.

She would.

Phil opens the box and digs through the bag for a moment before throwing a handful of the golden cereal into his mouth. She didn't really get what they looked like he moved to fast. Phil swallows the cheerful cereal before meeting her gaze from across the room.

"Are you going to just sit there?"

She doesn't answer.

Or move.

So...yes. She's going to sit here.

This couch is nice, friendly and hasn't tried to kill her yet. She is quite fond of this couch. If he set up traps she's not going to fall for them. Phil shrugs before putting the box on the countertop and turning to the cupboard again. He pulls out two glasses and fills them with water before tucking the cereal box under one arm and moving towards the couch again. As he does so, she turns back to the disturbing cow painting.

Phil sits on the coffee table about a foot and a half away and she licks her lips before firmly biting her lower one. Does he have to be so close, she was quite alright with him being on the other side of the apartment.

Phil sets a glass down beside him and the cereal box before lifting the remaining glass towards her.

What if he poisoned it?

She watched him fill the glass though. It should be fine...right? No, she shouldn't risk it.

Phil seems to sense her paranoia and without words takes the other glass and downs the entire thing before resting the empty glass on the floor beside the leg. He outstretches the glass again that she takes cautiously with her right hand.

Her left is firmly presses against her side where she may protect it from further harm. She doesn't have any medicine and if it gets infected she's done for.

Phil grabs the box of cereal again as Natasha cautiously presses the glass to her lips. The cool liquid rushes down her throat and relief crashes through her. She didn't realize how thirsty she was until now. She quickly drinks the rest of the glass and resists the urge to ask for more.

She'll be fine. She'll leave soon anyway and can find more...well steal it.

Phil tosses another mouthful of the cheerios into his mouth and Natasha watches him with slight interest. He pauses after a moment and outstretches the box to her. She doesn't take any. The box looks far to cheerful to be safe.

Phil raises an eyebrow after a moment at her expression, "Have you had these before?"

Natasha meets his gaze, "No." Nor does she really want to.

"I'm not going to poison you." He says after a few seconds of awkward silence. "I promise I'm just trying to help. Now eat, you look dead on your feet."

Phil waves the yellow box more aggressively towards her and with some irritation she shoves her hand into the cardboard, tensely, before grabbing a few of the pieces. It feels sticky. She withdraws her hand and stares at the six pieces for a moment with intensity. Why did they put holes in the middle? Wouldn't it have just been easier to do circles?

Phil snickers slightly and she lifts her gaze from the cheerios to him. He offers no elaboration and shoves another handful into his mouth. How can he stand the stickiness? After a pointed look from Phil she shoves the happy cereal into her mouth and chews.

It doesn't taste happy.

It tastes like dirt.

Or at least, honey covered grain. It's not bad per say now that she's actually tasting it and not just chewing, it's sort of sweet. Huh. The food they had there was always the same. She never got to try new things until she escaped and by then she could only take what wouldn't be missed. Typically bread or sometimes bagels.

She likes the cereal of good cheer.

She swallows and looks up at Phil. Can she take more? She should've taken more when he offered it to her. Is that all he'll give her because she talked back to him?

More surprise than she wants to admit to flashes through her as he outstretches the box to her again. "Do you like it?" He asks and eyes the yellow paperboard as she reaches for it again, "I'm not the biggest fan."

Natasha grabs a bigger handful her stomach twisting painfully as she does so reminding her that it's been a few days since she last ate. And a good period of time before that. She's been focusing on moving, eating has been a second priority or maybe a third.

Phil sets the box down on the ground next to the blanket and stretches. He still looks like he got ran over by a bus then decided to move on anyway. "You look like a drowned rat, no offense." He says and she pauses chewing on the magical cheerios to meet his gaze with a frustrated one.

She hasn't had a mirror or a brush nor really cared about her appearance.

She's been a little busy.

"I'm going to assume you don't have any other clothing." Phil says and she gives a slow nod. Is that bad? She had a total of three at one period of time. They only replaced it if you broke it. Phil purses his lips before leaning forward.

"Natasha." He says her name almost sadly. Did she do something wrong? Oh gosh, she needs to get out of here. After a momentary pause he looks up at her, "There's a shower down the hall on the right. Use it. When you get out, we'll talk."

Phil makes a move to stand and grabs the precious cheerios' box off the ground. "Sir," Natasha says after a moment and he turns to look at her, confused. "I need to leave. I can't stay here."

Phil tilts his head slightly, "Why?"

Cats.

Does she have to answer?

He has weapons.

This was his goal all along, wasn't it? To withdraw information from her. That's why he gave her the food and the water. She shouldn't have accepted. Why is she such an idiot?

"I…" Why can't she think of anything to say? She's a master of lies, deception...why is nothing coming? The best she can come up with is that her parents will worry but didn't she say that she doesn't have any last night? Brilliant move, Nat.

Phil shifts slightly the cheerios shifting on the inside of the plastic. She has little left to lose.

Natasha squeezes her eyes shut. "Are you going to shoot me?"

She hears, rather than sees the cheerios box drop on the ground. Natasha peels her eyelids apart with some effort as Phil's shocked expression meets her face. "I'm sorry...what?"

Natasha purses her lips forcing herself to seem like she's gained confidence. "Shoot me. I saw your guns, Sir, I would like to know now."

There's two major ways to gain information. One: Ask.

Two: Deceive people into telling you.

Natasha usually rests solely in the second, her web is set and the threads ready to be tangled. Maybe. With how slow her brain is moving at this panicked haze she may not get very far.

Phil runs a hand through his hair and for the first time since she met him, looks utterly frazzled. He moves back to the coffee table, carefully avoiding the cheerios and sits down in front of her.

"No."

"Why?"

"Why so?"

"I'm dangerous."

"You're a child."

"Teenager."

"Same thing. Do you think I'm going to shoot you?"

Natasha hesitates for a moment, "Yes."

Is she incapable of keeping her mouth shut? She doesn't trust this man. She does not. Why does he keep pulling information from her? She's the one with the spider's web not him, yet it feels like she's continuously kicking herself. She's exhausted. She hasn't slept more than what's utterly necessary for human life in the last two months ran off of bits of bread and the occasional water bottle or drinking fountain she could find.

"You're growing lax, Natalia."

Natasha shoves the memory that's pulsing at the back of her head out and meets the eyes of Coulson again. Phil looks like she kicked him, "Alright. Your shirt looks like it's been through a war zone," oh, how little he knows, "Do you mind borrowing one of mine?"

Natasha's eyebrows meet at her confusion, "Why? I will not be here long."

Phil smirks, "We'll see. Shower, go."

000o000

Despite her silent promises, Natasha doesn't leave the apartment. Two days pass in what feels backwards. Every time she attempts an escape, Phil seems to just be there. When she isn't planning his death in frustration or trying her best to ignore him in rebellion, she sleeps. For some reason, Phil being there settles the little voice at the back of her head that assures her that sleep is bad, because if he's so flipping intent on keeping her there, he won't let anyone take her, right?

After some three days since the night on the alleyway, Natasha sits on the couch, (a spot she has silently claimed as her own, even though she's leaving the moment Phil leaves her by herself) she runs her hands through her messy hair. The shower felt amazing-though she would never admit it aloud.

The shirt Phil made her take is a deep black with some sort of bird encrusted into the shoulder. She recognizes it, but can't place from where. Just another thing she should avoid as she was taught, something about them being dangerous. It's baggy but comfortable. It's warmer than her other shirt was too, which is nice. New York isn't as cold as Russia but it has it's moments.

With a rather aggressive pull towards a knot, Natasha hisses through her teeth at the strain it puts on her arm. Phil hasn't asked any more questions since the first day just given directions or been some sort of annoying shadow, that despite how much she leaves the sun he's still there.

What does he want from her?

She knows if she asks, though, he'll answer with a question in return and she really doesn't feel like revealing any more than she has too.

Phil glances up from the book he's reading (though she's sixty percent sure it's a cookbook and he's just watching her) and she doesn't offer an answer just proceeds on the de-tangling.

He glances at something else before closing the book and moving forward. He sits down on the other cushion on the couch as he's done a lot the last few days and hums to himself for a moment.

"I think it's time we address this." Phil says and Natasha turns her gaze to look at him. What? There's a lot of things they should address.

"You can't keeping going on by yourself, so we have two choices." Phil says and Natasha purses her lips. He has two choices, not we. "I either turn you to the CPS or you stick with me."

Natasha's blood rushes cold and her hands drop. "No."

She can't hurt anyone else. If she stays here, that's what will happen. She's already been here too long. They'll find her soon, tracking device or not.

Phil tilts his head, "Yeah, I kind of assumed you'd say that." Phil pulls a phone from his pocket and Natasha feels a spaz of panic run through her.

"Wait!" She protests and leans forward across the couch in a swift movement snatching the metal device from his hand. Natasha clutches it to her chest. He can't report her. He can't. Frustration travels through her to extreme levels. Her voice comes out more of a panicked gasp than a solid sentence, "What do you want from me?"

Phil pauses for a moment before meeting her eyes, "You to trust me."