Chapter 2

Natasha POV

"I will! Have a good day at work!" I heard the door latch itself. A key shimmied itself into the metal lock and turned to close it completely. Be Safe. I repeated in my head, hoping that if there were any superstitious, higher power out there, then it would be heard.

I ran through the files of my current case one more time before work. It was a case on a Mike Herring, a thirteen-year-old boy who was taken outside of his school while waiting for his foster dad to pick him up like he was supposed to. Unfortunately, due to work circumstances, his father was late and found that Mike was nowhere to be seen. After twenty-four hours, the family had called to report him missing.

According to his picture, given to us by his parents, he relatively had the same build as Peter but slightly skinner due to age with short, brown hair and brown eyes. His file stated that he was last seen wearing a dark blue hoodie, shorts, and converse like shoes. Too bad, that most children tend to fit a description like this.

The papers from the file feel like sand under my fingertips, as I carefully prod the corners of each sheet to switch to the next. I'm not getting much to work with and it's frustrating. No witnesses, no notes, no cellphone trackers or credit card uses.

Poor kid, having lost his biological parents already, going through hell in foster care until his dad picked him up and brought him here. Now he's kidnapped. His emotional state is iffy as is. I can tell by the look in his eyes from the picture.

I can't afford to think that way, though. I can't be sorry for a child I've never met because if that child ends up deceased, I can't have any emotional attachment to him or his family. Not that I would in the first place. My emotions don't run high. Sometimes, I wonder if I even have them anymore.

Then I look at my son and I feel… happy. He makes me happy. Yes, he came about in an unconventional way. Me somehow ending up with an infant on my doorstep was not exactly ideal. But that didn't matter, I loved him.

In case you're wondering, he knows about that – how he came to me one night and cried on my doorstep during a warm summer day in August. I asked him constantly if he ever wants to meet his birth parents. Every time he tells me no. 'Ignorance is bliss,' he'd say. He'd rather have life stay the way it is: uncomplicated.

I'll admit, I was a bit relieved to hear him say that. But, something in me ached to know the true reason. Was he angry at his birth parents? Was he worried about me and how I feel?

With those doubts in mind, I've always given him the option of doing so, still he shows no interest. Maybe one day he will, but today is not that day.

A loud, vibrating knock on the front door brought me out of my thoughts. I stood up from the kitchen table, creating a large screech against the dark, wooden floor with the chair. The floor creaks as I move to answer the door. I already know who it is.

"Hey, Nat!" He greeted.

"Hey, Clint." I reply. My sandy haired friend enters the house, taking his black coat off while doing so. "Have any new evidence on this case yet?"

He hands me a folder. "Yes, but—," he paused. His biting of his lip signaled that something was wrong. "It's not good."

I hummed in wonder and grabbed the folder. I flipped through, scanning the white pages for something considerable. I stopped on the last page, reading the most current entry.

Mike was found.

His body laid sprawled inside a large gutter in the park. There were two bullet holes, on in the boy's chest and the other in his right bicep. It was fresh, only a few hours old from this report—which was taken this morning at 1:42 am.

Natasha noticed a small detail, however. The boy's open, unseeing eyes where bloodshot and his tongue was black. Odd. She thought.

"Weird that two bodies show up within a similar time frame. Don't you think?" Clint pondered, aloud.

"Yeah." I scanned the paper again, not really listening. "Was there anything on the autopsy?"

"Autopsy? They didn't do an autopsy." Clint said, confused.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Why would they? They know that cause of death. He has a bullet directly in his heart."

I glanced at the picture again. Luckily, I have a good memory for these kind of things, so I filed the photo into my permeant memory banks for later retrieval.

"Apparently, this kid is the nephew of John Reeds." Clint mentioned.

"Reeds? Really?" I was surprised. I didn't know that Reeds had any siblings.

"Yeah. He's devastated. I guess they were close." Clint replied, solemnly.

"Katelyn was that way, too." I whispered, low. Hoping to keep my skeptism out of the equation.

"What way? Was she related to Reed? I thought she was Tom's kid."

"I mean that she was related to a police officer."

"You think someone's targeting them specifically?" Clint asked, engaging in this sudden realization.

"Perhaps. But, I don't know who."

Clint just shrugged.

"What recent cases have they been on?" I asked after, curious.

Clint took a breath, his eyes moving up into his upper lid in complete thought concentration. "They were on Boulder's case, but he's in jail. The Ratson brothers, but they're also in prison. In fact, their trail should be coming up soon. Um…" He continued his train of thought. "They're was that gang bust that happened with you."

"We caught all those people." I answered with absolute certainty.

Clint bit his lip again and shrugged. "That's all that I can think of off the top of my head."

"Remind me to consider that when we get to the station." I put the folder under my arm and grabbed my black, sports backpack.

"Will do." Clint nodded, opening the door to let them both out.

The station was particularly rowdy today. Dispatchers and Forensics running about the area trying to get any new leads on any of the new cases. Several car accidents are in progress, plenty of robberies to be taken care of and most of all the missing person's list is increasing exponentially.

Clint and I burst through the bustling crowds to our desks on the far side of the building. The desks were open and backed up to each other. We shared office space with eight other detectives.

While Clint's desk was messy, papers and pens trailing the wooden surface in a cluster of thoughts and sticky-notes, mine is pristine. Everything in place, pens and pencils in the cup holder on the left corner and files neatly tucked away in the under storage filing cabinet.

"Romanoff, Barton." Someone called from the left. "What happened to the missing child case?"

It was the chief, Mrs. Karen Widfield. "We found him, but—," Clint explained.

"But, nothing, Mr. Barton. I don't want excuses, I want results. The press is outside awaiting answers. If you can no longer find the kid alive, find the person who killed him."

"Yes, ma'am." Clint saluted her as she walked by. She simply sighed and rolled her eyes at his antics. I simply nodded in understanding. Mrs. Widfield stomped away, frustrated with the lack of good news.

"What crawled up her ass today?" Clint asked, turning back towards his desk and plopping down on the black, spin chair.

"She's just doing her job, Clint." I defended. I understand Karen's frustrations. It would be difficult to see anyone die when the police had been out there looking for the past few days for them. Then there was the press. The harsh, flash of cameras and annoying, babbling questions. Not to mention that everything was relative to the press. Even if we told them exactly what happened, they'd twist it into some horror story.

Freedom of press, I suppose. Though, I'm sure that the amendment meant to protect true news, rather than fake tabloids, but who am I to judge. I don't mind flipping through the thin pages of a magazine while waiting in endless lines at the grocery store. Sue me.

After several hours of tedious paperwork, filing, and research, I remember Mike's black tongue. I can't remember anything that turns someone's tongue black. Purple, sure. Blue, yes. But black… that was odd. I went through the average consumable products of sugary delights: hard candy, gum, chocolate. None of them changed your tongue black.

Yes, in case you're wondering, I looked into lollipops. Out of the hundreds known flavors, not a single one turns the entire tongue black. Strange, right?

But, you know what does? Arsenic. One of the most toxic, stable, elements in the known world. Though it is found in many foods, high dosages of pure arsenic are, ultimately, fatal. This only works, however, if it is consumed in its purest form. But who the hell has arsenic just lying around the place?

I racked my mind around it, until a small tap poked its way into my shoulder. "Hey, Nat."

I turn. It's Clint. "What did you find?"

"Turns out the kid had also had a fatal blow to the head. No outer wounds, simply a blunt instrument and some major internal bleeding."

"That seems quite clean." I pointed out. Noticing the no blood policy.

"And completely undetectable." Clint added.

"Interesting." I respond quietly. My phone vibrates inside my pocket. I quickly slide it out of its slot and check the incoming message. Simply, a text from Peter saying he made it home. He always does this. I guess to give me some peace of mind, which it does, in all honesty.

I send him back a quick 'k' and put the phone away. "Who was that?" Clint asked.

"Peter." I reply.

Clint's face lit up. He was always fascinated in the fact I had a child to begin with. I don't understand since he's got two children of his own with one on the way. That is more surprising to me.

"How is the kid? Still getting beat up?"

"Not as much. He's able to run faster now." I smile.

"I'd think so, with all the work outs he does for gymnastics." Clint rolls his eyes. "You know you should have put him in a more contact sport. He'd probably land more ladies that way."

"Peter's not that way and you know it." Clint use to babysit Peter when he was young. The two are close, almost like family. Peter had grown up thinking Clint was his uncle until broke the news that they weren't, actually, related when Peter tried making a family tree for 4th grade history. I still remember how sadly adorable he looked when he thought he wouldn't grow up to be like 'Uncle Clint.'

"But he'd probably get out of his shell more, meet new friends." Clint sits down has his desk across from me, leaning far back in his black, leather desk chair.

"He's happy where he is."

"I guess. My son's playing soccer over the summer. He's so excited."

"That's not a contact sport."

"Unfortunately, he's a pip-squeak. I can't put him in football until he's at least my height."

I smirk. "He'd still be too short."

Clint looks offended. He's not by any means short, but he's average height. That didn't mean that someone was tall. In fact, Peter was caught up already. Him and Clint nearly looked each other in the eyes these days. Part of me wished I knew Peter's birth parents so I could compare, but that's not the case. His dad must have been tall, though.

I was broken away from my thoughts when I looked back at Clint. He was still pouting on the comment. Luckily, Clint brushed comments like that off easily: something I like about him, considering I'm not the nicest of people.

"You know you could be a little nicer, Nat. Maybe you'd find a husband that way." Clint commented.

"I already have a kid, why do I need a husband?" I rebuttle. It was supposed to be a light tease, but Clint's face got dark and somber.

"Peter won't be around forever, you know." Clint started. "I remember that before Peter you never really took care of yourself. You barely ate or slept; always doing something for S.H.E.I.L.D. But that's over now."

"I don't plan on going back to S.H.E.I.L.D." I glared.

"I know, but I'm talking more about your depression. You can't just be by yourself the rest of your life." He looked concerned. Clint was never concerned, always confident and annoying. I hated when he was like this. Guilt tripping me.

Peter came to me when I was still working with S.H.E.I.L.D, an undercover, super-intelligent, government operation. I was on a stake out one night, living in a neighborhood while watching some enemy agents move back and forth in the midnight streets.

While watching my camera monitors, I noticed a figure at the front door. The slight build, but taller stature looked masculine to me. He wore a black rain poncho, over a red jacket and white polo. His face was masked by the darkness of the hood he wore. The only thing I notices was that his face was covered in bandages, some having large, dark, wet spots that hid his features further. The person dropped off a box, closed but not sealed, knocked twice and ran off.

Curious, I walked through the hall and slowly and quietly opened the door. With my gloves on and my face and eyes protected by my body suit mask, one I brought just in case of poison or explosives, I slid the box over a few inches with my foot. Nothing was triggered. I squatted down and pushed it again. Nothing went off. Eventually, I found it safe enough to open. It was a child, wrapped in a blanket with white, fluffy, packing peanuts filling the bottom of the box.

I shrugged and poked the child's cheek, seeing if it was alive. It gurgled and moved away from my hand. I was so shocked I pulled my hand back as quickly as I could. It was alive, alright.

Looking around again, I saw no sign of the man. Before I knew it, I was pulling the child out and into my arms. I'd never held a baby before. It reeked of sanitization and baby powder; but, somehow, I didn't mind it.

The baby snuggled into my chest, which was comforting and weird all at the same time. The quickly fading purplish sky hovered above us. That's when I heard the gun shots. There were exactly eight of them, all coming from down the empty-blackened street. The street lights shuttered with the pure energy those shots gave off. Neighbors popped their head out to investigate the ruckus and gossip. I wouldn't say this was exactly a natural thing for them.

I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to run after them. But I couldn't. I was glued to the floor with a child in my arms. Noticing the nervous vibe of the baby, I moved it inside, away from the gunshots and screams.

I quickly called back up to investigate then relaxed with the child on the couch. This entire time he'd barely made a peep, simply content in the new surroundings.

"What do I do with you?" I whispered to him. Of course, he didn't understand but his gaze upon me was one in which could stop anyone's heart. I wiggled my finger at his small hand. He latched onto it, gripping it hard and tight.

From what, Clint, had told me about foster care, I was reluctant to take that approach. This child didn't deserve it, having already been abandoned. I sighed, choosing to wait until tomorrow to make a decision.

After a few days of crying, laughing, runs to the grocery and toy store. The little house we lived in started to feel much brighter, as did I.

The path was pretty easy going after that. I quit S.H.E.I.L.D, or at least went on "hiatus" for fifteen years, Fury never would let me leave, and took care of Peter.

I never regretted that decision, not ever.

Getting home that night, I crept up the steps to the second floor. Reaching Peter's door, I cracked it open just slightly. He was already asleep in bed, a comic book resting on the side table.

I smiled. Part of me wished that he was a baby again. Thinking about the fact that he would in a few short years made my heart ache.

"Goodnight, Peter." I whispered with a sigh, before closing the door and snapping it shut.

So that was Natasha's point of view. How's it going so far? Still interested? Please let me know!

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