Same disclaimers from chapter 1.
AN: Thank you again to everyone who followed and especially to those of you who reviewed. Hugs and kisses to you all. Nothing gets me writing more than your encouraging reviews.
To "Blah", who brought up the issue of age in the last chapter, when that part is mentioned, I actually meant it as her 20-y.o. self reflecting on her 17-y.o. self. Sorry for the misunderstanding. My fault.
Without further ado, enjoy!
A few more people went up after me and after a few final words for Fury, the ceremony broke up with a short round of applause, graduates moving about to shake hands with our instructors and superiors before heading immediately back to work, because the life of an agent stopped for no one. A few people that were being mentored were actually leaving for said missions directly after the graduation.
As Maria and I had no immediate engagements, we moved about the crowd slowly to congratulate and thank the people in attendance until Maria pulled me into a lonely corner of the room away from the crowd.
"I have a graduating gift for you!" she said excitedly. I grimaced. For one, I hated taking gifts. And I hadn't thought to get anything for Maria.
"Maria, I thought we agreed no gifts. I didn't get you any—"
"No, shut up, Natasha. I might not see you as often as I'm used to anymore, and I want you to have something," she said quietly, pulling a small box from one of her back pockets. She handed it to me and I opened it gingerly. Inside there was what seemed to be coils of thin leather. I pulled it out from one end and it unraveled, proving it was some type of belt. I looked up at Maria questioningly and she reached down to show me the clasp. It was a small rectangle with what appeared to be a red shape like an angular hourglass on a black background. I stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before suddenly realizing what it was meant to be. The red marking found on the abdomen of black widow spiders.
I let go of the belt as if it had burned me. Maria seemed to have expected this reaction and regarded me with patience before saying, "I know what you're thinking, Nat. But I thought maybe this could be your thing."
"Things" were the little signatures that came to characterize each agent. For most, it was their aliases, like I'd learned Hawkeye to be for Clint Barton for his flawless aim. For others, it was things like their favorite weapons or their areas of expertise.
"Maria, I'm trying to prove I'm not that person anymore. I already get death threats from people who don't want me here, I don't think people—"
"Since when do you care what people think, Natasha?"
"Since I stopped being able to shoot anyone who looked at me sideways," I muttered, rolling my eyes. Maria ignored that.
"Don't be ashamed of where you come from, Nat. Be proud of how far you've come," she said quietly and with an immense tenderness that actually surprised me. I sighed, taking the belt buckle in my hand and running my thumb over the glossy surface.
"You're right," I finally murmured, and then with an encouraging smile, "You always are." I lifted my arms and Maria grinned, understanding my invitation to put the belt on me. How she managed to sneak my measurements, she never told me, but it fit me perfectly. It didn't hug my hips like the rest of the belts I wore; instead it cinched in my waist, with the buckle lying directly on top of my navel. But I was glad for it then, glad it was perfectly easy to see and not hidden beneath the numerous straps of the utility and weapon belts agents wore. Maria was right; this was something to be proud of, a token of my struggle.
Phil Coulson suddenly came bustling toward us through the crowd. "Agent Hill, I'm going to need you in the board room in some five minutes to take notes on a meeting and—shouldn't you be getting ready or something, Agent Romanoff?"
"I have no immediate missions, sir," I said, slightly abashed as I said it. I was a fighter and had been within the concrete walls of the facility far too long for my liking. We'd been sent out on plenty of missions for practice, but never for anything serious, and I was as anxious as anyone to go out and finally do something. "I was not given any offers."
"Oh, except you were, Miss—I'm sorry—Agent Romanoff," said a voice behind me that sent a thrill down my spine though I didn't initially know why. I turned to see a lean, well-muscled figure striding toward me. His hair was the exact sandy shade I remembered, though it was slightly longer now, his eyes the precise chocolate color from my memory. He hadn't grown much, as I'd suspected, though I noticed with satisfaction I obviously had, as I was now level with his shoulders. And he wore the same gear I'd first seen him in, from the hand and forearm archery guards to the sleeveless vest that so favored his sinfully distracting muscled arms.
Clint Barton, at long last.
"I beg your pardon?" I tried to say disdainfully, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the sudden breathlessness of my voice.
"Yes, that's right. Barton made arrangements early this morning. I'll leave him to explain, as Agent Hill and I are needed urgently elsewhere. And congratulations again, Agent Romanoff," Coulson explained hurriedly before signaling for Maria to follow him out of the room. She hugged me quickly with the pretext of a last congratulation but gave me a significant look before she left. I'd never explicitly told her of my childish fixation with knowing whatever happened to Clint after he'd dropped me off at SHIELD and was never seen again, though I had a theory she'd guessed at it. A theory now confirmed by the look she gave me before hurrying away.
I gulped suddenly at being left with him, and hoped desperately it hadn't been as loud as it'd felt.
"Your hair's long," was the first thing he said, his eyes running over me appraisingly. And I didn't think it was my imagination that saw something akin to hunger in his eyes. After all, I was no longer a wiry seventeen-year-old. The amount of baby fat—no matter how infinitesimal it'd already been—had shed off my face completely, my bust had filled out, my hips had swelled attractively, my legs had lengthened, and my waist had whittled. I was altogether a woman.
"Yeah, that tends to happen when you let it grow out for three years," I hissed, the accusation clear in my voice. I saw his jaw tighten. He'd known full well this had been coming.
"Look, about that, I—"
"I don't care!" I cut him off coldly in a desperate attempt to cover how much I actually did care. I expected, actually wanted for him to continue, for him to beg me to listen and forgive him. But I watched with dismay that I effectively shut him up and he closed his mouth in a particularly dejected manner. I groaned inwardly, torn between wanting to shout at him or myself.
"Well, either way, I'm your only ticket out of here at the moment," he smirked, and I could tell he was trying to recapture his usual air of amused nonchalance. "Or, you know, you could stay and do… I don't know… what do agents do around here?" he said with an infuriatingly superior tone. I rolled my eyes. It always seemed to be a matter of choosing between pride and curiosity with him.
"Fine. But stop talking to me," I said coldly.
"As you wish, Agent," he said with a ridiculous bow.
"Ugh, and stop saying agent like that," I said, crossing my arms and looking anywhere but at him. He looked up from his bow with a grin.
"Sorry. It's a habit when talking to new graduates. You'll do it one day, too, see if you don't," he said. He eyed me again as he pulled out of his bow. "And does this pretty new agent have a codename yet?" he asked.
I didn't, officially, but I didn't want to reinforce the idea of how inexperienced I obviously was even more than he already thought, so I nodded proudly.
"Yes, I do, Hawkeye," I said pointedly, hoping to further discourage the idea of my being unqualified and amateur by proving I was well-informed. If I did, he showed no outward sign of being any degree of impressed. Instead, he merely lifted an eyebrow.
"Well?"
"Oh, right, it's—" I faltered slightly, trying to think on my toes, but with a lingering thought of Maria still with me, the answer rose to my lips readily, as if I'd been waiting to give this precise answer to this precise question at this precise moment my entire life. "Black Widow."
His eyebrows lifted even higher, and his eyes seemed to finally register my new belt and the significance of the red symbol hugging my midriff. "Interesting choice…" he muttered.
I lifted my chin imperiously, prepared to hear him tell me it was a bad idea or unwise and should probably be rethought when he said suddenly "I like it," with finality. I stared at him, somehow even angrier at his approval than I would have been at his scorn. It was ridiculous and childish, I knew, but I had this insatiable need to simply disagree with him on anything and everything.
"It's fitting," he said as he walked around me toward the room's exit. I turned and rushed behind him, incensed.
"Fitting? Fitting how? How would you even know?" I said heatedly. He only grinned, and I fell into step behind him with my arms crossed, angry at myself for taking his bait. I shouldn't care what he thought, anyway. I didn't care what he thought, I mentally corrected myself quickly. He was still the asshole that had disappeared off the face of the earth for three years without so much as a whisper of explanation, and I'd be damned if I didn't bring him to his knees, begging for my forgiveness, before I even paused to consider it.
"Romanoff. Hey, Romanoff. Psssst. Romanoff," came an insistent hiss from behind me three weeks later. My hands clenched into tight fists as I turned away from the gun scope I'd just been peering through to look at Clint, laying propped against a red brick chimney, with his bow laid lovingly in his lap.
"Yes, Agent Barton?" I hissed back dangerously. We'd been staking out on top of a roof for almost seven hours now, waiting for our prospective target to come out from the building opposite where we had reason to believe he was meeting with weapon smugglers, and where, if we were lucky, he would meet his end and we would finally be able to go home. The sun had long since set, and my patience with Barton was setting quickly as well.
"No need for formalities, Natasha, call me Clint," he said, and I swore I could almost see the glint of his smirk even in the darkness.
"No, I won't. And you'll call me Agent Romanoff, thank you," I said, fighting hard to keep my voice even and not betray my obvious annoyance. Because if I did, he would only feed off it and I might just have to murder him on top of this roof in the middle of Ukraine before he became even more unbearable. He seemed to ignore me completely, however.
"Natasha… Natasha… What a pretty name… Natasha… Nuh-tah-sha… Nat… Tash… Tasha—oh, I quite like that. Tasha! Tasha, Tasha, Tasha!" he continued muttering to himself. I groaned to myself, and it was all I could do to not scream out loud and blow our cover.
"Do make an effort to shut up, won't you?" I pleaded irritably. He slung his bow on his back and crawled toward me, picking up the binoculars and peering over the edge of the building into the one across.
"Relax. We're gonna be here a while, they're only just having tea, take a look," he said, handing me the binoculars. I took them grudgingly and looked through them only to confirm what Clint had already told me. Several burly men were seated around a rickety wooden table, having some semblance of "polite tea" from a chipped white china set, seemingly ignoring the heavily armed bodyguards lurking darkly in practically every corner of the room. "So calm down," Clint sighed, leaning lazily on the small edging of the roof.
"No, I won't calm down. Do you know—do you care how much this mission means to me?" I growled at him. He raised an amused eyebrow at me.
"What, you have a personal vendetta against Gustav Petrovich, the arms dealer and notorious mini-golfer?" he asked. I snorted despite myself, before cutting myself off, annoyed he'd been able to make me laugh.
"No," I said, sighing as I turned and also leaned against the rough edging. "This mission is my first chance to prove myself. No one takes me seriously and I'm fucking tired of it. I need to do this, and I'm not gonna let you or anyone fuck it up for me."
"And you think doing this one mission is going to change the way people think of you?" he asked, and I couldn't tell if the question was genuine or mocking, so I dignified it with a vague enough answer for both cases.
"I've nothing to lose, do I?"
We lay there a while longer, Clint cleaning his already ridiculously over-polished bow while I continued surveillance. I watched for an open shot, hoping to get a jump on the game, get rid of our target and clear the area before they came looking, but Mr. Petrovich kept annoyingly out of range.
"Barton, we have movement," I finally hissed. The men seemed to have come to an agreement, signed some papers and were moving toward the exit. Clint moved into place next to me, laying out a pair of guns in front of him and readying his bow.
"Alright, Petrovich is probably going to come out with his usual human wall around him. I'll take out one of his front guards and you take him. You're gonna have to be fast; the moment I shoot the first person, they'll close ranks around him and start shooting back. You got that?" he said quickly, actually surprising me with his sudden seriousness.
"Got it."
We waited in strained silence as people began filing out. I heard the sound of Clint pulling back an arrow and prepared my finger on my gun's trigger, centering the crosshairs of my scope on the dark hair of our target. My nerves tingled and my senses almost seemed to sting me with their sudden acuteness. I heard Clint's quiet exhale almost as if it was my own, the muted twanging sound of the bowstring as the arrow was released, the soft click as my finger tightened the trigger. I watched, almost as if in slow motion, as Clint's arrow flew gracefully and lodged itself in the forehead of its target, watched the body drop, clearing the way only nanoseconds before my bullet flew by and entered Petrovich's head through his ear. And then suddenly, as if someone had just turned up the volume to a deafening level, the world exploded into chaos. I heard my shot reverberate in my ears, and the sudden screams down below seemed to echo off the buildings as they realized they were being attacked.
"Go, Tasha. Move!" Clint half-pushed, half-dragged me away from the edge of the building, snapping me back into action. I picked up the gun, strapped it to my back and ran behind Clint, jumping from roof to roof until we dropped into small side streets. We ran all night from checkpoint to checkpoint we'd previously planned, a way of confusing our followers by continuously moving in the first crucial hours after a kill when we were most vulnerable. The checkpoints were all sorts of places, from the basement of an abandoned pub, the underside of a bridge, even the empty pool of an old mayor's manor, only staying to rest for moments before leaving again. We finally reached our previously arranged safe spot: a dried out sewage tunnel, long unused and half-caved in. We ran in, not stopping until we were a good ways from where an earthquake had almost completely blocked the tunnel with rubble. Finally, we allowed ourselves to stop, leaning against the cracked walls of the tunnel to catch out breaths.
"Hey, Barton?" I said when I'd finally recovered myself enough to speak.
"Yeah?" he answered, ten feet to the left from where I'd thought he was. It was pitch black, and we'd agreed beforehand not to risk using flashlights. We'd practiced running into the tunnel blindfolded for a week, lest we fall and crack our heads open on the precarious rocks. I heard something whoosh between us and held up my hands to catch the water bottle he'd thrown at me only a second late, the bottle instead hitting me square in the face. I huffed.
"Don't call me Tasha," I hissed, rubbing my nose. I heard him chuckle, and even in the absolute darkness, I could practically sense the smirk on his face. For once, I found it didn't bother me so much.
From there, we jumped from mission to mission, doing off each one with the ease only a pair of master assassins could pull off. Because there was no doubt Clint was the best at what he did, and together, we were a superpower.
We returned to SHIELD several months later, with an abundant amount of successful missions already under our belts, just in time for a "missions overview" meeting with what seemed to be practically all of SHIELD's agent population. We were all crammed around a long oval table for what really only meant to most of us getting dibs on the best missions. Normally, I wouldn't care what I would get and would skip the meeting, but this time around, I was after something very particular. I doodled idly on my notepad as everyone around chatted absentmindedly, waiting for Fury to arrive and start the meeting. I put down my pen when I noticed I'd been pushing it hard enough to tear several layers of paper. My nerves were pulled tight even though I was sure no one would fight me for the mission I wanted. My worry was Fury deciding I wasn't apt to carry it out.
This month, I'd finally gathered the courage to ask for the Russian Triad mission, the main targets being the three leaders of the KGB's Black Widow division, my previous captors.
A little rolled up piece of paper rolled in front of me, and I opened it quickly, already guessing its sender.
"Why are we here?" signed Hawk. I looked up to meet the familiar eyes seated a little ways down across the table from me. I shrugged as if to say he could leave any time he wanted, though he raised an eyebrow as if to say "Really?"
Clint and I were now widely accepted partners, though many people still turned up their noses disapprovingly at the partnership. Or rather, at my half of the partnership. Most male agents felt bad for Clint and couldn't seem to decide on why he'd pick me if he could have his choice of anyone with his skill and good standing. Most female agents also felt bad for Clint, though not as bad as they did for themselves, and couldn't seem to decide on why he'd pick me if he could have his choice of any of them. I'd seen plenty of girls practically beg him to reconsider his pick, sometimes even while I was present. But again and again, Clint would reply in his charmingly boyish manner that he still stood by his first choice.
Nick Fury strode in, effectively silencing the room with nothing more than his imposing manner.
"Alright, we all know why we're here, so let's get right down to it," he said simply as he took a seat at the head of the long table. At that, several hands shot up, waving insistently in the air, begging to be picked first to get first dibs. I had decided I'd wait until the first feeding frenzy died down. Which seemed to take a lot longer this time around as 99.9% of the female agent population jumped in to fight for their chance at a mission in Hawai'i. I rolled my eyes, leaning back in my chair to patiently wait.
When the atmosphere around the table had finally calmed, I forced my hand into the air quickly before I had the chance to second guess myself and pull it back down. Fury's one eye flicked to it almost instantly and he acknowledged me with a nod of his head.
"I'd like to take the Russian Triad," I said decisively. The quiet whisperings of people around the table died immediately as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward me and there was an almost comically collective gasp. Then the entire room erupted into not-so-quiet whispers of "She can't," and "He won't let her," and "She's too close." I said nothing, refusing to tear my gaze from Fury.
The whisperings had only just calmed down when Drake, an agent from my class that had always seemed to believe his big biceps gave him immense superiority, slammed his hands on the table and said, "That mission is practically suicide to an inexperienced agent."
I had only begun to turn to make a biting remark in my own defense when Clint said coolly, "Luckily for you, I don't think she was issuing you an invitation," in a calm whisper that carried loudly in the suddenly silent room. Everyone seemed to freeze as they looked from Clint to Drake, the latter of which was now a horrendous red color I would not have believed him capable of. I could only begin to imagine the things Drake was thinking, but he bit back his remarks and sank stony-faced back into his chair. Smart of him. Not many would go up against agents with seniority, much less Clint Barton, who could find a way to kill you from a mile away with nothing more than a wooden splinter.
He glanced at me quickly and raised an eyebrow the way I'd grown accustomed to seeing him do. Only when I turned away and let my face relax did I realize I'd been smiling. And that surprised me more than anything that'd just happened.
"Romanoff, don't you think you're a little too… close to this mission?" Fury asked me directly when silence had fallen again.
He was obviously expecting to hear me deny it, because he looked at me with surprise when I readily answered, "Yes… I am, sir." I felt, rather than heard, everyone in the room fidget with surprise, as well as a keen level of attention. Because everyone was interested in how this would turn out.
Fury studied me silently for several dragging moments, all the while leaving me to think he was surely about to reject me in front of the entire agent ensemble and then I'd surely be the joke of the entire facility and I'd been such an idiot for not approaching him privately where the damage would have been more contained. Damn my pride. Damn it all to hell. Of course he wouldn't let me go. I wouldn't let me go. I was too close.
"Granted," Fury finally said, his two syllables reverberating in the stunned silent room. With none more shocked than me.
"Thank you, sir," I finally said. "Excuse me." I pushed away from the table when he nodded to acknowledge my leave and walked swiftly out, ignoring all the eyes that suddenly weighed on me.
I made my way through the busy hallways toward my quarters to prepare myself and again look over the Russian Triad file I'd been studying since before my own graduation. I'd become almost an entirely new person in the past three years, but I hadn't forgotten the oath I'd made myself my first night in my new SHIELD bed. I would bring my captors to their knees. Or I'd gladly die trying.
"Well, that was a nice little show back there, wasn't it?" Clint said as he came running up next to me. I didn't look at him, only kept marching resolutely forward, suddenly immensely abashed by his defending me. It amazed me sometimes how much he made me feel like I was still a timid seventeen-year-old. I hadn't even been that way before I met him. It was his doing and I wasn't sure if I should hate him for that too.
"You got out fast," I said simply. He chuckled, easily falling into step beside me with his long strides.
"I just had to say I was going with you and then I high-tailed it out of there just as fast as you," Clint said with an easy laugh. I stopped short.
"No."
"No what?"
"No… No, you're not coming with me," I said, and it came out more harshly than I intended it. That seemed to happen to me a lot. And I regretted it silently when I saw the rejection flash in his eyes like I'd slapped him. "I—I mean—this is something I have to do alone, okay?" I mended weakly.
But as always, he pretended like nothing had happened and assumed his placid disposition easily. "Tough luck. You're not free of me yet. You need one more mentored mission before being cleared to go off and sow your wild oats by your lone little self. And I'll eat Fury's eye patch before you find someone else to mentor you. Face it, you need me," he grinned at me. I grunted, pushing him out of my way. I could very well go on any other random mission with him and leave to Russia alone after, but I was impatient, especially now that Fury had approved it. And I hated to think of anyone spreading rumors of how I'd backed out.
"Fine, whatever," I said, continuing to walk. "But you will not get in the way when I kill them. I'll do it my way. They're mine. Do we have an understanding?" I asked coldly.
I saw Clint's jaw tighten, but he nodded. He knew as well as anyone what this mission meant to me. This wasn't like my first mission to prove myself. Which had been a bust, as people still obviously and unashamedly hated me, always openly sneering at my belt when I passed by and muttering none too quietly about the audacity I'd had to wear it within their walls.
"Fine," he said.
"Fine," I agreed.
And in truth, it was fine. Because if I wanted anyone to be with me for this, it was Clint. I couldn't have possibly foreseen Clint being the agent to mentor me—hell, I'd pretty much resigned myself to the fact I'd never see him again—but it seemed the sort of thing that, in retrospect, was always meant to happen. Now, that didn't mean he didn't take some getting used to. Because he did. But I was glad I toughed it out because now, I couldn't possibly imagine anyone who could have possibly eased me into this new life any better than he did, who patiently taught me to keep my cool and just relax, who gently educated me in the simple art of allowing myself a laugh every now and again that I'd never learned before. And the way we moved together just worked. We learned each other quickly, the ways we thought and moved and targeted and fought, until one simply became an extension of the other. There was an unbroken fluidity that flowed between us like a river of understanding. In the past year I'd spent with him, I'd become sure Clint was the type of partner other people waited their entire lives without finding. Even I found myself surprised at how easily I'd chosen to trust him.
The only snag was the mystery of his disappearance for three years that still hung between us like a dark cloud. There were times when I could almost see an explanation hanging on the tip of his tongue, but every time, he seemed to think better of it and would look away without a single word said. And I'd proceed to mentally reprimand myself for having been such an abysmally impulsive person, sure it was the memory of me harshly shutting him down the first time that discouraged Clint to continued silence. And the one thing that didn't seem to change with the years was my pride, which kept me from asking him again, even though even I could recognize it'd be the easiest mend for my dilemma, because the mortifying awkwardness would eat me alive. So he didn't speak of it, and neither did I, both of us simply teetering weakly on the edge of the subject, but refusing to find the strength to finally jump.
Until we were pushed.