Natasha stood on the bridge, watching the tiny figures of the deck hands bustle around in the predawn light. Except for the hum of computers and the occasional tap of fingers on touch screens, the huge room was quiet. Even when the next crew came to relieve the nightshift, the agents traded stations with only a few murmurs between them. It was perfect: quiet without the eerie silence of the decks below.
Natasha tensed as soft footfalls approached behind her. "Agent Young," she said without turning around. "What a pleasure." The horizon was barely beginning to glow rosy with the impending sunrise.
"Good morning, Agent Romanoff. You're up early. Couldn't sleep much?"
She rarely did, but Natasha wasn't about to offer that or anything else to the other agent. "What do you want, Young?"
"I was actually hoping to find Clint here. Yesterday he. . .I wanted to say goodbye before he left. He has a mission this morning."
"Really?" Natasha replied, not letting her calm face betray an inward smile. He hadn't told Super-spy Barbie who was going with him. Interesting.
"Do you know where I might find him?"
"Knowing Barton, he's still in bed," she said, finally turning around to face Agent Young. "And frankly, Young, I'm surprised you're not there with him."
"Oh." The younger agent winced at the malice and sarcasm dripping from Natasha's voice. "Oh, we had an, um, interesting encounter yesterday. I was hoping to fix things before he left."
She turned to go, and paused.
"Something else?" said Natasha.
"Don't you want to say goodbye too? I know I'm fairly new to Shield, but isn't that how it works? You always wish your friends luck before a mission."
"Clint and I aren't friends. And we said goodbye a long time ago."
"Oh, . . . I'm sorry. Well if you happen to see him, please tell him I'm looking for him."
Natasha nodded in Agent Young's direction, although she was staring past her. The blonde walked away, leaving Natasha to her thoughts.
Was that really true? Was she not friends with Clint anymore? When their relationship had gone too far, she had only intended to real it back in. They couldn't be involved. Clint had to see that. He couldn't be so stupid to think they could work it out. A tiny whisper of fear crept into her mind. How much of their relationship had she broken? Suddenly the sunrise seemed rather dim. Natasha gripped the nearby handrail, feeling a wave of crushing black solitude wash over her. If she truly didn't have Clint anymore, she would be completely. . .
Natasha shuttered, trying to push the thought from her mind. A familiar voice appeared in her ear. Emotion is weakness, Natalia. It tries to expand outward, exploding around you and causing only harm. You can change that. There is a black hole in your heart. Let it take the pain away; let all you emotion implode within you, never to escape. She didn't remember how many times this had been said to her, or who had said it: the trainers, the handlers, the bosses, the walls, the insignia, the color. At this point it felt like the very idea of the Red Room itself whispering was to her mind.
It was a reflex. She didn't always decide when it happened, or why, but it happened when she was frightened. Or hurt.
"Agent Romanoff," Hill's voice cracked the silence. The stern brunette stood stiffly by the door. "Call is in ten minutes."
Natasha nodded. She joined Agent Hill and they traversed the Helicarrier's passages, making their way to the flight deck.
"Fury is making a mistake," said Hill.
Natasha smiled. "I haven't heard you say that in almost a week, Maria. I thought something was wrong."
"I'm serious."
"You always are."
"I know you and Agent Barton have your problems."
"We haven't exactly been hiding it lately."
"Which is fine. Preferred, actually. Shield likes to know the state of all agents' personal relationships so we know who runs the highest risk of letting their emotions ruin a mission."
"And Clint and I . . ?"
"Are red-flagged. Two highly complex computer algorithms say the two of you shouldn't be put together. Not to mention common sense. The two of you are barely speaking. After you little chat yesterday, Barton punched a heavy bag so hard he got himself sent to Medical."
He did? "Is he alright?" Natasha asked. Behind her mask, her face fell. She hadn't meant to make him that upset.
"He's fine," Maria said with a hough. "He probably didn't even need to go, but Coulson can be a little overprotective."
Natasha let out a half-hearted laugh. He certainly could.
"But Fury thinks he knows better," Hill continued. "It's reckless and dangerous to put the two of you together, especially on a mission like this: close quarters, no contact with us until you're ready to take the TPE down. It's going to blow up in your faces. In all of our faces."
"Is there a reason you're telling me this, Maria?" Natasha asked, not thrilled with Agent Hill's pep talk.
"Because you're smart and level-headed. You know not to let emotion get in your way. Keep Barton in check, and maybe this mission won't go up in flames."
"Yes, Ma'am," said Natasha as they reached the flight deck. Wind whipped around them as the Helicarrier sped along, swallowing all but the nearest conversations in white noise. Mechanics bustled around tending to the fighter jets and helicopters lined up on the grated steel surface. At the start of the launch runway, a flight crew was prepping their jet for takeoff.
"And Agent Romanoff," Hill said loudly over the wind as the reached the jet, "good luck."
Natasha nodded and climbed aboard.
"Sir," she greeted Director Fury, who stood waiting in the empty back of the plane.
"Barton, you're late," said Fury when Clint scrambled onto the plane a full twenty minutes after call time.
"Sorry Sir."
"May I ask what was so important?"
Natasha flashed Clint a smug smile. "I bet I know. Lipstick suits you, Barton," she said, reaching out to tousle his disheveled hair. "I take it Agent Young found you."
Clint cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to reply when Fury stopped him.
"Enough," he said sternly. "Here."
Clint and Natasha each took the thick manila file he handed them.
"Here are your covers, information, birth certificates, passports, visas, drivers licenses, everything detail you could want to know about your new lives. And Agent Romanoff, you may find these helpful." He handed her with several large volumes with titles like A Brief History of Art from 1450-1900, and Modern Art: A Curator's Guide to the Rare Art Market. They didn't look brief at all.
Clint snickered. "Have fun with that."
"At least I'm not a mindless thug," she said, recalling yesterday's briefing.
"People," said Fury, "now is not the time. You land in Budapest in six hours. You will be dropped at Ferenc Liszt International Airport, where Agent Parker is situated to assimilate you into the crowd. Tickets and boarding passes for you flight are included in your documents. You will retrieve the luggage we've sent ahead on the plane and proceed to the safe house. Your other belongings will arrive in three days."
"Three?" Clint whined.
"We have to blend in, Barton," Natasha reminded him.
He rolled his eyes. Why did she always have to do that?
"After you leave the airport, you will only have emergency communication with Shield via a secure satellite link. Good luck."
With a nod in their direction, Fury turned and departed down the plane ramp, his coat snapping in a sharp gust of wind.
Part of each of them wanted to follow the Director off the plane and disappear in the labyrinth of the Helicarrier, pretending this mission wasn't going to happen. Instead, they took their seats along the cargo-net-covered sides of the plane and strapped themselves in for takeoff. Launching off an aircraft carrier was far more intense than a traditional runway, but Clint and Natasha had come and gone from the Helicarrier, as pilots and passengers, so many times that they knew how to handle the g-force. When the pilot gave them the thumbs up, they tucked their chins and braced for the wall of force about to hit them.
The turbines whirred to life and the plane started rolling, gathering speed as it raced across the deck. With a final push of the engines, the jet shot off the end of the carrier, arcing up into the pearly gray sky. When the aircraft leveled off at 40,000 feet, Natasha released her grip on the safety harness and let her muscles relax.
"Still hate takeoffs, huh?" said Clint.
"I'm a little wary," she frowned, "and you know why."
"That was an excellent emergency takeoff. The wheels lifted up right before the runway blew."
"Believe me, I remember," she said, recalling the feeling of the shockwaves that had ripped the air from her lungs and thrown her and five other agents into the cold aluminum walls of their jet. One still hadn't made a full recovery from his concussion.
She rose from the stiff plastic seat and settled more comfortably on the ribbed metal floor, laying the file and stack of books out in front of her. "Let's focus, shall we?"
"Fine then," said Clint, joining her. He read from his file. "Sebastian Griggs. Raised in Vermont by a single mother. Fell into some trouble after she died and landed myself in Detroit. I climbed my way up the ladder of Mark "the snake" Espinosa's weapons trafficking ring, but when he died, I could see a bloody power struggle coming, and I made sure I would be well out of dodge. A buyer put me in touch with András Szabo, and here I am on my way to Hungary, with my lovely fiancé."
"Charlotte Welsh grew up on Long Island," said Natasha. "Her parents, a lawyer and public school teacher, took her to Europe over many summers in her youth, peaking her interest in art and art history. She went on to pursue art history as an undergraduate at Williams College, and recently received her masters degree from Colombia. While of a trip to the Art Institute of Chicago for a display opening, she crossed paths with Sebastian Griggs. The two have been dating for three years. Griggs proposed last March. Having recently secured a new job at a corporation in Hungary, the couple is now moving to Budapest," Natasha skimmed from her file.
"An interesting pair," said Clint.
"I wonder what she sees in him."
"Excuse me?"
"She's clearly a cultured woman. What is she doing with a thug like Griggs?"
"Something tells me Charlotte Welsh isn't so innocent herself," Clint spat back.
"I wasn't talking about us."
"Really, because that sounded pretty familiar. It makes me wonder what I ever saw in you."
Natasha grew quiet. "Yourself, I'm guessing," she said after a pause. "Clint, I've never thought of myself as better than you. Except maybe in sparring."
"That remains to be seen," he said more lightly.
"Anyway, if. . ." she began, but stopped herself. She would never be as good a person as he was. She would never be so noble or kind, or just plain decent, but she couldn't bring herself to say those words. Instead her picked up her file, looking wistfully at Charlotte Welsh's fictional life. "I think I would have enjoyed art history."
"Well now's your chance," said Clint, patting cover of the nearest art book. "You've got a lot to learn in the next five and a half hours."
Natasha grabbed a book from the stack and started reading.