Chapter Text
I’m trying hard not to get into trouble, but I –
I got a war in my mind
Natasha Romanoff – formerly Natasha Romanov (they’d insisted on Americanizing the name at SHIELD, as if that would strengthen her loyalty to them), formerly Natalia Romanova, and currently SHIELD’s favorite new asset – sat alone in the far back of the Helicarrier’s mess hall. She cut into her chicken with slow, deliberate strokes of her knife, keeping her eyes glued to her plate, chewing methodically, and listening to the whispers.
They were always whispering about her.
When she had first come to SHIELD, she’d expected the gossip, the rumors, the hushed words concealed behind shaking hands when she walked past. She’s shown up nearly a month after Clint Barton, one of SHIELD’s top agents, had been sent to kill her. Walking off the jet of her own volition, unrestrained, she and Barton sporting matching shoulder wounds (his from a bullet, hers from an arrow)…well, she could understand the curiosity, the willingness to share any scrap of information, no matter how untrue it may be.
And then, instead of being arrested, tried, executed, imprisoned – she’d been made an agent. The whispers had followed her ever since.
“She must have slept with Barton. Damn kid is always thinking with his dick.”
“It’s probably all a ruse. She’s gonna blow this whole ship outta the sky, just you wait.”
“Fury must be blackmailing her. There’s no other reason she’d actually be willing to work for us.”
The rumors didn’t bother her. She was the world’s most fearsome assassin, had cheated death hundreds of times because heaven didn’t want her and hell couldn’t hold her, had slept with thousands of men and left them bleeding and broken in their beds without a backward glance. Petty gossip and superstitious agents that crossed themselves when she entered a room didn’t faze her.
She just wished one of them had the balls to say something to her face.
They didn’t though, none of them. Only three people had managed to address her directly since she’d arrived nearly a month ago: Coulson, who’d met her and Clint when they stepped off the plane, introduced himself, and immediately taken her to the Director; Director Fury himself, who’d negotiated her contract (she made twice as much as Agent Barton and directly achieved Level 8 clearance with her shiny new SHIELD badge); and Maria Hill, who’d shown her to her new quarters, given her a tour of the Helicarrier, and explained her training schedule.
“It’s pretty straightforward. Usually new recruits train in large groups until their specific skill sets are determined; then they’re sorted by area of proficiency into smaller groups and overseen by their probable handler in the field. You’ve made your expertise clear, so you move right to the next step: solo training. You’ll follow this schedule for a month, with the Head Trainer of each station – sparring, self-defense, target practice, and so on – signing this sheet to evaluate your skill level. At the end of the month, you’ll be assigned a permanent team and handler and be cleared to start field missions. Questions?”
Natasha appreciated her no-bullshit attitude, but was even more grateful that Hill looked her straight in the eye like she was any other agent, instead of averting her gaze in fear or disgust.
Barton would’ve counted, no doubt, among this small brave number, if the way he’d talked her ear off on the flight from Berlin to New York had been any indication. However, she hadn’t seen the man since she’d arrived; after Coulson had dragged her off to Fury, Clint had left for a surveillance mission of indefinite length somewhere in Scandinavia. The gossips unanimously agreed that the only way their infamous Hawkeye ended up with such a useless assignment was as punishment for his stunning insubordination.
Coulson, Fury, and Hill all ranked too high to frequently descend among the masses, so Natasha remained alone and isolated at SHIELD. Somehow, it was lonelier than her solo freelance days. Then, solitude had been necessary and inevitable. She’d maintained her distance and her anonymity to survive, unable to waste time with frivolous things like friendship and trust.
After only a few days at SHIELD, she was forced to admit that her current lone-wolf status wasn’t entirely self-inflicted; had she actually wanted to reach out and make connections to these people, she’d find herself blocked by a wall of fear and suspicion and hate.
No one would spar with her; after breaking a few collarbones and landing more than one overly-confident misogynist in the infirmary, she was regarded as the menace of the mats and found herself without any willing partners. She ate alone, trained alone, showered alone, and returned to her room alone. Day after endless, dreary day. She wasn’t even allowed to leave base (as it was difficult to do when “base” was a flying boot camp 50,000 feet in the air), and she missed the relative freedom of her freelance days.
Sometimes, she wasn’t sure she coming to SHIELD had been the best option, and if she didn’t still have debts to pay, she would’ve slipped away that first night.
She was torn suddenly from her maudlin thoughts when a lunch tray plopped on the table in front of the opposite seat, which was quickly filled by a broad torso in a tight black SHIELD t-shirt.
“Miss me?” grinned the oddly familiar face of Clint Barton.
“I didn’t know you were back,” she blurted, instantly shocked and frustrated by the outburst. It made her sound as though she’d been waiting for him to come back or something. Which certainly hadn’t been the case at all. Not even close.
“Got in about two minutes ago. Thought I’d grab some lunch before heading off to debrief.”
“I don’t think that’s correct protocol. You’re setting a bad example for the trainee.”
Barton huffed a small laugh at that, twisting the cap off a bottle of water. “Something tells me you’re not the type to care much about protocol, Natasha.”
“It’s Agent Romanoff,” she corrected automatically, before realizing she liked the sound of her name coming from his mouth. It was simple, familiar, and attested to an intimacy she hadn’t found with anyone at SHIELD. All the same, she couldn’t afford to let her defenses down, not yet, not with anyone.
He shrugged, allowing her the space she demanded, and she felt a prick of annoyance at his easy deference. Shouldn’t he be running in terror lest his presumptions had offended her? The last man who had presumed so far as to sit at her table certainly had.
“What are you eating?” she asked suddenly, her attention caught by the tantalizing smell of Barton’s dinner.
“It’s a couscous-stuffed chicken breast with feta and tomato. Want some?”
He slid his plate towards her and she pushed it back immediately. “No.” Curiosity getting the best of her, she added, “I didn’t see that option on the menu.”
“I made some and froze it before I left for Berlin. You know, you don’t have to eat the slop they have here. Each room has a kitchenette for a reason.”
She snorted at the frilly word coming from such an undeniably masculine creature. Realizing he was serious, she quirked her eyebrow questioningly. Barton shrugged.
“My mom taught me to cook when I was a kid. It’s just kind of grown into a hobby since then, because it’s fun and has a reward of delicious food at the end.”
She glanced down at her own plain chicken breast, which paled in comparison with Barton’s supper. She had never learned to cook while in the Red Room (it had been seen as a useless and superfluous skill), and her career choices since leaving hadn’t offered many opportunities to learn.
Barton glanced at her, smiled slightly, and added, “I’ll make enough for two tomorrow. I hate to think of you living on SHIELD-issued sludge forever.”
Natasha stood abruptly. She didn’t know what Barton was trying to pull, exactly, but she wasn’t interested in his – what, exactly? Pity? Guilt? Did he feel obligated to treat her this way since he had been the one to bring her in? Either way, she had neither the time nor inclination to sort out his motives.
“Goodnight, Agent Barton.” Without a backward glance, Natasha strode out of the dining hall, dumping her half-eaten dinner as she went.
She returned to her room, surveyed the kitchenette critically for a moment, before snapping off the light and crawling into bed.
Alone again.