Chapter Text
The industry was booming, and clients were satisfied with their products. Despite that, the interior was suffocating, gloomy, and stagnant. Yet, the star of the show didn't suffocate in the stifling atmosphere. In fact, he rejoiced in the suffering of the masses and gained infamy. Conflict was a business venture, and pain was a measure of quality control.
It had been an ordinary day at the plant. He surveyed the projection as he always did. Little red flecks speckled across the globe, pinpointing the expanse of his reach.
A dot blinked dangerously against the stretch of forest.
"The nursemaid located her. She's a walk-in. Shall we silence her?" The line was staticky. He gave a contemplative hum, more for dramatics than actual pondering. The target was a top-class spy. If they didn't want to be found, they wouldn't be. Not without a whole hell of searching that is. They were rooting out Hydra, a typical technique. However, patience won't stop them from spilling their secrets.
"Quietly. No witnesses. No evidence."
- 21 April 2010
Natasha had been run ragged. Between the mission planning and rehearsing for interviews, she rarely had time to herself. She tried to eat twice a day, but snacks were an easy fix, yet they hardly counted as food. On a typical day, sleep rarely graced her, but now it's practically non-existent. Honestly, with you in the picture, she's gotten greedier. She's been counting the days on her small calendar until she sees you again. The mentioned calendar had been one of her first purchases with her Shield paycheck. Clint had teased her about being old school and not using the calendar on her phone.
At the very least, the day had finally come. The infiltration of Stark Industries started today. Natasha was headed to Los Angeles. It's expected that she will be able to return home to you within a month. She's missed your smile and warmth.
The hatch into the Quinjet had been open—strange. Perhaps an inspector forgot to close it on their way out. The steps up the ramp felt eerie—not alone. Natasha carefully reached for her handgun, safety lock on, but ready to fire. As the cockpit came into view, a masked figure in tactical gear stood there.
"Hands up!" the spy commanded.
"Whoa whoa. It's me," you raised your hands swiftly, not wanting Natasha to carve a hole into you. Despite the muffling from the hood, she would recognize that voice from anywhere. You slowly pull your hood and helmet off. Your strands barely brush your shoulder. You had cut it short. Shadows had shoulder-length hair to avoid enemies pulling their locks off, but you let your mane grow wild over the past couple of months. Simply following the natural order of things, you chopped it off, but this time on your terms.
"Why are you here? Was the safe house compromised?" Natasha quickly stashed her handgun. Eyebrows furled, and nervous energy thrummed. Worry overtook the assassin. Were you on the run?
"No, nothing like that," as soon as those words left your lips, Natasha feared the worst. You were going to betray Shield. You boarded the ship to escape. Her body tensed, hands clasping tightly.
"I got cleared to join your missions," you clarified. You weren't sure how the redhead would react. Gritting teeth and quiet seething wasn't what you had pictured.
"Are you crazy!" The fear of you getting hurt and seeing who she really was underneath compounded each day. Twisting, clawing, and ultimately exploding. You were hurt. Had you told her earlier, would she have hurt less? Shame and guilt crept steadily, heating your cheeks. Disappointment bubbled, and your voice came out small and weak.
"Aren't you happy to see me?" The knot at your throat ballooned, constricting any other words. Dread filled you. What if she decides to break up and never see you again?
Natasha gave a big sigh. Yeah, she was beyond relieved to see you, but she just wasn't ready to face this reality yet. "What if you get hurt?"
"That's not fair. You don't think I get worried whether you'll return home in one piece or not?" you reason. Embarrassment wasn't something Natasha was used to. You must've been concerned when she left and never gave a return date. Forced to guess whether she'd even visit again. In that little cabin, in the middle of nowhere, with only her for company.
"Sorry…" the redhead rubbed her face wearily. She must've missed the memo with all the assignment preparation.
"It's okay. Either way, I almost beat you in a spar. I could hold my own. It's not like I'm a rookie. Plus, I kind of already moved all my stuff here," you gestured toward the alcove. It was then that the spy noticed your sleeping bag, backpack, and various arms. The sniper rifle had an incredible scope on it.
"Just promise me you'll try to stay safe."
"Only if you do the same."
The apartment floor plan was spacious. One bedroom, two bathrooms, and a grand terrace. You and Natasha had scoured the place for any recording devices, but fortunately, there were none. Closing the curtains, you finally appraised the place. Apparently, Shield had already furnished the place. Unpacking was the last thing to do to make the place homey. Boxes crowded the kitchen, each one with its destination, except one. Cent was scribbled on the flap, most likely addressed to you. You glanced at the redhead, eyes almost pleading to go rummage around the new stuff.. After an eye roll and a quick nod, you dropped your backpack and went to investigate your package. You hadn't brought your heavy arsenal because they were too big to conceal, so you prayed for a sniper or something. At the very top was a face mesh usually used to change your identity within seconds. Top of the art stuff. A Glock accompanied it. Now you can dual-wield handguns like in the movies. If only it were that simple. Beneath all that was a burner.
The flight over had you both hungry. You even piloted part of the trip, so the widow could grab a granola.
"So much for dinner. The fridge is empty," Natasha poked her head out. She had cleared up the majority of the boxes. Most of them were half empty anyway.
"Let's go grocery shopping then."
You and Natasha aimed for fresh ingredients due to a less stealth-intensive assignment. Strolling up and down the aisles, you were able to discover amazing products and flavors you never knew existed. Everything almost felt domestic, as faux as it is. Under all this fluorescent light and in this air-conditioned building were two spies in disguise, possibly romantically involved. You weren't sure what you were yet. A girlfriend? Dating?
"Y'know, I'm not quite sure how to feel about this mask." Natasha strolled up to you. You look at her as she pushes the cart. Hunched over and inspecting the little labels as if she fit there. The spy wore a mischievous grin and a twinkle in the eye.
"And why is that?" you humored her. A bit perplexed at what she was hinting at.
"I miss your beautiful face," she replied cheekily, though her gaze betrayed her. She looked at you like you were her whole world. Your eyes dart away, flustered, but it's difficult to hide from Natasha. She gave a low chuckle and grazed your arm as an apology. You try to play it off and scan the shelves for sustenance. Colorful packaging flashed, each vying for your attention. Junk food. Something you weren't allowed in the shadow factory or Hydra facilities, but would buy in mass on missions.
"You can pick one if you'd like," the redhead suggested, noting your hesitancy.
"No. It's fine," you shrug it off. As if on cue, the spy surged forward and grabbed each of the bags you perused, dumping all of them into the cart.
"Wait, wait, I said it's fine," you go to put them back, afraid you were forcing her to purchase them—that you were overbearing and too much.
"I'm buying them for me, but you could always try them if you like," the Russian replied, almost snuggly. You couldn't win against that logic, but you didn't want to. Your heart warmed, and the corner of your lips threatened to curl.
"I just might eat it all," you teased.
Dinner passed in the blink of an eye. Neither of you wanted to overdo it with the cooking, so you settled for some soup. The day was eventful. As the skylines darkened, so did the pull to slumber.
The lines started to blur into a jumbled mess, and the once encouraging music bounced in your cranium. The only light was from a laptop. A cup of tea was left steaming on the coaster. Clicks from the mouse lulled you. Natasha was impossibly close, her body warmer than the spring air. The wooden chairs creaked as you leaned in to see the file she was reading. You both were working overtime, even as the jetlag tugged at you. It started with a stretch, then two, and finally, a yawn that sealed the deal.
Natasha shuffled to the bedroom door, intent on sleeping like the dead, but something felt wrong. She glanced back to see you settling by the couch. An ache formed in her chest.
"You can sleep on the bed this time," she insisted.
"Nah. I'll take the couch." Natasha didn't object, but she wasn't quite satisfied either. Chewing her lip, the spy let it go.
"Night."
"Night." Darkness bathed you as she cut the lights. The oven light outlined the furniture in a haze. The plush couch molded itself to you, offering overly accommodating support. The throw pillow was scratchy, and the blanket was too comfortable. The place was way too open. The sofa was placed as the centerpiece of the living room, and you were the decoration on it. Anyone walking in would have a direct line of sight. After a slow sigh, you force your mind to quiet. Yet the strange urge to keep your eyes open remained. In the periphery, tendrils of the past threatened to seize you. Shadows warped into beasts that walked among men. You were with Natasha. You were happy. So why do you feel this way? Why does the past you shook off have such a hold on you?
"Usually, you'll have a full security check, but things are rushed right now," Ms. Potts announced. The interview had been a success, and stage two of the infiltration was in motion. After disappointing herself last night, Natasha savored what she could from this win.
"Is that all?" Natasha smiled. First impressions matter, especially from someone who would be the key to unlocking all of Tony Stark's secrets.
"That should be it. You'll start on Monday. Enjoy the rest of your weekend." Despite the stress of her position, Ms. Potts never seemed to burn out. The spy left with all the pleasantries one could offer and played up gratitude. But honestly, she just wanted to get the hell out of there.
Even at work, you were on her mind. Lunch had been unsuccessful. The redhead wanted to discuss sleeping together. When she phrased it like that, well, one would misunderstand. So she trashed the conversation at the rehearsal in the mirror. Instead, it went something along the lines of rearranging the furniture and finishing unpacking.
Natasha arrived home earlier than intended. She had asked for a full office tour, so she knew all the routes to escape and go undetected. Though the walking couldn't distract her from the stone that lodged itself in her stomach. You were distant, not physically, but emotionally. She thought that when it became semi-official, you'd stop keeping her out of arms' reach, but she was no saint either. It's hard to open up, even harder for both of you. When you reminded her of the thing she most desperately wanted to flee from. Looking at you was like a reflection. Loving you was learning to love herself, but what's so lovable about her? Was it the same for you?
The key slotted in, and the jiggle of the knob alerted you. You had just finished stashing the last of the mugs. The dying evening rays graced the plants in the terrace and bathed the kitchen in orange.
"I'm home," the spy hollered. You automatically relaxed, assured there wasn't any danger. The redhead poked her head out of the foyer.
"How did the interview go?" you asked as you prodded at tonight's dinner. Your eyes strayed to find hers, but that was a costly mistake. The Russian sported a pencil skirt and a daring long-sleeved V-neck blouse. Her natural curls framed her face, and under the rays of the sunset, she was an angel. You swore you could die happy on the spot. Reverence soon turned into embarrassment as you were caught ogling her.
"See something you like?" she smirked. You rolled your eyes, unwilling to bite her bait.
"The interview went great. Your tips paid off. Thank you." Gratitude never sat right with you. You merely did your job. You shouldn't get anything in return. Shadows shouldn't want. They don't deserve anything. Only give and keep giving.
These thoughts swirled around your head until bedtime. Questions about your worth went unchallenged. You replayed the dinner in your mind. Pausing, rewinding, fast-forwarding. This desire wasn't solely on the emotional level. There was a need that pulled you towards her. A throbbing appetite, one you were so desperately scared of, intimacy. Part of you knew Natasha would never try to hurt you, but on the other hand, being so powerless and allowing yourself to be broken again. It strangles you. You still feel the paths men feel entitled to, the cries that were swallowed, and blacked-out nights. The word sex sounds vile and the notion soul-crushing, but a small hope buries itself. Maybe Natasha will be different. She deserves better than someone who can't give her everything.
Rest has evaded you for two nights now, and you haven't reached for the spy's comfort out of shame. How easily you cling to her. This wanting and selfishness were everything against what you should be. You'd blame it on the racing thoughts and the new environment. But it's the vulnerability that persisted in your mind.
You huff quietly in the open living room. You'll sleep elsewhere tonight. Grabbing your trusty sleeping bag, you set up camp in the storage closet near the entrance. Your firearm rests unloaded and locked next to your pillow.
She was so over it. Some douche thought she was only good for a coffee run. Work was tiring, and she still had more Shield reports to file later. The only reprieve she's gotten was when you arranged Pepper's schedule or sent her related documents to help out. You had remote control over her laptop and could see what she required. Nevertheless, the spy rarely needs you.
Speaking of you. You hadn't visited last night, which marks the fourth day. It's frustrating how closed off you've been when she just wants you close. She's so close to asking you if everything is all right. It couldn't hurt, right? You've been far away. She misses the time spent together even more with less time in her agenda, so maybe she rushed it.
"Sleep with me." You nearly choked on air. Your head swivels towards her. It took everything within you to not gape at her. Your heart thudded dangerously close to fleeing. Breathing became increasingly brutal. She was different, right?
As if she saw how your face fell, Natasha specified, "I meant share the bed, it's huge." However, that didn't subdue your incoming attack. Air seesawed out of you. Your vision slowly tunnel-visioned. Nausea constricted your throat. The older woman saw your face turn pale. The spy went to your aid, but the movement made you flinch. She withdrew and chastised herself for her impatience and poor communication.
"I'm okay," you lied, swallowing your discomfort. Blinking away the remnants of those brutal nights. You didn't want the spy's pity. You were a full-grown adult. You could do this. You had to.
Before the redhead could offer apologies or remedy her mistake, you spoke up, "You didn't mean it like that, right?" You prayed that you overreacted. That your body ran away from the mind. You were convinced you'd break down had you stayed silent.
"No…" Guilt made her voice so brittle. She should've seen the signs out of all people. Rationally, she knew no one was at fault, but apologies danced on her tongue.
"I missed you," Natasha admitted. She didn't elaborate. She didn't have to. You were detached. You still were, but you promised you'd try for her.
"I'll come to bed. Just give me a second," you arranged. "Attachments don't have to hurt." That's what Molotov said, right?
"You don't have to force yourself-" You raised your hand to stop her, and Natasha got the signal to wait in the bedroom for you. You're 100, ranked third in the shadow program, a weapon sharpened for mass destruction. You could do this. You will do this.
Both of you lie face to face, breathing in each other's company. Legs nearly gracing each other. In the hush, you could trace where the tiredness bled away.
"I don't know how to love, at least not well," your voice cracks. "I don't know if I can do this…" You admit, embarrassed. You let the words hang.
"What do you mean?" It sounded awfully like you were breaking up with her, and maybe she's watched too many romcoms with you.
"Dates, kissing, communicating...being soft." You stare at her emerald eyes in all honesty, you could muster. These programs made women of steel, but for once, you wished you were allowed weakness.
After a thoughtful hum, the Russian offered, "Then we'll learn together."