Archive of Our Own ^beta

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."

Chapter Text

You were 15 when you met Molotov Cocktail. 36. The square of six, a perfect number, so they had to be six times more perfect than a six. They were your role model. Outrageously rebellious. Cool, where it would get you killed. They knew many things from the outside world. You learned half of everything you knew from them. From those who don't feel right in their societies to the intricacies of socializing.

There was a sobering night when you had to kill a family, and accidentally got clocked in the shoulder by a slug. You've never seen Molotov panic so openly. Agent White wiped away any prior pain from the bullet with its bone-deep agony.

You lie snuggly in your sleeping bag, waiting to be out of your misery. The campfire crackled beside you while the older spy fretted over you. The buzzing under your skin kept you wide awake.

"Y'know, I never had a sibling, but I'd like to pretend this is what it's like," you gritted, trying to distract yourself from the tissues forming and warping themselves on your shoulder. The home you invaded had two daughters, Karla and Karina. They had been frightened, holding each other and staring at you with such dread. You hesitated. You told 36 you killed them.

"Family doesn't have to be by blood. Bonds are stronger than any blood." Something heavy lodged itself in your chest. You couldn't be attached. Not now, not ever. The sole thing clinging to you was blood, cloying and thick. The splatter you could never wash out.

"Sister Molotov," you tease. You couldn't have relations, but that didn't mean you couldn't pretend, like those language classes. Pretend you're in France, and you grew up normal with your big sis Molotov. Pretend this wasn't real, and by tomorrow you'd be back in a cage.

"You make me sound like a nun." Both of you allow your chuckles to ring in the tundra.

- 2002

It's been a couple of test trial nights where the spy has allowed herself to tangle her legs with yours and curl her hand around your hip. You never disengaged yourself. Instead, you burrow yourself closer as if her warmth could swallow you whole. Nevertheless, you rarely stay still, and the spy had to unfurl herself from you countless times. She's seen you toss and turn, and fighting things she couldn't see. You've told her that it's because you weren't used to sleeping in something this soft, and it was partially true. What you didn't tell her was how daunting it was to sleep on a bed, to see yourself assaulted again, to have nightmares, to feel safe and fragile all at once, to understand that this wasn't a privilege but a necessity.

"I'm sorry for not telling you about the partnership beforehand," you apologize groggily, sleep seeping off you. In your pondering, you wanted to clear your record. Return to a clean slate.

Natasha hadn't given it any thought. Somewhere in her mind, she knew you'd eventually leave that secluded place; however, she never considered that you'd find your way to her. Even so, Natasha stewed in her guilt. She forced you into this position. Sometimes she'd punish herself by straying from the bed, but your hand would always search for her, and she'd return before the end of the night. Other times, she didn't think she deserved to touch you at all. However, that thought would be trashed when you reached for her in your sleep. Hands, accepting her wholly, unconditionally.

There was a night when her mind was louder than her rationale. The invisible cuffs the Red Room still had on her chained her hands to the bedpost. There was no clarity when you told her that it was bad for her circulation. No reaction when you ask her if she's fine. To her, the only thing she heard was the soft whisper of frightened girls and the clanking of chains. The expanding panic grabbed her. Even there, the memory was fuzzy. Muted like she was underwater. A guard loitered near her mattress, but his mumbling was hushed, featherlight, and familiar.

"Shh—It's not real… breathe. Everything's okay." The Russian's vision cleared first. The blanket of night was no less jarring than her nightmares. Blinking away the remnants of confusion, her eyes adjusted to the dark. Then she heard her own choked breaths. You were giving her space, settling on your side of the bed. Mortified, Natasha retrieved her hand from the headboard.

"Sorry-"

"Don't be," you hush her, letting her regain composure. The empty space was filled with subsiding gasps and patience. You didn't judge. No, you were perfectly calm, as if you dealt with this before. It's that quiet understanding that makes Natasha greedy, that drives her to think you wouldn't push her away if she overshares.

"In the Red Room, they handcuffed girls to their beds. I don't know why, but sometimes that's the only way I'll sleep." Her voice quietened with each word and finally broke in the last. She licked her lips, unable to meet your gaze. Then an idea struck you.

"Let me try something." You rummaged beneath the sheets for her hands. At first, she reluctantly forfeited them, but the tenderness of your palm was addicting.

"Every time you feel the urge, you can hold my hands," you said bashfully. It sounded better in your head. The spy smiled, hoping the darkness would hide it. It was corny, bordering on cringeworthy, but it made her want to kick her feet and embrace you tightly. Maybe she was the sappy one. Enough that a particular three-word sentence formed on the tip of her tongue, one she wasn't confident you wanted to hear yet.

"You always finish assignments so fast. It's like you're trying to get away from me," Pepper commented. Work constantly kept Natasha away from you, so it was partially true. On the other hand, tasks were effortless, thanks to your sending her schedules and files via email beforehand. It wasn't necessary, but you didn't need to know that. If she were lucky, you would send cute little messages and abuse the poststript. One time, you sent her an image of a plant with the tag "emerald palm." The caption read "reminded me of your eyes." What a dork, her dork.

"Nothing like that, Ms. Potts," the spy assured. No, instead of being repelled here, she was being attracted somewhere else. Magnetized towards home—you. Reliable and clever, sometimes awkward, but soft where it mattered. Thoughtful, where you didn't think anything of it. There were some kinks to figure out. Physical touch was difficult. You'd retract before she even made contact. Anything more intimate than simple courting made you apprehensive. She logically knew it was because of whatever the Shadow Factory did to you. You never went into depth about what happened, content to let it settle and grow stagnant and fester. Regardless, a small, insecure part of her felt rejected. She indeed had more time to adjust to this new normal than you did, but what if she was the one barracading you from happiness? An unsettling feeling inflated in her chest, and her brows drew together.

"Could you pick up the printed documents?" Pepper piped up, breaking the redhead's train of thought.

"Of course."

You may or may not have made a horrible lapse in judgment. You weren't supposed to want, to crave more than you had already. You had freedom, security, and love, so why did you buy more than you intended? The colorful pages had caught your eye while grocery shopping, a pasta cookbook. At first, you only planned to skim it and commit it to memory, but a bit of scrolling later, it ended up in the cart. Now it stood haughtily on the kitchen island like a proud statue. All the while, you sat on the sofa with your head between your legs and your hands clasped. Despair gripped you. How could you forget that simple rule? Natasha's going to hate you, yet all you could think of was the dark and numb hands, the instructors demanding you punch until you bled. "Bestrafen Sie die gierigen Finger und den gierigen Geist." Punish the reaching fingers and the greedy mind. The dented metal post from all the misbehaving girls was once cold, but warmed by your blood. The dried crimson flaked and turned the shiny metal a rusty color. You stole food. You were hungry. Five days hungry, and before that? Punished for trying to befriend a shade with starvation in isolation. "I deserve this" became a mantra in your head.

Breathing out a shaky breath, you hoped you could play it off, distract the spy before she noticed your purchase. You didn't want to hide your misdeeds, but you weren't proud of them either. Better own up to them before the consequences inflate.

"I'm home," Natasha yawns, mussing her hair. It's hours before bedtime, but working full-time for a CEO was no easy feat, never mind part-time spying. The customer had sent incorrect copies two different times, and the redhead was finally able to print the final plan and go home. The smell of mushroom risotto invaded her nostrils, and her feet gravitated towards the kitchen. Kicking off her heels, she dropped her bag near the island. You pointedly focused on the pan and not at her, which was unusual.

A flash of dandelion caught her attention. A stark white book. Its cover was a flour bag tipping over, and the powder transforming into pasta halfway. Anna Ameyama's Guide to the Italian World, Natasha mused internally.

"New hobby?" Natasha questioned innocently. It's good that you were finding hobbies outside of work. You shrug, but the way your eyes darted and your chin tilted made her suspect something.

"What's wrong?" You give a noncommittal huff. The spy's brows furrowed. She was winning the battle, but it's not like you were fighting her inquisitiveness.

"I don't know if you don't tell me," Natasha hummed as she propped her chin on your shoulder and draped herself over you. Your hand twitched faintly on the ladle. You go to say what you've been reciting to yourself. The words, too murky to make anything of them, so you repeat them again.

"I bought the book. I'm sorry. I was selfish. It won't happen again." The crime, the apology, the reflection, and the promise—just how the factory taught you. You had apologized incorrectly the first few times. You had hesitated, and your handler contested that you weren't even ashamed at all. The smack they delivered still echoes in the outskirts of your memory, resounding when your mind quiets.

"Oh, милая. You're more than allowed to want." Darling. Your stomach fluttered at the nickname, unable to feel as apprehensive as you were.

"I don't deserve it… I" killed those people, did those things. Your throat clogs when you go to utter those damning verdicts. Natasha knew what you were going to declare. It's the same excuse she used for herself, a justification she's yet to overcome. She's glad you didn't say it, breathe it into existence.

Natasha's hold tightened protectively, as if she could shield you from your thoughts. "As a commanding officer, I say it's fine." It was a low blow to pull rank, but sometimes that's all you understood. Structure and discipline. Hierarchy and control. A double sword. At least, that's what she understood when she defected. Nevertheless, that explanation seemed to put your worries at ease.

The next night, the subject resurfaced. Your body subconsciously molds itself into hers. Not quite cuddling, but close enough to be aware of the proximity. The sliver of her breath ghosted your neck.

"How was your day?" the redhead inquired. Overtime had kept her at the office or wherever Pepper went. Despite all the training, those heels hurt like hell by the end of the day. She even contemplated going barefoot at the cubicles. By the time she arrived home, you were dressed for bed and eyeing the front door for her entrance.

You gave a noncommittal, drowsy hum. "I got to explore the city…" You knew she knew you didn't answer the question. Natasha fought the urge to sigh. You weren't being secretive on purpose. You just aren't about sharing feelings. As though a light bulb lit up, you straightened out slightly. Tongue in cheek, you add, "I did pass a nice Japanese restaurant today." Although you weren't facing the spy, your eyes strayed in her direction. It smelled relatively pleasant, and you've never had much asian cuisine. More often than not, actions are driven by a purpose. You just weren't sure what you were getting at with telling Natasha about that place that smelled like soy sauce, seaweed, and fish. The spot you were magically drawn to with harmonizing colors of white and red, and little bonsais. Perhaps it's the overwhelming details you remember while waiting for the crosswalk. Maybe it's the family you saw laughing in the window. Perhaps it's the overwhelming details you remember while waiting for the crosswalk. Maybe it's the family you saw laughing in the window.

"Should we go and try it? I'll be a bit free tomorrow," Natasha proposed, keeping her tone light for your rejection. Your eyes widen. You don't expect much. You just weren't sure your wishes would be respected, so you phrased it in that way. So conditioned to anticipate rejection. A pawn has no need for desires, just the function to listen, yet you wanted to go.

Internally, emotions and instincts warred. Natasha could've dangled a carrot in front of you, and you'd bite. Starved for any ounce of affection. But this was Natasha, not the factory.

"Can we…?" you hesitated. Shyly, you turned over to see the confirmation.

"It's a date," Natasha smiled. Despite the day's wear and tear on her, she seemed genuinely excited. You returned her smile, assured. When it was lights out, the plans bounced around your mind, invading your rest. By morning, you had slept a wink. Little did you know, the widow didn't either.

The evening was a chaotic controlled disorder, to be concise. Long before the redhead came home, you fumbled with the clothes you recently bought. The curse of traveling light. Double-checking your mesh face, keys, and locks, you left a note for the spy. You planned to arrive before she did to provide her some reprieve after work.

You settled by a lone wooden bench under a tree. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting specks along the pavement. The weather wasn't overly scorching, better than the European summers without air conditioning. Perspiration gathered at your palms. Legs shook, trying to release the tension. You chided yourself for the nerves. You've done this a hundred times before, yet none of them has been this real.

Natasha was almost confident that the new, pretentious board of directors and shareholders would make her tardy. Even though her performance is solely for the mission, she feels bad for Pepper, having to deal with all those men. Really, not even a single woman.

Honestly, she has to thank you for choosing a casual restaurant because heels and a constricting skirt were annoying her. And though the blouse hid much of her chest, the men stared at her cleavage. Disgusted by the sexualization, she discarded it for a quick leather jacket and tee. As much as she had to feed into their ego for information, it was like ants crawling up her arms. She tossed the notes she collected onto your workstation before heading out, a duty put aside for life.

There you were, leaning against the red brick, scanning for her face in the crowd. Natasha observed you, not yet drawing attention to herself. Even away from Hydra, she could tell your habits stayed intact. A common tactic was to keep your back to the wall to minimize the angles you had to hold. Your searching eyes gave away the anxiety. She decided to show mercy, signaling her appearance.

You used to envy families passing by windows, sidewalks, and restaurants. Wouldn't it be nice to belong somewhere and be loved as anything at all? Somewhere along the way, it turned to hate and anger, and it was all you could feel before being snuffed out. Yet this time, you had someone to go home to. Someone special to tell little insignificant things. Someone lovely who kisses your face in the morning when she doesn't think you're awake. You could be that family walking along the pavement this time.

The familiar red glint made you beam, forgetting all about your nervousness. Natasha rocked a biker girl theme with shades to amp it up. The corner of her mouth lifted. "Did you wait long?"

"Nope," you beamed.

The spy held the door for you, and you muttered a quick thank you. The two of you were led to the booth and given the menu. All was quiet. The shock hadn't truly settled. This was real, and it was happening.

Natasha had long picked out her meal, but you were flipping the menu back and forth and eyeing certain dishes. You became indecisive with no one to tell you what to do, but you still whittled it down between ramen and curry.

"Are you guys ready to order?" the waiter asked. Pen poised to jot down. You were prepared to decline, having yet chosen your pick.

"Yeah, one katsu curry and shoyu ramen." A little of her Japanese seeping out. You weren't sure what she was up to, but you were opposed to conflicting with her.

"So how are you?"

You had listened candidly to Natasha's vivid recounting of her day when the food came.

"Here, have some." Natasha spooned some curry into an extra plate for you. Little did you know she'd continue this habit several years later. Afterward, conversation and smiles flowed easily. Damn, you really love her.

Chapter Text

Natasha probably wasn't your first beloved. Probably. There were sparks of all kinds of relations in the shadow factory. Tiny embers. With enough care and attention, they could've bloomed into something beautiful and unwritten. Regardless, in an environment with no tinder and raging winds, what can a flame do but be snuffed out? Any crackle of heat was met with unyielding stamping and the cold waters of reality.

You met him in a mixed-sex class. Warm hazel orbs and light brown hair, a dopey smile adorning his face, he approached you, hands open, so how could you not be drawn in? It had been an easy-going camaraderie, but it was too good to be true. He chose you because he thought you were easy pickings, like a vulture to a carcass. When that year's test ran, you were confused to be paired against him. You'd been quiet about your associations.

He had ratted you out, and now, he was planning to gut you, too. You never saw gazes harden so fast, and a smirk set in so haughtily. He enjoyed the hunt and the metallic taste. A natural born killer. Those didn't last long in the program. Individuals whom they couldn't control. He wasn't sneering like he won when you were done with him. His head was matted with blood, and it stuck to your hands like glue. It didn't feel like a victory, but a bitter resentment of your existence.

- Loyalty Test B, 1998

You had been adjusting well. You were still relatively uneasy with such an enormous space, accustomed to the tiny cell block where feet easily cramped when you lay flat. A place unlike the customary cloying air of despair. Upon reflection, you're confident that those personal cells were more stifling than shared barracks. You had more free rein and spent it "scouting." Hours unaccompanied by Natasha or documenting individuals were spent listlessly wandering the streets. There were times when you felt someone had taken you out of a jigsaw puzzle and put you in another. Unfit, jagged, and misplaced.

Of course, Natasha has no knowledge of this. No, she's blinded by your radiance and tenderness, but no one could blame her because it's genuine. You adore her, but maybe love isn't enough to make you content. Regardless, you don't voice this that morning.

"Good morning, Ms. Potts. Mr. Stark is invited to" Natasha pauses to look at her tablet for the event's title.

"Wait, why are you here so early? Did the security check finish already?" Shit. She forgot. If the slight twitch in her brow was any indication, she was a bit annoyed by her memory. The halt was all Pepper needed to dismiss the redhead and assure it was okay.

Natasha wasn't sure how she could overlook something so important. Home was a good 15-minute drive. She didn't have to be there fast, just faster than the security officer. Storming heels and dilated eyes, she scans the apartment walls for her door. Bingo. The 404 room plate shines brightly against the modern brown wall paint. She made it just in time.

A middle-aged man with graying brown hair and a bulky build freezes with his hand ready to ring the doorbell. He startles at the commotion that is the spy's blazing path. Shit, she forgot to tell you about the clearance.

"You're here for the security authorization, right? My apartment is a bit cluttered. If you don't mind, I'll hop in and sort things out. Then, I'll be with you," Natasha smiled, a little too wide, voice too high, and a tone that hopefully deters the man from prodding. Unlike spies, civilians usually don't notice any of these things. Sometimes, the occasional actor, psychiatrist, or investigator.

"Thompson. I got another appointment after this. It'll be quick and I'll be out of your hair," he said, sucking his teeth. She could tell he was trying to be polite where he wasn't. Pushy. He wasn't the type to accept "no." So she tried to pry the door open and sneak off when a fellow resident caught Thompson's attention for a second. Unfortunately, she wasn't that lucky, and he jammed the hinges. The redhead slightly panics, and her orbs search for you—to tell you to hide, but emptiness greets her. You must be out, or so she hopes. She couldn't fight against his insistence anymore without looking guilty, so she relented and allowed him in.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Natasha felt the molten stone of aggravation in the pits of her stomach. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes and smack the arrogance out of him, she gave him the tour. Except that fire dies when he checks every hiding spot you could've found. The mission would get a lot more complicated if they found you. So her fear spikes every time he looks under, in, or, God forbid, above something. Her arms tighten around her as the investigation nears the end, and there are fewer hiding spots. If you are leaving the house, you always alert her beforehand due to mission safety, but you aren't here. Worry consumes her.

Finally, an eternity passes, and they settle on the couch for the interview. Natasha can almost breathe, but infuriatingly, Thompson idly checks off his list and delays his departure.  

It's when he asks about relationships that a metallic crash echoes from the terrace. They both turn their heads slowly to the sunlit platform.

"Is there anyone else living with you?" he asks quietly, suddenly afraid there's an intruder.

"No," Natasha lies easily, slipping it in like sweetened medicine. He inches toward the glass door, but she's the one who opens it, rushing to cover for you if needed. But there's no one there, only a fallen watering can you use for the herbs. It could be perfectly explained by the wind or misplacement, but she knows you, and you don't set objects carelessly. Sometimes it'll be messy, but never unavigable, organized only for you to traverse.

The interview ends swiftly after that. The air of superiority finally cleared the way for some professionalism. Thompson leaves as swiftly as his ego.

"You can come out now," Natasha beckons.

"Don't tell the neighbors I climbed into their balcony," you say as you swing yourself over the railing. Dusting off the debris from chaffing yourself against the concrete, you get a good look at the widow. Hair a bit disheveled, and the slight shake in her hand gives her away.

"Don't scare me like that." Both of you knew how irrational that request was. There was no third option in your escape. Instead of contesting her point, you stare at her incredulously. But with her hands squeezing tighter around her, you concede and close the distance. Encircling your arms, you shield her from the world despite your small stature. Gently extracting her nails from their crescent indents, you allow the intimacy to engulf you.

"I'm not just any civilian," you whisper. Natasha doesn't reply or push you away. She stays in your embrace, the pair of you swaying in your little dance. She can only see you as the broken woman she found in the wreck, in a hospital bed, not the person who almost bested her in a spar or a mass killer on the torn-up file. She knows you're capable, but knowing is different than feeling. Maybe she wasn't so far off. You're broken, damaged goods, and you've accepted that.

Somehow, your relationship changed in a day. Perhaps it's how fiercely the spy cared about you that prompted you to be bold the next.

The evening went as usual. Natasha arrived home punctually at five and disclosed information to add to the current report on Tony Stark's candidacy. Except that she divulged a bit more about work than work "work."

"I met Tony Stark today." You give an uninterested hum. It was expected to eventually meet the target.

"The guy should really be convicted of workplace harassment." It wasn't abnormal for Natasha to make offhand comments, aside from the fact that she doesn't do so during work time. This definitely piqued your interest.

"What happened?" you ask.

"Remember the false background we made. Well, it absolutely worked. Tony made sure to search it, not before ogling me," Natasha sighed. Although you had been prepped on the mission details, it still disturbed you that Natasha had to "model" half-naked poses.

"Are you okay?" Concern etching your voice. Your brows drawn in. Assignments were final. They were obligations, ones you couldn't question or express any discomfort with. You knew that too well. When does duty push the line of burden?

You see the widow stiffen. She's never known how to answer that, especially one as sincere as yours. A part of her wants to brush it off. No big deal, but that's not true. It bugs her. The wandering stares and mind disgust her. Some can lust and love. Some exclusively lust and conquer, and control what they think they're entitled to. She wants no business with conquerors.

"I'll be okay," she mutters. As though the sentence took all her air, she deflates a little. Her limbs are unsteady as if they're unsure where to belong. She decides she'll hit the gym before her nightmares hit her. Can't remember when you're exhausted.

You watch her slog off with her gym gear. You're pissed, or at least you think you are. A frown, shaky hands, a racing heart, and a murderous thought. You decide you hate Tony, Shield, and everyone who pressured Natasha to go through with this. In your rage, you become a passionate Shakespeare and call Stark every offensive name possible in your report. You doubt the director will approve of it, but it does make you feel better.

It wasn't until Natasha was sure she'd pass out the minute her head hit the pillow that she came back. Sweaty and mind clearer. There you stood poring over the recipe book you bought. She knows you're attentive to her presence when your ears flicker towards her. The apartment smells like pesto, and she has half the mind to guess it's pasta boiling. It's homemade, judging from the empty flour bag in the trash.

"Y'know, most people keep recipe books more as a decoration than anything. I'm glad you're using it," Natasha remarked. She could tell you were amused by the curve of a smile, but nothing of the contents of your brain that night.

"Go take a shower, stinky," you tease. A mock salute and an eyeroll later, you got the kitchen and your thoughts to yourself again. You wanted more than just cuddles and the tension between the two of you. There was defined trust, but not enough conviction to do anything.

"So do I get a nickname change?" Natasha steps out of the bedroom with a towel around her shoulders and the smell of your shared shampoo.

"Natty." She pouts. Not what she wanted, but she joins you at the island, also known as the second office. The lights are dim. Roses perch in their watery vases. The high-piled documents are nowhere to be seen. There's an unopened wine bottle, but she doubts you'll drink any, so you bought it for her. She hasn't touched alcohol for some time, not because she's clean, but it messes up her system for missions.

You're patiently waiting for her, but with the way you're squirming and fidgeting, she bets you're nervous for her to try dinner. The basil smells divine, and the wine is freshly poured. There's a glass for you, too, but it'll go untouched. It's for politeness. You aren't the finest chef, and there's not much Natasha would comment on that makes your dishes special, but you try too hard to just feed her. Cook with love, and somehow it tastes amazing to her. Suddenly, you're the best chef in the world.

You fork your pasta, but you don't plan to take the first bite. You eye the redhead, waiting for her verdict. The suspense is running high, and all you want to do is release all that energy.

"It's so good, I could kiss you," she drawls. Each word punctuated and slowed. As if she were asking for your permission. It dawns on you that maybe you both want this. That you weren't greedy, it just takes some communication.

"Then why don't you?" You give a sly smirk, feeling a surge of courage. You're not sure what emboldens you. Leaning in, you let yourself be surrounded by her air. Face impossibly close. You guys stare at each other, both a little intimidated, but Natasha slowly pulls in, giving you time to pull out. Instinctively, you close your eyes and immerse yourself in the realm of the void and sensations. The vulnerability scares you. What you'll see if you meet her gaze. Disgust? Doubt? Regret? Her nose graces yours gently before you could have second thoughts. This isn't either of your first kisses. In fact, both of you were trained for it, yet you were nervous. You wondered if she was, too.

Natasha's initial thought was fucking finally. Her next thought? She could get addicted to this. Chapped lips, but still soft. Your lips tasted like the borrowed strawberry Chapstick and a hint of basil. She could feel you fighting the urge to grin like a fool. Her hand rested lightly on your neck, not pulling or pushing, but still promising more. Your calloused hands found purchase on her thighs from the awkward posture. There was an unintentional delicious squeeze. Lengthy, but sweet, adoring. Nonetheless, her universe narrowed to one thing—you.

What she thought would be a peck transformed into a wanting, and a fire ignited below her navel when she saw your eyes flutter open. They were dilated and on the same page as she was. Hungry for dessert.

Like celestial bodies colliding, you surge forward to claim her lips again. Confidence flooding your bloodstream. This union wasn't dainty or innocent. It devoured and tore out all your inhibitions. As if you guys were stealing the very oxygen from each other's lungs. A fevered haze that only desires more. Natasha dominated your mouth, and all you could do was let her have it, yet you couldn't find any remorse in doing so. All you could taste was her. A neediness clung to you as tensions from the past months eased. Your emotions yearned for more, but your mind betrayed you. You weren't ready, and maybe you never will be. The thought stuttered your heart and your resolve. You took the initiative to pull away, to gain any control left, even though you wished for her to take it all away.

Natasha understands the somber glaze in your eye and reluctantly hauls herself away from you. This wasn't a sour note nor the end of the dance, but the promise of a different waltz another day. The spy is more than content with this outcome, because it's more than she had hoped for. If anything, she's pumped up, secured that this wasn't a dying passion, nor that she was just a trophy partner. The following night, Natasha was wholly assured of this.

The spy had made a pit stop much after her shift, but her hours are really never over, at least not with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. Honestly, she worries about their PR team, and even more for the HR department. They must be practicing miracles in there to keep the industry in good graces. Regardless, this wasn't your average oil spill. No, Tony Stark was invited to the Monaco Grand Prix, and she had to be there asap. Pepper had offered her a seat in their private jet, but she declined. It'll be hard to explain how she got there in five hours for a 14-hour flight, but it's not impossible.

She had everything. She just had to say goodbye. Sitting on your bedside, she kisses the top of your sleepy head. "I'll come home late. Eat without me," she murmurs. Although you don't acknowledge her, she knows you were awake. You would've been, at any sign of movement or sound. Plus, your breathing changed the minute she tried to leave bed.

When you were confident that the redhead had left, you sighed. "Love you too…" You weren't looking forward to a lonely dinner, but maybe you were going soft.

The event had been disastrous from the secretary and assistant's point of view, but incredibly useful in reducing eligibility for the Protector's Initiative. Getting to see what makes him tick and whether he cares about the civilians.

It's 12 AM when her Quinjet lands in Los Angeles, and 1 AM when she unlocks the apartment door. She'll likely be the one writing the report today since you should be asleep by now. Instead, she finds you on the couch, bathed in the moonlight creeping from the terrace. You're cleaning your handguns meticulously. You must've been waiting for her. Although she finds it hard to believe she was worth staying up for. You were a stickler for your schedule, ingrained in you by the shadow factory. Unless your nightmares were invasive, she's a bit dumbfounded that you stayed awake.

"I'll take a quick shower. Go to sleep," Natasha nudged tiredly. The sleep was getting to her. You follow her into the bedroom, where the widow discards her luggage. She thinks you're heeding her advice when you go under the covers, yet when she exits the shower, you're still watching her. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but your stubbornness was even heavier. You felt compelled to spend as much of your waking hours with her as possible, to appreciate the quiet hours of the night with her.

The spy climbed into bed with you, her heat invading all surfaces. You didn't mind if all sides of the pillows were warm because of her. You didn't mind it more than empty sheets.