Chapter 9
Clint’s hand hovers over the bottle of water.
He doesn’t expect her to take it. Natasha Romanoff’s pride runs deep, and he knows how it feels when someone tries to offer something out of pity or obligation. He’s been in enough low points to recognize the kind of rejection she’s probably feeling right now, even if she doesn’t show it.
But when he holds it out to her, she looks up at him. Her gaze sharp, calculating, as if she’s trying to figure out whether this is another test, another trap.
Without breaking eye contact, she takes it.
For a moment, neither of them says anything.
Clint leans back against the wall, letting her drink, letting the silence stretch between them. She’s still shaken — he can see it in the stiff way she holds herself, the faint tension in her jaw, the subtle but noticeable signs that she’s still reeling from everything that happened in the training room.
But then, without warning, she speaks.
“I didn’t ask for this,” She says, voice low but firm. “I didn’t ask for anyone to step in and save me. I can handle myself.”
Clint’s lips curl into a small smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I never said you couldn’t,” He replies immediately, his voice smooth. “But the thing is, Romanoff, you’ve been handling yourself your whole life. And look where that’s gotten you.”
She freezes, her hand tightening around the bottle, but she doesn’t respond right away. Clint watches her, letting the weight of his words sink in.
He’s not going to sugarcoat it. He doesn’t need to. She’s been in the game long enough to know how brutal it can be, how unforgiving. But she’s never had someone offer her a way out, a real chance at something different. And he’s not going to let her waste it, no matter how much she resists.
“You know what’s funny?” Clint continues, stepping closer, his tone shifting just a little, more playful — intentional than before. “I was expecting the infamous Black Widow to just... keep fighting. To tear through anything that stood in her way, like she always has.”
Natasha’s eyes narrow, the fire in her gaze flaring.
“But instead,” Clint goes on, taking a step back, giving her space to breathe, “You’re ready to quit. Just like that.”
Her lip curls in a brief sneer, but Clint can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her muscles coil, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. He knows this game. He’s played it, lived it, and the fact that she’s reacting at all means something.
“You think this is easy?” She snaps. “You think you can just tell me to stop being a killer and I’ll magically stop? That I can just forget everything?”
Clint’s smile fades, his eyes darkening slightly. He knows that look. He’s had it himself too many times to count. He’s lived with the past, haunted by it, unable to shake the weight of all the people he’s killed, the decisions he’s made. It doesn’t just disappear because someone offers a better life.
“No,” He huffs quietly. “I know it’s not easy. I know what it costs. But I also know this: You’ve been stuck in that cycle for a hell of a long time, and you don’t have to stay there.”
Natasha’s jaw clenches, but Clint holds her gaze, refusing to let her look away. He knows the fight is still in her, even if she’s trying to bury it.
“This isn’t about me saving you,” He adds, his voice calm, steady. He’s channeling his inner Phil, or whatever he’s picked up from the old man. “This is about you saving yourself. You said you wanted out. Well, this is your chance. You don’t get many of those.”
Natasha’s fingers twitch, the bottle of water still gripped tightly in her hand, and for the first time since they met, Clint sees a flicker of doubt in her eyes. A hint of hesitation.
“Just because you’re offering me a way out,” She says slowly, her voice quieter now, “Doesn’t mean I’ll take it.”
Clint doesn’t back down.
“That’s your choice,” He shrugs, his voice steady. “But if you do take it, don’t waste it. Make the most out of it, because this is the only second chance you’re going to get.”
Her eyes flicker, then, almost imperceptibly, as if the weight of his words is finally sinking in. He can see the battle inside her, the pull between the life she’s known and the one she could have if she lets go of everything that’s been holding her back.
Clint doesn’t expect her to admit it right away. Hell, he doesn’t expect her to thank him. But in that moment, he knows something’s changed.
She’s thinking.
And that’s all he needs.
“Well,” She blows out a breath; her voice is tight, but there’s a new edge to it, something sharper, something that hadn’t been there before. “If I’m going to do this... I’m doing it my way.”
Clint grins. It’s small, but it’s there.
“That’s the idea.”
Weeks have passed since the sparring accident. The shock from that day is long gone, but its weight lingers in her mind, settling into something quieter, something grounding. She’s found a rhythm now — training, studying SHIELD’s protocols, learning the way things work. It’s not easy, but it’s something to focus on, something to keep her hands and mind occupied.
Clint’s words still sit with her. She doesn’t dwell on them, not exactly, but they surface in the quiet moments. When she’s catching her breath after training, when she’s cleaning her weapons, when she’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling and waiting for sleep that doesn’t come easily.
She’s still figuring out what this all means — who she’s supposed to be here. But for the first time in a long time, she has some sense of direction.
So when Phil Coulson pulls her aside after a morning session, she doesn’t expect anything unusual. He’s been keeping an eye on her, checking in every so often, but mostly letting her adjust at her own pace.
Just as he promised.
“Walk with me,” He says simply.
Natasha follows without hesitation, matching his stride as he leads her through the halls. SHIELD’s New York base is efficient, structured, built for function over form. The agents move with purpose, never lingering, always moving toward something. It’s not so different from the Red Room in that way. The biggest difference is the people here don’t look over their shoulders the way she used to — or, well, at least not with the intent to someday eliminate one another.
Phil leads her to an empty conference room, the kind she’s sat in more times than she can count in the past few weeks. The moment the door clicks shut behind them, he turns to face her, arms crossed.
“You won’t be training with the other recruits anymore,” He announces, getting straight to the point.
Natasha tilts her head slightly, studying him. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t offer her an immediate explanation.
She waits a beat before asking, “Why?”
Phil exhales, leaning back against the table behind him. “Because you don’t belong there.”
Something in her stiffens.
“I see.”
She keeps her expression neutral, but the words settle in uncomfortably.
“I should’ve expected this,” She continues, voice cool, measured. “SHIELD may have recruited me, but you don’t trust me. You don’t want me anywhere near your people.”
“That’s not it.” Phil raises a brow, unimpressed. Unimpressed, but not surprised; she wonders how many times Clint reacted to something Phil said with a similar response as hers to make a man normally so composed and easy-going to convey such dry amusement with a lift of a brow.
She doesn’t reply, just waits.
He studies her for a moment, then sighs. “You’re not a rookie, Natasha. And I’m not going to waste your time pretending you are.”
That throws her off. It’s not what she expected.
“You’ve spent your entire life in combat,” Phil continues, voice even. “Training, fighting, surviving. You don’t need to be in a class learning how to take down an opponent when you already know how to kill a man in twelve different ways before he even knows he’s in danger.”
Natasha doesn’t react. She could correct him — twelve is an understatement — but she keeps her mouth shut.
Phil straightens, unfolding his arms. “You’ll be training with me from now on. Occasionally, Clint will step in and join.”
Clint.
She doesn’t let her expression slip, but she wonders — wonders why Clint gets that role, why he’s the one being assigned to her at all. She’s noticed that he doesn’t train with the recruits either, but she hasn’t figured out why.
Phil’s still watching her, his unreadable expression giving nothing away.
“This isn’t a punishment,” He clarifies after a beat. “It’s an adjustment. I need to make sure you’re ready for the field when the time comes.”
She doesn’t respond right away, turning his words over in her mind.
He’s not wrong.
Training with recruits has felt... off. The movements are too slow, the techniques too basic. She’s had to hold back, forcing herself to mimic their learning pace. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone noticed.
Still, something about this doesn’t sit right.
She meets Phil’s gaze. “You could’ve told me this from the start.”
“I could’ve,” He acknowledges. “But I needed to see how you handled yourself first.”
She exhales quietly, nods. “Fine.”
Phil doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it be.
“We start tomorrow morning,” He smiles cheerfully. “Bright and early.”
Natasha nods again, turning toward the door.
Just before she reaches it, she pauses.
“You said I don’t belong with the other recruits,” She says, glancing back at him. “Where do I belong, then?”
Phil doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is calm, certain.
“We’ll find out.”