Chapter 11
The night air is crisp, carrying the hum of the city below. From up here, New York looks distant, almost unreal — just a scattering of lights against the dark, as if none of it can actually touch him.
Clint leans against the rooftop ledge, rolling a knife between his fingers, letting the weight settle in his palm before flipping it once, twice. It’s an old habit, one he never quite shakes, something to keep his hands busy when his mind won’t shut up.
Ten years. Ten years since he was left to fend for himself, parents — who don’t even try to show up in his dream anymore — abandoning him and another faceless scar at the circus. Even after all those years, Duquesne is still rubbing off on him.
He huffs a bitter laugh as his mind wanders to Duquesne and the circus; clearly he hasn’t been sleeping much.
It’s not just the milkrun missions, though those haven’t helped. A few weeks of glorified babysitting jobs, low-risk assignments meant to keep him out of trouble. He’s been through worse, but the mind-numbing routine is starting to get to him.
And then there’s Natasha.
She’s progressing fast — faster than most. Which makes sense. She’s spent her whole life adapting, learning how to survive. That kind of instinct doesn’t just go away overnight.
She’s watching him. She doesn’t think he’s noticed, but he has. He notices everything, after all.
And maybe that’s what’s been keeping him up.
The way she moves, the way she trains, the way she still carries herself like she’s expecting someone to pull the rug out from under her at any moment. It’s all familiar. Too familiar.
Because Clint’s been there. Hell, maybe he still is.
The door creaks open behind him, and he doesn’t have to turn to know who it is.
“Took you long enough,” He mutters.
Phil’s footsteps are even as he steps up beside him, hands in his pockets. “Figured I’d let you have an hour or two to stare broodingly at the skyline before I interrupted.”
Clint huffs a quiet laugh. “Considerate of you.”
They lapse into silence, watching the city stretch beneath them. It’s comfortable. Familiar.
Eventually, Phil speaks. “You’ve been up here a lot lately.”
Clint shrugs. “Not much else to do.”
Phil gives him a look, and Clint knows he’s about two seconds from calling him on his bullshit.
Sure enough—
“You could sleep,” Phil points out.
Clint snorts. “Could. Won’t.”
Phil hums in acknowledgment. “And why’s that?”
Clint flips the knife in his hand again, watching the blade catch the light. “I keep thinking about the work we do.” He exhales. “The people we take out, the people we save. How if things had gone differently, I could’ve been on the other end of that.”
Phil doesn’t say anything, letting him get it out.
Clint rolls his shoulders, stretching the tension out of them. “She asked me why I gave her a second chance.”
Phil glances at him. “And what did you say?”
“That someone once did the same for me, and it seemed like the right thing to do,” Clint smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Not my most original line.”
Phil huffs. “It worked on you.”
“Yeah, well.” Clint exhales. “I don’t think I was ever meant to get out of that life, Phil. Just stumbled into the right place at the right time. Or maybe the wrong place, depending on how you look at it.”
Phil doesn’t respond right away, and Clint doesn’t look at him.
“Do you regret it?” Phil asks eventually.
Clint doesn’t answer right away. Because the truth is — he doesn’t know.
“Helping her,” Clint starts, voice quieter now, “It makes me think about when you found me.” He flips the knife again, slower this time. “I was stuck in my own head back then. Running in the trenches of my own damn mind.”
Phil listens, patient as always.
Clint exhales sharply. “I never really got out of it. I just — got better at navigating it.”
He pauses, flipping the knife once more before tucking it away. “But she — she’s still fresh out. She’s got people looking out for her. You, me, SHIELD.” He swallows. “I didn’t have that. Not at first.”
Phil watches him carefully. “And does that make you angry?”
Clint considers it. Maybe it should. But it doesn’t.
“Not angry,” He says finally. “Just... a little envious.”
Phil nods like he understands. And Clint thinks — maybe he does.
He shakes his head, forcing a smirk. “Must be getting sentimental in my old age.”
Phil snorts. “Right. Because twenty-two is ancient.”
“Feels like it,” Clint mutters.
Phil claps a hand on his shoulder. “Get some sleep, Barton.”
Clint watches him go, then turns his gaze back to the city.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever outrun the past. If he’ll ever stop feeling like he’s been running through the trenches of his own mind.
But maybe, he thinks, helping Natasha find her way is a step toward figuring out his own.
The summons to the conference room aren’t unusual.
She’s been called in before — Phil testing her knowledge of SHIELD protocol, security briefings, evaluations. It’s routine by now.
What is unusual is seeing Clint Barton already sitting there when she arrives.
She stops just inside the doorway, taking in the sight of him. He leans back in his chair, boots propped against the table, arms folded loosely over his chest. He looks like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, which, judging by his sporadic absences, wouldn’t surprise her.
For a second, she wonders where he’s been.
Then she tamps down the curiosity, filing it away for later.
Instead, she slides into the seat across from him. “Didn’t think you worked inside SHIELD HQ anymore,” She comments, keeping her tone neutral.
Clint smirks. “Miss me, partner?”
She huffs. “Hardly.”
Before he can fire back, the door swings open.
Phil Coulson strides in first, sharp-eyed and composed as always, followed closely by someone Natasha hasn’t had much direct interaction with — Director Nick Fury.
That gets her attention.
She straightens, eyes sharp as Fury drops a folder onto the table and folds his hands in front of him.
“Congratulations,” He says. “You’re both getting a promotion.”
Natasha’s fingers twitch slightly. She doesn’t know what to make of that.
Phil steps in, as always, the one to deliver the details. “As of today, you two are no longer solo agents-in-training. You’re a team now.” He slides two small patches across the table — dark navy fabric with an insignia. “Strike Team Delta.”
She picks up the patch, studying it, then glances at Clint, who hasn’t reacted much. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something considering in his gaze as he runs his thumb over the patch.
“You’ll be operating under SHIELD’s black ops division,” Phil continues. “Our missions will be off the record — high-risk, high-reward. We handle the things that can’t go public. I’ll be your handler, you’ll answer to me, and you’ll work together.”
Natasha lets that settle. It’s not a shock, exactly — she knew she wasn’t going to be placed with regular agents after all her training with Phil and Clint — but something about this feels… different. More final.
Fury steps forward, his one eye fixed on both of them. “You’re both skilled. Capable. More than enough to handle yourselves. But in this line of work, trust is everything. The two of you are going to learn to rely on each other.”
Natasha’s grip on the patch tightens.
Trust.
She’s spent her whole life surviving alone. Trusting only herself. And now she’s expected to work as part of a unit?
She glances at Clint again, trying to gauge his reaction. But if he has any thoughts on the matter, he’s keeping them to himself.
Instead, he flips the patch between his fingers, then tilts his head slightly, looking at Phil.
“So,” Clint smirks, “When do we start?”
Phil exhales, like he was waiting for that exact response. “Immediately.”
Fury nods. “Briefing is in an hour. First mission is in two days.” He turns to Natasha, his gaze weighty. “You’re not just an asset anymore, Romanoff. You’re an agent. SHIELD doesn’t do half-measures, and neither should you.”
She holds his gaze, saying nothing.
She’s been given second chances before — ones that turned out to be anything but. She doesn’t know what this is yet.
But she’ll figure it out.
She always does.
Fury shifts his focus to Clint. It’s subtle, but there’s something pointed in his look, an unspoken message passed between them. The way Clint presses his lips together, just barely resisting a smirk, tells Natasha there’s a deeper layer to whatever just transpired.
She files that away, too.
Then, without a word, Fury turns and strides out. Phil lingers, casting a glance between them before shaking his head slightly. “Try not to burn the place down before your first mission,” He mutters before following Fury out.
The moment the door closes, Clint stretches out his arms, exhaling in amusement. Then he looks at her, smirking.
“Well, guess partner is actually real now.”
Natasha looks down at the patch in her hands. Strike Team Delta.
A team.
She isn’t sure how she feels about that.
But Clint — Clint seems fine with it. More than fine, even.
And maybe, for once, that’s enough.
Her name is no longer Natalia Alianovna Romanova anymore. At least, she doesn’t identify with it. She’s Natasha Romanoff, still the same Black Widow, but no longer the silent bullet of a ghostly, dead empire. The Earth could not swallow her whole, so the universe lent her a helping hand to fly — free and unburdened.
Clint Barton gave her a second chance — a real second chance to leave her past behind, from the Red Room to the KGB — despite being sent to kill her. And though she still feels foreign amongst the rest of SHIELD, and even more foreign in her own skin with a new name, she’s still in the game. Maybe she’ll be a foreigner for eternity, who knows, or maybe not; but she’ll figure it out.
She always figures it out.