Friends
SHIELD Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
August 2003
Natasha clenched her fists.
It was the last test before she could be operational for SHIELD. Before she could get back to doing what she did best. Before she could continue her search for her Soldier, this time with the considerable access and financial resources provided her by the most widespread intelligence agency the world had ever seen.
It helped that SHIELD, at least, was actively trying to help people. Unlike her old handlers.
“Strobe.”
“Nineteen.”
“Telephone.”
“Recorded.”
She controlled the flinches. Resisted the neural programming that roared up at the first syllable of “nineteen” and tried to take over, to wipe her away, to turn her into their weapon.
She was her own weapon now. Not SHEILD’s, not anyone’s.
“Citation.”
“Silicon.”
The urge was strong. She fought it, ignored it, as she’d been practicing for three years of SHIELD therapy. They couldn’t use her until she was safe. She had to prove herself.
“Bookshelf.”
“Grief.”
“Ruble.”
“Upholstered
I. Am. Natasha. Romanova.
“Soldier. Ready to comply?”
She stood in one fluid movement. “No.”
“Soldier. Ready to comply.”
The SHIELD psychologist looked caught between nervousness and relief. “No. I am Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow, and I’ve passed your test.”
A voice crackled over the loudspeakers. “She’s clean.”
The psychologist looked up. “Sir-”
“I said , she’s clean.”
A door hissed open across the lab, and a tall man in an eye patch stalked through. He nodded sharply to Natasha, speaking now in person rather than through the microphone still clipped to his collar. “Agent Romanoff. Welcome to Shield.”
She nodded once, accustomed by now to the Americanized version of her name. “Appreciated.”
“Come with me. You’ll be partnered with Agent Barton. He’s waiting in the atrium.”
Natasha followed her new handler out of the lab.
“Our bargain holds?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not stupid enough to cross you.”
She grinned. It still felt odd, but here, with these people… it was the first time since her Soldier that she had met anyone she even wanted to relax with.
Not completely. Slight relaxation. Enough to smile, on occasion.
“Just checking.”
“Yes, you’ll operate on my orders alone. Yes, you’ll work by yourself or with Barton. Yes, we will disavow all knowledge of you if you’re ever caught. Satisfied?”
“Yes.” No. She didn’t trust him. But that was because she didn’t trust anyone.
They entered the atrium, which was less a proper atrium and more a dingy lobby with skylights - SHIELD liked to keep a low-profile. “Atrium” was more a joke than anything else.
Barton waited across the room, leaning on the wall and tapping away at his phone. He grinned when he saw them. “Passed your test, I see.”
Natasha smiled tightly. “KGB brainwashing has been overridden. I am now operational.”
“Congratulations.”
The man had grown up a lot in the two years since they’d met. She knew he had done his fair share of operations while she’d been cooped up with the scientists, carefully picking apart the neural programming that had left her to the mercy, once, of anyone who knew the words. He seemed quieter, now, and older, as if his body had aged only half as much as his mind. But he still had a smile for her.
“Agents,” Fury said, “here is your first assignment.” He handed a manila folder to Barton. “Don’t forget to burn it. You’re my secret weapon, you two. Don’t make me regret it.”
Barton laughed. “Bet you didn’t see this coming when you put her on the kill list, sir.”
Fury raised his one visible eyebrow at the younger agent. “Let’s just say it was no accident I sent a volatile young agent with a history of deviance after our friend the Widow here.” He nodded at her and clapped a hand on Barton’s shoulder. “Prove me right, Agents.”
The tall man marched away, the ever-present black duster snapping around his calves.
“There’s not even any wind,” Barton complained. “How does he make that stupid coat do that?”
Natasha’s lips twitched. “Even the fabric is afraid of him.”
Bartons snorted. “Oh, look, you do have a sense of humor. Who would have guessed.”
“Keep it up, Barton, and you’ll see how funny I am.”
He looked at her oddly. “Barton?”
Natasha blinked, and was instantly annoyed with herself; she knew Barton was sharp enough to pick up on the physical tell. She was getting sloppy. “It’s your name.”
“Nah.” He grinned, arms out to the sides, manila folder dangling from his fingers as he walked backwards toward the front doors. “I’m Michael Jackson, remember?”
“You can’t sing,” she reminded him.
He waved a hand. “Semantics.”
Natasha shook her head and pushed out the doors ahead of him, wondering how exactly this agent, more than forty years her junior, had managed to get past her defenses so easily.
Maybe it was because he trusted her.
She still couldn’t figure out why he had decided to do so with such ease.
“Seriously, though. We’re partners now. Call me Clint or this is going to be awkwardly formal.”
“Is that a usual thing? Among SHIELD?”
“It’s a usual thing for friends.”
She glanced over. He hid his sudden insecurity well, but she played roles for a living. In comparison, he was still an amateur. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
“I sure hope so, or I’m going to be embarrassed,” he muttered, and she knew that tactic too: deflection through flippancy.
“I’ve not had many friends,” she admitted, and unbidden, a face shoved into her mind: cold eyes, brown hair, strong jaw. Her Soldier. The rage pulsed and howled against the years of barriers that held it down. She blinked and kept it shoved away. Locked up.
It was not a healthy psychological tactic, she knew that, but she didn’t care.
Barton - Clint - smirked. “I figured. So are we friends?”
“I do not think I know how.”
“That’s okay, you’ll sort it out.”
She examined his trusting blue-gray eyes. Remembered, unbidden, how he had lowered his bow in that room in Budapest, and the stubbornness with which he had defended himself when he arrived back at the headquarters with a world-famous ex-KGB assassin in tow, and how he was willing to work with her and offer her this hand of companionship even after he’d seen her ledger and the red pouring from its pages.
“Friends, then,” she said.
The smile that split his face was blinding.