for enigma731: Thursday's Child
A Gift From: sugar_fey
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Thursday’s Child
A Gift For: enigma731
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: injury
Summary/Prompt Used: Five times Nick Fury asked something of Natasha Romanoff, and one time she asked something of him. (Prompt: Clint, Nat, and mentorship. Could be any combination of the two of them mentoring each other, could include Fury or Hill)
Author's Note: Merry Christmas, Enigma731! I really hope this fic is to your liking. Thanks to my beta for helping me whip this into shape.
banner by frea_o
Thursday’s child has far to go.
When Nick decides to speak to the Black Widow in person, she has already been on the Helicarrier for almost four weeks.
The reports on the desk in front of him rate her anywhere between cooperative to insolent, depending on the agent. The subject of the report is sitting across from him, wearing SHIELD issue sweatpants and a hoodie several sizes too big; her hands folded in her lap and her expression open and engaging.
“Miss Romanova,” Nick acknowledges. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”
“Director Fury,” Romanova says smoothly. Her voice is smoky, with the barest hint of an accent. “It’s an honour.”
Nick studies her carefully; curious to see how she’ll play this situation. “There’s no need for flattery here.”
“And I wasn’t trying to be merely complimentary,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours.” Nick holds up one of the reports in front of him. “You’ve caused quite a stir around here.”
She cocks her head as if she’s considering that prospect. “I suppose the curiosity is natural.”
Nick shrugs. “Could be. You’re not the first agent we’ve brought in like this.”
“Is that so?” Her voice is light, a shade away from flirtatious, the perfect tactic to get an ego-driven man to spill his guts.
Time to shut that down. “Nice try.”
She looks almost disappointed, but all that is probably part of the act. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard.”
“I’m not trying to get you to give up those habits, Miss Romanova. Those skills are why you’re here. Just don’t use them against us and we won’t have a problem.” Nick gives her a pointed look. “Now, I want to know about your first meeting with Agent Barton.”
“I already told your agents everything,” she remarks lightly, head tipped to the side.
“So humour me. What did Barton do that convinced you to join us?”
She purses her lips slightly, seeming to consider the question. “He offered me a chance, and the safety of being with an organisation that can provide support and back up,” she begins, fiddling with her sleeve. “It was a tempting prospect. Certainly better than dying.”
“Did he offer to let you go if you said no?”
Her left eyebrow arches like a challenge. “Why are you asking?” she counters.
Nick spreads his hands. “I want to be sure you’re joining SHIELD of your own free will.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“No thanks needed. If you didn’t want to be here I doubt we could hold you for long. I want to make sure we’re not wasting resources on you.”
Her eyes harden for a split second, but Nick won’t flatter himself into thinking he got under her skin. “I can assure you, Director, I intend to cooperate fully with SHIELD.”
“Really.” Nick lets his scepticism show in his voice. “Because this report says you made Agent Harper cry.”
Romanova’s shoulders twitch in a dismissive shrug. “He needs to learn how to deal with a difficult interrogation subject.”
“So you were being altruistic.” Nick leans back in his chair and folds his hands on his chest. “Around here, we prefer the word ‘interview’ to ‘interrogation.’”
She smiles, showing teeth. “Semantics.”
“Maybe. But as a show of good faith, I’m giving you a task.”
“What?” she says, her voice betraying a hint of curiosity-or is that only how she means it to sound? She’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery, like her mother country.
“There’s an agent I’m considering for promotion. I already know she’s brilliant. I need her to be better than that.”
“Of course,” Romanova agrees, and for the first time in this conversation, Nick believes her. From what he’s seen of her work and his knowledge of the Red Room, she’s the kind to accept nothing less than perfection.
Fury pushes a file across the desk. It slides along the glass surface and stops right in front of Romanova. Her green eyes look down at the file, but she doesn’t move to take it.
“Her name is Agent Hill,” Nick explains. “I’ve arranged for her to interview you at 0900 tomorrow. I want you to give her hell.”
“What happens if she fails?”
Her question comes as a genuine surprise. “I’ll give the promotion further thought. Surviving an interview with you is not the only factor I’m looking at.”
Her eyes glint, her smile going just a hint towards feral. “Sounds like fun.”
“Welcome on board, Romanova.”
+++++
Nick doesn’t see the Black Widow again until after she’s been given official clearance as an agent; almost eight months later.
Her progress reports are optimistic about her recovery and future career, but Nick still insists on handling her first briefing himself. Nick spots her red hair through the glass office window. She’s sitting next to Barton, her back ramrod straight and her hands folded in her lap, just as she did the first time Nick spoke to her.
Barton sits up a little straighter when Nick enters the room, but she doesn’t move.
“Barton, Romanoff,” Nick acknowledges gruffly. He can’t guess at why Romanova chose to Anglicise her name, but he’s not about to question it.
The mission, he explains, is simple, practically a milk run. He can see Barton’s mood start to sour throughout the briefing, but Romanoff seems unaffected by the prospect of being assigned a mission usually given to junior level agents. She knows when to keep her cards close. Maybe she can teach Barton a thing or two.
After the briefing Barton stomps off, no doubt to shoot at things. To Nick’s surprise, Romanoff lingers.
“Got any questions, Romanoff?”
“No,” she says softly. Less than a month in America and already any trace of her Russian accent is gone. She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I owe you and Agent Barton a debt.”
She looks as though she wants, what? Validation? Approval? She’s frustratingly hard to read, but that’s why she’s in SHIELD. Nick rearranges the papers on his desk, a signal that as far he’s concerned, the conversation is over. “You want to clear that debt? Show me I didn’t make a mistake letting you in.”
+++++
Being Director of a spy agency means Nick spends most of his time in his office or in various boardrooms. It also means he has full access to the firing range and the gym, and nothing makes him more eager to take advantage of those facilities than an extended meeting with the Security Council.
The gym in the Triskelion is open 24 hours to accommodate agents with irregular sleep patterns thanks to their schedules. Even so, the gym is sparsely populated when Nick enters at three in the morning, with only a handful of agents using the equipment. The training mats are empty, and it’s easy to see why. Romanoff is at the far end, striking a heavy bag with so much ferocity that the chain attaching the bag to the ceiling creaks ominously.
Most of the agents have opted to stay as far away from Romanoff as possible, but Nick spots Agent May using the treadmill closest to the mats. He gives her a sharp nod.
May returns the nod and switches off the treadmill. Nick keeps a careful eye on Romanoff as May throws a towel around her neck and walks up to him.
“How long’s she been doing that?” Nick asks, indicating towards Romanoff.
May shrugs, stoic as usual. “About an hour.” For someone who’s been working out for a while, May is barely breathing hard. Nick should hit the gym more often. “I’d offer to spar with her,” May continues, popping the top of her water bottle, “but this looks like private time.”
Nick watches as Romanoff lands a massive roundhouse kick against the heavy bag. The sound seems to echo throughout the gym. Definitely private time. “You were with her and Barton on the mission. Know what prompted this display?”
“The mission went like clockwork. No, this is personal.”
“Don’t hold back on me, May.”
May takes a drink from her water bottle and picks up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “Something’s crawled up Barton’s ass too. Whatever’s got Romanoff in a rage, I’d say it’s to do with him.”
“What did you notice?”
“Nothing specific. But I know Barton well enough to know when something’s off. I’ve seen him after break ups.” May gives one of her trademark eye rolls that could send a junior agent crawling under a desk, never to return.
“That what this is?” Nick asks. Strike Team Delta is one of the most effective partnerships Nick’s seen in years. It would damn inconvenient if they had to be reassigned.
“No. But something’s changed between them. And it’ll get ugly if it’s not resolved.” Melinda claps him on the arm before she leaves. “If you talk her down, I let you win our next chess game.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t,” May agrees, and walks off.
“Romanoff!” he says.
She doesn’t even react to his voice as she keeps punching the bag.
Nick links his arms behind his back and puts all the weight of a commanding officer into his voice. “Romanoff, stand down.”
Natasha pulls her final punch and turns around on one foot. At least she has the grace to look abashed. “Sir,” she puffs. Her hair sticks to her face in thin sweaty tendrils and her shoulders heave with exertion.
“Care to explain why you’re destroying that bag, agent?” Nick asks, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“Sorry, sir. Releasing some tension.”
“I can see that.”
Natasha’s abashed looks turns into a glower and she goes back to beating up the bag. Left hook, jab, cross. Elbow, hammer strike, and a knee that would destroy a man’s balls. Nick feels a momentary pang of sympathy for Natasha’s opponents.
“You know, Agent May said Barton’s feeling pretty tense,” he mentions as Natasha keeps punching. “Don’t suppose you know why?”
“We disagreed.” Another groin-level knee. Damn, Barton, what the hell did you do?
“And this disagreement is the reason you’re beating up a bag at three in the goddamn morning?”
Natasha breaks off her workout, hands on hips. “It’s better than being at my apartment. All I’ve got there is old tea and a stray cat that won’t leave me alone. So, training.”
Nick stares her down. “You’re adults. I’m not going to sit here like a kindergarten teacher and tell you to sort out your shit. You either work together or you request a transfer to another team, understood?”
She ducks her head, lips pursed, a ball of sweaty rage. “Understood.”
“And Romanoff? Leave Barton alive. May’s a bit attached to him.”
+++++
It’s the middle of summer, New York is a sweatbox, and Nick’s had a migraine coming on for the past hour. This is absolutely not what he wants to be dealing with right now, and yet, the evidence is in front of him, stubbornly refusing to be overlooked.
The evidence being Barton. Or rather, evidence of where-or rather, with whom-Barton spent the night.
Nick likes Barton; he has a sharp mind and is a good soldier, but still not afraid to think for himself and voice his opinions, welcome or not. That and his preternatural aim make him one of the best agents SHIELD has ever had, not that Nick would admit it to him, because best agent or not, Barton is still a pain in the ass.
Might as well get this over with. Nick leans back in his chair and gives his best ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression. He’s proud of that one. “You spent the night with Romanoff, didn’t you?”
Barton has the nerve to look confused. “Sir?”
“Really? You have black cat hair on your shirt, and you don’t own a cat. Agent Romanoff does. Also, you’re wearing the same shirt you wore yesterday. Have you forgotten I’m a spy?”
“It’s not her cat,” Barton mumbles, looking down at his hands. “She just feeds it.”
“Not the point, agent. Send Romanoff in.”
Barton slinks off to the door and it reminds Nick of a dog with its tail between its legs.
It takes a few minutes before Romanoff strides through the door. Many high-ranking agents still hesitate on the threshold before entering Nick’s office, but Romanoff never has. She sits down on the chair before Nick’s desk without being invited, hair flipping over her shoulder so perfectly she could have planned it.
“I see you took in the stray,” Nick says, without preamble. If she’s going to skip the formalities, so is he.
“She’s not my cat,” she replies, grinning. It’s playful and disarming, but Nick ignores it.
“Don’t argue with me. Barton is covered in cat hair.”
She cocks her head, smile still in place. “He is?”
“And don’t play coy with me either!” Nick snaps, his irritation rising, though he’s not sure if it’s the situation or her tone that is getting to him. He takes a breath. “Romanoff, be honest. Are you and Barton having a sexual relationship?”
Her eyes actually widen in what is unmistakably surprise. Either Barton did not warn her or she’s covering it, badly. Too badly to be remotely believable. “Director, I…”
“Look,” Nick begins, watching her reactions carefully. “What or who you choose to do in your personal life is none of my business. But do not bring to work. Stay professional, you hear me?”
It would take an expert in reading microexpressions to guess Romanoff’s thought process, and Nick is great, fantastic even, but she’s a prodigy, a true master of her trade. Her earlier gaffe is washed away, replaced with pure professionalism. Her back straightens and she looks Nick right in the eyes. “It won’t, sir,” she says evenly. “It’s a passing entanglement. I’ll end it.”
“That won’t be necessary-“ Nick starts to say, but Romanoff interrupts him, a look of grim determination on her face.
“It’s not a problem, sir.”
Nick watches the taught line of her back as she leaves his office, and hates the taste of pity in his mouth.
+++++
The call comes through at four in the morning, and Nick is in his car and on the way to SHIELD Medical by 4:15. Maria, one of the few people he knows who can function on even less sleep than he can, explains the details on speakerphone as he drives.
“Hawkeye and Black Widow were surrounded. Hawkeye was pinned down, out of ammo-“
“How bad?” Nick asks grimly, turning a sharp corner.
“Sir, he used one of the sonic arrows.”
Nick swears under his breath as he pulls up at a traffic light. “And Widow?”
“Minor injuries. The medical team can tell you more.”
“Right.” Nick ends the call and drives as close to the speed limit as he can. He stops the car as soon as he enters he gates of SHIELD’s secure medical facility and walks right in the doors. One advantage of being Director, no one demands a parking permit. But he isn’t here as a director, he’s here because he personally assigned this mission, and a handler always looks after his team.
“Where’s Barton?” Nick barks at the first nurse he sees.
The nurse barely looks up from his clipboard, so he must either not know who Nick is or he’s so used to demanding officers barging in that nothing phases him. Or maybe nurses are immune to intimidation. “Barton just got out of surgery,” he says briskly, pointing down the corridor. Nick takes off in that direction, the crowds of nurses, doctors and agents parting before him. At least they know to get out of his way.
When Nick draws back the curtain at the end of the corridor, the first thing he sees is Barton, plugged in to various beeping monitors and IVs and his head wrapped in pristine bandages. Then Nick spots the shock of red hair by Barton’s side, fanning out over the white hospital blankets like a splatter pattern.
Romanoff is sitting in a chair next to the bed, her head resting on her forearm, which she has placed on the mattress by Barton’s hip. Her other arm is in a sling and her body is hunched into a position that can’t be comfortable even for someone with her flexibility. Her shoulders rise and fall almost in time with Barton’s, and her eyes are closed. It’s the most vulnerable Nick has ever seen her be, and at once he’s struck by how small she is. Normally she commands enough presence to make people around her forget that she’s barely five foot three and far too young to have lived the life she has.
Nick draws the curtain behind him as gently as he can, but of course the soft sound is enough to wake her. She startles and is halfway to her feet by the time Nick raises his hands to calm her. “No need for that.”
“Sorry, Director…” she begins, but Nick cuts her off mid-sentence.
“Natasha.” Her eyes widen at the sound of her name. “Natasha,” Nick repeats. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
Natasha (because he can’t seem to think of her as ‘Romanoff’ right now) braces her uninjured arm on the back of her chair and slowly lowers herself down. She throws a glance in Barton’s direction, then looks back to Nick, her face set. “We were pinned down by enemy fire, on either side of the building,” she rattles off, like she’s delivering any mission report. “Clint... Barton was almost out of arrows, he had no choice… He set off the sonic arrow, and he didn’t have time to get away from the blast. It worked, the insurgents were neutralised. But Clint was out as well. I got us to the roof and called for emergency extraction. They took their damn time getting there too.”
Her nostrils flare slightly at the last sentence, and Nick can almost hear the barely contained rage and frustration bubbling beneath her skin. This is when she is at her most dangerous. Nick remembers the first time he saw her, violence coiled underneath perfect control and poise. God help the target of her fury.
Nick folds his arms behind his back. “What did Doctor Junaid say?” he asks calmly.
She seems to deflate at that, taking a deep breath and sagging deeper into her chair. “She said he might…” Natasha breaks off, looking back to Barton. “I can’t tell you. Not before he knows. Ask her yourself.”
He could order Natasha to tell him, but there is not much point. She’s closed herself off, her eyes switching from Barton’s face to the heart monitor beside the bed. She doesn’t even look up when Nick pushes the curtain aside.
When Nick finds Barton’s doctor, she confirms what Nick already suspected. The explosion from the sonic arrow caused significant damage to Barton’s inner ears. The full extent won’t be known until Barton wakes up, but at least some loss of hearing is expected. Dr Junaid uses the same measured but compassionate tone as the doctor who told him that they were sorry, but his eye could not be saved. He listens to the report without a word, keeping his expression neutral even as his jaw clenches.
When he returns to Barton’s bed, Nick finds Natasha covering Barton’s hand with hers. The moment she sees Nick, she pulls her hand back as if she’s been burned. “Did the doctor tell you?”
“She did,” says Nick, as if he saw nothing. Leave that discussion for another time. “Apparently she also told you to go home three hours ago.”
“Home.” Natasha lets out a humourless laugh, shaking her head. “When I was born, my parents lived in a communal apartment in Volgograd. We shared a kitchen with five other families and had one toilet down the hall. I don’t remember my parents’ faces, only the candles my mother lit. When the Red Room found me I was just glad to have a warm bed.”
She looks back down to Barton, reaching forward and taking his hand again, and she doesn’t let go. “This is the first home I can remember.”
Nick sighs. “Go to your apartment. Get some sleep, eat tacos, pet your cat, catch up on bad TV. That’s an order.” He places his hand on her shoulder, which finally causes her to look up at him, eyes wide. “Barton will still be here.”
++++++
Being unemployed is a nasty feeling. Being unemployed because your former friend turned out to be a secret Nazi hatching a brood of fascists right under your damn nose is even worse. Now Nick is left with dozens of homeless high-level agents and no firepower.
He leaves Coulson with a fledgling group of agents under Melinda’s careful gaze and sinks into the shadows to wait.
It takes months before he gets a message on his secure phone. I still don’t like it, but I understand. - N.
Natasha turns up at his safe house with Barton in tow on Christmas Day. Nick doesn’t want to draw attention to his mother by visiting her, Barton has never mentioned any family, and Natasha’s view on Christmas when asked is that if she celebrated it, she wouldn’t be celebrating it on December 25th. It’s strangely fitting that they all end up in the same place.
Natasha, her hair newly curled, grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and pulls it over her knees, not speaking.
Barton goes out to get food, because he’s the only one whose face hasn’t been plastered all over the news channels. He returns laden with Vietnamese takeout and wearing a ragged Santa hat, because he’s a little shit like that.
“Ho ho fucking ho,” Barton announces, setting the bag of food on the kitchen table with an audible thump.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Barton.”
“At this point, you can call me Clint. We’re all extremely fit unemployed losers now.” Barton reaches into the bag and pulls out a can of Coke. The crack and hiss sounds far too loud in the silent house. He raises the can to his lips and takes a long drink, looking Nick up and down. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that leather jacket.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“I can get you a Christmas sweater if you want-“
“Don’t push your luck,” Nick warns, but Barton only smirks.
“Just trying to get into the holiday spirit.” He drains the Coke and tosses it towards the trashcan in the corner without so much as a glance. Of course, he doesn’t miss. “Is Natasha sleeping?”
“She’s reading in the next room.” Nick folds his arms and goes to lean back against the counter, but the edge of the counter is too sharp to be comfortable. He could lean against any surface with that old leather jacket and look damn good too. Fuck HYDRA.
Barton nods, already preoccupied with unpacking the food. “She hasn’t been sleeping much,” he says, after a pause. “Or talking.”
Nick grunts in response. This is not really the kind of conversation he’s used to having with an agent like Barton. May, maybe, or Hill. With Barton it’s always been tactical meetings and ‘you were under strict orders not to do the thing you just did.’
Barton shifts his weight and looks down at the floor as if this situation is no less awkward for him, but he keeps talking. “She hasn’t told me all the details of what went down, but I can tell it did a number on her.”
“If you’re trying to get me to tell you, Barton, you know that’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not asking you to-“ Barton breaks off as Natasha appears in the doorway. Her arms are folded and her body swathed in a hoodie, like she was the first time Nick spoke to her in his office. But then she was a violent force of nature, cool and proud. Now her shoulders are hunched, abandoning their usual dancer-like straightness. There are deep shadows under her eyes she hasn’t bothered to cover, and her cheekbones are a touch too prominent, as if the skin is stretched into a taut mask. She doesn’t look as shattered as she did in the hospital, but she seems smaller, more resigned, like a bone-deep weariness has taken hold of her.
Well, she can definitely join the club on that front.
“Hey, Tasha,” Barton murmurs, and Nick doesn’t miss the way his voice softens the moment he sees her. “I got you those rice paper rolls you like.”
“With the garlic and chilli oil sauce?” she asks.
“Don’t I always get you sauce?”
Natasha smiles at him tightly, but the tension still seems to radiate from her small frame. She throws one glance at Barton and Barton nods in that nonverbal communication shared by the best of partners. Nick only ever had that with May and Hill.
Natasha turns and Barton follows her out into the living room and Nick busies himself with getting cutlery. The damn kitchen drawer is sticky, and Nick swears under his breath as he gives it a tug. When the drawer finally gives, the movement leaves Nick facing the doorway.
Barton and Natasha are partially hidden by the wall, so Nick almost misses Barton putting his hands on Natasha’s shoulders as he whispers something to her. Natasha nods silently, looking up at him, and Barton leans down to gently press his lips to her forehead. The intimacy is almost uncomfortable to witness, and Nick immediately looks away.
He’s pouring rice into a bowl when he hears Natasha’s voice. “You’re not stealing my rolls, are you?”
“As your SO I could demand to have your rolls.”
“Pity you’re not my SO anymore,” Natasha says dryly as she picks up one of the food containers.
Nick keeps a careful eye on Natasha’s stiff movements. “How’s Barton holding up through all this?”
“He was barely getting used to the hearing aids, and then an alien messed with his head, and now SHIELD is gone,” she snaps. “How do you think he’s holding up?”
Nick doesn’t rise to her tone, keeping his voice measured. “And you?”
Natasha glares at him, her jaw clenched. “Do you really need to ask me that?”
“I’m sorry, Natasha.”
She shakes her head, eyes downcast at the dull tile floor. “I never pretended to be a hero. I just thought… I thought this time, maybe I could do something good. I thought I was making a choice. Now I realise I’m still the girl who sold her loyalty for a blanket.” She pauses, sucking in air as if those final words were ripped from her throat. “At least my cat gets to live with Maria. I can’t even go back to my apartment.”
Her brittle voice tugs at Nick’s chest, but he knows she’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t let her compose herself. He owes her that much. So instead he watches silently as she bends over, running a hand through her tangled hair. She tucks a strand behind her ear and when she finally looks up again, her face is set with determination. “Clint and I need to disappear, Nick. Probably for a while. Can you help make it happen?”
It’s the first time she has ever really asked him for something, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. Nick watches her, this woman who grew from chaos and ashes, who stands tall in the rubble of one life after another, and in that moment, she calls up memories of a young man arguing with his superiors while a bandage covers his eye.
“There’s a farm out near Iowa,” he offers. “Friend of mine used to own it. It’s a good place to disappear to, if you don’t mind chickens.”
“You don’t sound convinced.” Natasha narrows her eyes at him, like this is a negotiation.
Nick shrugs. “I mind chickens.”
Natasha leans back against the wall opposite him and at long last, her lips turn up into a tiny smile. “I think I could get used to them.”
Something swells in Nick’s chest, and he realises that it’s pride. He’s proud of her, for asking for this, for admitting to being human, with all the messy wants and needs that go with it.
“Go,” he says to her. “Have a life. In case no one ever told you, you deserve it.”
She probably won’t believe him, but perhaps some day, she will.
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Thursday’s Child
A Gift For: enigma731
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: injury
Summary/Prompt Used: Five times Nick Fury asked something of Natasha Romanoff, and one time she asked something of him. (Prompt: Clint, Nat, and mentorship. Could be any combination of the two of them mentoring each other, could include Fury or Hill)
Author's Note: Merry Christmas, Enigma731! I really hope this fic is to your liking. Thanks to my beta for helping me whip this into shape.
banner by frea_o
Thursday’s child has far to go.
When Nick decides to speak to the Black Widow in person, she has already been on the Helicarrier for almost four weeks.
The reports on the desk in front of him rate her anywhere between cooperative to insolent, depending on the agent. The subject of the report is sitting across from him, wearing SHIELD issue sweatpants and a hoodie several sizes too big; her hands folded in her lap and her expression open and engaging.
“Miss Romanova,” Nick acknowledges. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”
“Director Fury,” Romanova says smoothly. Her voice is smoky, with the barest hint of an accent. “It’s an honour.”
Nick studies her carefully; curious to see how she’ll play this situation. “There’s no need for flattery here.”
“And I wasn’t trying to be merely complimentary,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours.” Nick holds up one of the reports in front of him. “You’ve caused quite a stir around here.”
She cocks her head as if she’s considering that prospect. “I suppose the curiosity is natural.”
Nick shrugs. “Could be. You’re not the first agent we’ve brought in like this.”
“Is that so?” Her voice is light, a shade away from flirtatious, the perfect tactic to get an ego-driven man to spill his guts.
Time to shut that down. “Nice try.”
She looks almost disappointed, but all that is probably part of the act. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard.”
“I’m not trying to get you to give up those habits, Miss Romanova. Those skills are why you’re here. Just don’t use them against us and we won’t have a problem.” Nick gives her a pointed look. “Now, I want to know about your first meeting with Agent Barton.”
“I already told your agents everything,” she remarks lightly, head tipped to the side.
“So humour me. What did Barton do that convinced you to join us?”
She purses her lips slightly, seeming to consider the question. “He offered me a chance, and the safety of being with an organisation that can provide support and back up,” she begins, fiddling with her sleeve. “It was a tempting prospect. Certainly better than dying.”
“Did he offer to let you go if you said no?”
Her left eyebrow arches like a challenge. “Why are you asking?” she counters.
Nick spreads his hands. “I want to be sure you’re joining SHIELD of your own free will.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“No thanks needed. If you didn’t want to be here I doubt we could hold you for long. I want to make sure we’re not wasting resources on you.”
Her eyes harden for a split second, but Nick won’t flatter himself into thinking he got under her skin. “I can assure you, Director, I intend to cooperate fully with SHIELD.”
“Really.” Nick lets his scepticism show in his voice. “Because this report says you made Agent Harper cry.”
Romanova’s shoulders twitch in a dismissive shrug. “He needs to learn how to deal with a difficult interrogation subject.”
“So you were being altruistic.” Nick leans back in his chair and folds his hands on his chest. “Around here, we prefer the word ‘interview’ to ‘interrogation.’”
She smiles, showing teeth. “Semantics.”
“Maybe. But as a show of good faith, I’m giving you a task.”
“What?” she says, her voice betraying a hint of curiosity-or is that only how she means it to sound? She’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery, like her mother country.
“There’s an agent I’m considering for promotion. I already know she’s brilliant. I need her to be better than that.”
“Of course,” Romanova agrees, and for the first time in this conversation, Nick believes her. From what he’s seen of her work and his knowledge of the Red Room, she’s the kind to accept nothing less than perfection.
Fury pushes a file across the desk. It slides along the glass surface and stops right in front of Romanova. Her green eyes look down at the file, but she doesn’t move to take it.
“Her name is Agent Hill,” Nick explains. “I’ve arranged for her to interview you at 0900 tomorrow. I want you to give her hell.”
“What happens if she fails?”
Her question comes as a genuine surprise. “I’ll give the promotion further thought. Surviving an interview with you is not the only factor I’m looking at.”
Her eyes glint, her smile going just a hint towards feral. “Sounds like fun.”
“Welcome on board, Romanova.”
+++++
Nick doesn’t see the Black Widow again until after she’s been given official clearance as an agent; almost eight months later.
Her progress reports are optimistic about her recovery and future career, but Nick still insists on handling her first briefing himself. Nick spots her red hair through the glass office window. She’s sitting next to Barton, her back ramrod straight and her hands folded in her lap, just as she did the first time Nick spoke to her.
Barton sits up a little straighter when Nick enters the room, but she doesn’t move.
“Barton, Romanoff,” Nick acknowledges gruffly. He can’t guess at why Romanova chose to Anglicise her name, but he’s not about to question it.
The mission, he explains, is simple, practically a milk run. He can see Barton’s mood start to sour throughout the briefing, but Romanoff seems unaffected by the prospect of being assigned a mission usually given to junior level agents. She knows when to keep her cards close. Maybe she can teach Barton a thing or two.
After the briefing Barton stomps off, no doubt to shoot at things. To Nick’s surprise, Romanoff lingers.
“Got any questions, Romanoff?”
“No,” she says softly. Less than a month in America and already any trace of her Russian accent is gone. She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I owe you and Agent Barton a debt.”
She looks as though she wants, what? Validation? Approval? She’s frustratingly hard to read, but that’s why she’s in SHIELD. Nick rearranges the papers on his desk, a signal that as far he’s concerned, the conversation is over. “You want to clear that debt? Show me I didn’t make a mistake letting you in.”
+++++
Being Director of a spy agency means Nick spends most of his time in his office or in various boardrooms. It also means he has full access to the firing range and the gym, and nothing makes him more eager to take advantage of those facilities than an extended meeting with the Security Council.
The gym in the Triskelion is open 24 hours to accommodate agents with irregular sleep patterns thanks to their schedules. Even so, the gym is sparsely populated when Nick enters at three in the morning, with only a handful of agents using the equipment. The training mats are empty, and it’s easy to see why. Romanoff is at the far end, striking a heavy bag with so much ferocity that the chain attaching the bag to the ceiling creaks ominously.
Most of the agents have opted to stay as far away from Romanoff as possible, but Nick spots Agent May using the treadmill closest to the mats. He gives her a sharp nod.
May returns the nod and switches off the treadmill. Nick keeps a careful eye on Romanoff as May throws a towel around her neck and walks up to him.
“How long’s she been doing that?” Nick asks, indicating towards Romanoff.
May shrugs, stoic as usual. “About an hour.” For someone who’s been working out for a while, May is barely breathing hard. Nick should hit the gym more often. “I’d offer to spar with her,” May continues, popping the top of her water bottle, “but this looks like private time.”
Nick watches as Romanoff lands a massive roundhouse kick against the heavy bag. The sound seems to echo throughout the gym. Definitely private time. “You were with her and Barton on the mission. Know what prompted this display?”
“The mission went like clockwork. No, this is personal.”
“Don’t hold back on me, May.”
May takes a drink from her water bottle and picks up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “Something’s crawled up Barton’s ass too. Whatever’s got Romanoff in a rage, I’d say it’s to do with him.”
“What did you notice?”
“Nothing specific. But I know Barton well enough to know when something’s off. I’ve seen him after break ups.” May gives one of her trademark eye rolls that could send a junior agent crawling under a desk, never to return.
“That what this is?” Nick asks. Strike Team Delta is one of the most effective partnerships Nick’s seen in years. It would damn inconvenient if they had to be reassigned.
“No. But something’s changed between them. And it’ll get ugly if it’s not resolved.” Melinda claps him on the arm before she leaves. “If you talk her down, I let you win our next chess game.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t,” May agrees, and walks off.
“Romanoff!” he says.
She doesn’t even react to his voice as she keeps punching the bag.
Nick links his arms behind his back and puts all the weight of a commanding officer into his voice. “Romanoff, stand down.”
Natasha pulls her final punch and turns around on one foot. At least she has the grace to look abashed. “Sir,” she puffs. Her hair sticks to her face in thin sweaty tendrils and her shoulders heave with exertion.
“Care to explain why you’re destroying that bag, agent?” Nick asks, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“Sorry, sir. Releasing some tension.”
“I can see that.”
Natasha’s abashed looks turns into a glower and she goes back to beating up the bag. Left hook, jab, cross. Elbow, hammer strike, and a knee that would destroy a man’s balls. Nick feels a momentary pang of sympathy for Natasha’s opponents.
“You know, Agent May said Barton’s feeling pretty tense,” he mentions as Natasha keeps punching. “Don’t suppose you know why?”
“We disagreed.” Another groin-level knee. Damn, Barton, what the hell did you do?
“And this disagreement is the reason you’re beating up a bag at three in the goddamn morning?”
Natasha breaks off her workout, hands on hips. “It’s better than being at my apartment. All I’ve got there is old tea and a stray cat that won’t leave me alone. So, training.”
Nick stares her down. “You’re adults. I’m not going to sit here like a kindergarten teacher and tell you to sort out your shit. You either work together or you request a transfer to another team, understood?”
She ducks her head, lips pursed, a ball of sweaty rage. “Understood.”
“And Romanoff? Leave Barton alive. May’s a bit attached to him.”
+++++
It’s the middle of summer, New York is a sweatbox, and Nick’s had a migraine coming on for the past hour. This is absolutely not what he wants to be dealing with right now, and yet, the evidence is in front of him, stubbornly refusing to be overlooked.
The evidence being Barton. Or rather, evidence of where-or rather, with whom-Barton spent the night.
Nick likes Barton; he has a sharp mind and is a good soldier, but still not afraid to think for himself and voice his opinions, welcome or not. That and his preternatural aim make him one of the best agents SHIELD has ever had, not that Nick would admit it to him, because best agent or not, Barton is still a pain in the ass.
Might as well get this over with. Nick leans back in his chair and gives his best ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression. He’s proud of that one. “You spent the night with Romanoff, didn’t you?”
Barton has the nerve to look confused. “Sir?”
“Really? You have black cat hair on your shirt, and you don’t own a cat. Agent Romanoff does. Also, you’re wearing the same shirt you wore yesterday. Have you forgotten I’m a spy?”
“It’s not her cat,” Barton mumbles, looking down at his hands. “She just feeds it.”
“Not the point, agent. Send Romanoff in.”
Barton slinks off to the door and it reminds Nick of a dog with its tail between its legs.
It takes a few minutes before Romanoff strides through the door. Many high-ranking agents still hesitate on the threshold before entering Nick’s office, but Romanoff never has. She sits down on the chair before Nick’s desk without being invited, hair flipping over her shoulder so perfectly she could have planned it.
“I see you took in the stray,” Nick says, without preamble. If she’s going to skip the formalities, so is he.
“She’s not my cat,” she replies, grinning. It’s playful and disarming, but Nick ignores it.
“Don’t argue with me. Barton is covered in cat hair.”
She cocks her head, smile still in place. “He is?”
“And don’t play coy with me either!” Nick snaps, his irritation rising, though he’s not sure if it’s the situation or her tone that is getting to him. He takes a breath. “Romanoff, be honest. Are you and Barton having a sexual relationship?”
Her eyes actually widen in what is unmistakably surprise. Either Barton did not warn her or she’s covering it, badly. Too badly to be remotely believable. “Director, I…”
“Look,” Nick begins, watching her reactions carefully. “What or who you choose to do in your personal life is none of my business. But do not bring to work. Stay professional, you hear me?”
It would take an expert in reading microexpressions to guess Romanoff’s thought process, and Nick is great, fantastic even, but she’s a prodigy, a true master of her trade. Her earlier gaffe is washed away, replaced with pure professionalism. Her back straightens and she looks Nick right in the eyes. “It won’t, sir,” she says evenly. “It’s a passing entanglement. I’ll end it.”
“That won’t be necessary-“ Nick starts to say, but Romanoff interrupts him, a look of grim determination on her face.
“It’s not a problem, sir.”
Nick watches the taught line of her back as she leaves his office, and hates the taste of pity in his mouth.
+++++
The call comes through at four in the morning, and Nick is in his car and on the way to SHIELD Medical by 4:15. Maria, one of the few people he knows who can function on even less sleep than he can, explains the details on speakerphone as he drives.
“Hawkeye and Black Widow were surrounded. Hawkeye was pinned down, out of ammo-“
“How bad?” Nick asks grimly, turning a sharp corner.
“Sir, he used one of the sonic arrows.”
Nick swears under his breath as he pulls up at a traffic light. “And Widow?”
“Minor injuries. The medical team can tell you more.”
“Right.” Nick ends the call and drives as close to the speed limit as he can. He stops the car as soon as he enters he gates of SHIELD’s secure medical facility and walks right in the doors. One advantage of being Director, no one demands a parking permit. But he isn’t here as a director, he’s here because he personally assigned this mission, and a handler always looks after his team.
“Where’s Barton?” Nick barks at the first nurse he sees.
The nurse barely looks up from his clipboard, so he must either not know who Nick is or he’s so used to demanding officers barging in that nothing phases him. Or maybe nurses are immune to intimidation. “Barton just got out of surgery,” he says briskly, pointing down the corridor. Nick takes off in that direction, the crowds of nurses, doctors and agents parting before him. At least they know to get out of his way.
When Nick draws back the curtain at the end of the corridor, the first thing he sees is Barton, plugged in to various beeping monitors and IVs and his head wrapped in pristine bandages. Then Nick spots the shock of red hair by Barton’s side, fanning out over the white hospital blankets like a splatter pattern.
Romanoff is sitting in a chair next to the bed, her head resting on her forearm, which she has placed on the mattress by Barton’s hip. Her other arm is in a sling and her body is hunched into a position that can’t be comfortable even for someone with her flexibility. Her shoulders rise and fall almost in time with Barton’s, and her eyes are closed. It’s the most vulnerable Nick has ever seen her be, and at once he’s struck by how small she is. Normally she commands enough presence to make people around her forget that she’s barely five foot three and far too young to have lived the life she has.
Nick draws the curtain behind him as gently as he can, but of course the soft sound is enough to wake her. She startles and is halfway to her feet by the time Nick raises his hands to calm her. “No need for that.”
“Sorry, Director…” she begins, but Nick cuts her off mid-sentence.
“Natasha.” Her eyes widen at the sound of her name. “Natasha,” Nick repeats. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
Natasha (because he can’t seem to think of her as ‘Romanoff’ right now) braces her uninjured arm on the back of her chair and slowly lowers herself down. She throws a glance in Barton’s direction, then looks back to Nick, her face set. “We were pinned down by enemy fire, on either side of the building,” she rattles off, like she’s delivering any mission report. “Clint... Barton was almost out of arrows, he had no choice… He set off the sonic arrow, and he didn’t have time to get away from the blast. It worked, the insurgents were neutralised. But Clint was out as well. I got us to the roof and called for emergency extraction. They took their damn time getting there too.”
Her nostrils flare slightly at the last sentence, and Nick can almost hear the barely contained rage and frustration bubbling beneath her skin. This is when she is at her most dangerous. Nick remembers the first time he saw her, violence coiled underneath perfect control and poise. God help the target of her fury.
Nick folds his arms behind his back. “What did Doctor Junaid say?” he asks calmly.
She seems to deflate at that, taking a deep breath and sagging deeper into her chair. “She said he might…” Natasha breaks off, looking back to Barton. “I can’t tell you. Not before he knows. Ask her yourself.”
He could order Natasha to tell him, but there is not much point. She’s closed herself off, her eyes switching from Barton’s face to the heart monitor beside the bed. She doesn’t even look up when Nick pushes the curtain aside.
When Nick finds Barton’s doctor, she confirms what Nick already suspected. The explosion from the sonic arrow caused significant damage to Barton’s inner ears. The full extent won’t be known until Barton wakes up, but at least some loss of hearing is expected. Dr Junaid uses the same measured but compassionate tone as the doctor who told him that they were sorry, but his eye could not be saved. He listens to the report without a word, keeping his expression neutral even as his jaw clenches.
When he returns to Barton’s bed, Nick finds Natasha covering Barton’s hand with hers. The moment she sees Nick, she pulls her hand back as if she’s been burned. “Did the doctor tell you?”
“She did,” says Nick, as if he saw nothing. Leave that discussion for another time. “Apparently she also told you to go home three hours ago.”
“Home.” Natasha lets out a humourless laugh, shaking her head. “When I was born, my parents lived in a communal apartment in Volgograd. We shared a kitchen with five other families and had one toilet down the hall. I don’t remember my parents’ faces, only the candles my mother lit. When the Red Room found me I was just glad to have a warm bed.”
She looks back down to Barton, reaching forward and taking his hand again, and she doesn’t let go. “This is the first home I can remember.”
Nick sighs. “Go to your apartment. Get some sleep, eat tacos, pet your cat, catch up on bad TV. That’s an order.” He places his hand on her shoulder, which finally causes her to look up at him, eyes wide. “Barton will still be here.”
++++++
Being unemployed is a nasty feeling. Being unemployed because your former friend turned out to be a secret Nazi hatching a brood of fascists right under your damn nose is even worse. Now Nick is left with dozens of homeless high-level agents and no firepower.
He leaves Coulson with a fledgling group of agents under Melinda’s careful gaze and sinks into the shadows to wait.
It takes months before he gets a message on his secure phone. I still don’t like it, but I understand. - N.
Natasha turns up at his safe house with Barton in tow on Christmas Day. Nick doesn’t want to draw attention to his mother by visiting her, Barton has never mentioned any family, and Natasha’s view on Christmas when asked is that if she celebrated it, she wouldn’t be celebrating it on December 25th. It’s strangely fitting that they all end up in the same place.
Natasha, her hair newly curled, grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and pulls it over her knees, not speaking.
Barton goes out to get food, because he’s the only one whose face hasn’t been plastered all over the news channels. He returns laden with Vietnamese takeout and wearing a ragged Santa hat, because he’s a little shit like that.
“Ho ho fucking ho,” Barton announces, setting the bag of food on the kitchen table with an audible thump.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Barton.”
“At this point, you can call me Clint. We’re all extremely fit unemployed losers now.” Barton reaches into the bag and pulls out a can of Coke. The crack and hiss sounds far too loud in the silent house. He raises the can to his lips and takes a long drink, looking Nick up and down. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that leather jacket.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“I can get you a Christmas sweater if you want-“
“Don’t push your luck,” Nick warns, but Barton only smirks.
“Just trying to get into the holiday spirit.” He drains the Coke and tosses it towards the trashcan in the corner without so much as a glance. Of course, he doesn’t miss. “Is Natasha sleeping?”
“She’s reading in the next room.” Nick folds his arms and goes to lean back against the counter, but the edge of the counter is too sharp to be comfortable. He could lean against any surface with that old leather jacket and look damn good too. Fuck HYDRA.
Barton nods, already preoccupied with unpacking the food. “She hasn’t been sleeping much,” he says, after a pause. “Or talking.”
Nick grunts in response. This is not really the kind of conversation he’s used to having with an agent like Barton. May, maybe, or Hill. With Barton it’s always been tactical meetings and ‘you were under strict orders not to do the thing you just did.’
Barton shifts his weight and looks down at the floor as if this situation is no less awkward for him, but he keeps talking. “She hasn’t told me all the details of what went down, but I can tell it did a number on her.”
“If you’re trying to get me to tell you, Barton, you know that’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not asking you to-“ Barton breaks off as Natasha appears in the doorway. Her arms are folded and her body swathed in a hoodie, like she was the first time Nick spoke to her in his office. But then she was a violent force of nature, cool and proud. Now her shoulders are hunched, abandoning their usual dancer-like straightness. There are deep shadows under her eyes she hasn’t bothered to cover, and her cheekbones are a touch too prominent, as if the skin is stretched into a taut mask. She doesn’t look as shattered as she did in the hospital, but she seems smaller, more resigned, like a bone-deep weariness has taken hold of her.
Well, she can definitely join the club on that front.
“Hey, Tasha,” Barton murmurs, and Nick doesn’t miss the way his voice softens the moment he sees her. “I got you those rice paper rolls you like.”
“With the garlic and chilli oil sauce?” she asks.
“Don’t I always get you sauce?”
Natasha smiles at him tightly, but the tension still seems to radiate from her small frame. She throws one glance at Barton and Barton nods in that nonverbal communication shared by the best of partners. Nick only ever had that with May and Hill.
Natasha turns and Barton follows her out into the living room and Nick busies himself with getting cutlery. The damn kitchen drawer is sticky, and Nick swears under his breath as he gives it a tug. When the drawer finally gives, the movement leaves Nick facing the doorway.
Barton and Natasha are partially hidden by the wall, so Nick almost misses Barton putting his hands on Natasha’s shoulders as he whispers something to her. Natasha nods silently, looking up at him, and Barton leans down to gently press his lips to her forehead. The intimacy is almost uncomfortable to witness, and Nick immediately looks away.
He’s pouring rice into a bowl when he hears Natasha’s voice. “You’re not stealing my rolls, are you?”
“As your SO I could demand to have your rolls.”
“Pity you’re not my SO anymore,” Natasha says dryly as she picks up one of the food containers.
Nick keeps a careful eye on Natasha’s stiff movements. “How’s Barton holding up through all this?”
“He was barely getting used to the hearing aids, and then an alien messed with his head, and now SHIELD is gone,” she snaps. “How do you think he’s holding up?”
Nick doesn’t rise to her tone, keeping his voice measured. “And you?”
Natasha glares at him, her jaw clenched. “Do you really need to ask me that?”
“I’m sorry, Natasha.”
She shakes her head, eyes downcast at the dull tile floor. “I never pretended to be a hero. I just thought… I thought this time, maybe I could do something good. I thought I was making a choice. Now I realise I’m still the girl who sold her loyalty for a blanket.” She pauses, sucking in air as if those final words were ripped from her throat. “At least my cat gets to live with Maria. I can’t even go back to my apartment.”
Her brittle voice tugs at Nick’s chest, but he knows she’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t let her compose herself. He owes her that much. So instead he watches silently as she bends over, running a hand through her tangled hair. She tucks a strand behind her ear and when she finally looks up again, her face is set with determination. “Clint and I need to disappear, Nick. Probably for a while. Can you help make it happen?”
It’s the first time she has ever really asked him for something, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. Nick watches her, this woman who grew from chaos and ashes, who stands tall in the rubble of one life after another, and in that moment, she calls up memories of a young man arguing with his superiors while a bandage covers his eye.
“There’s a farm out near Iowa,” he offers. “Friend of mine used to own it. It’s a good place to disappear to, if you don’t mind chickens.”
“You don’t sound convinced.” Natasha narrows her eyes at him, like this is a negotiation.
Nick shrugs. “I mind chickens.”
Natasha leans back against the wall opposite him and at long last, her lips turn up into a tiny smile. “I think I could get used to them.”
Something swells in Nick’s chest, and he realises that it’s pride. He’s proud of her, for asking for this, for admitting to being human, with all the messy wants and needs that go with it.
“Go,” he says to her. “Have a life. In case no one ever told you, you deserve it.”
She probably won’t believe him, but perhaps some day, she will.