Loyalties, 1/2.
Title: Loyalties
Series: #6 in The Secrets of the Red Room
(#1 - Bloodlines, #2 - Soldiers, #3 - Memories, #4 - Legends, #5 - Knives)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: PG (due to language)
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine! Takes place within the MCU with nods toward comic books.
Summary: It was time to come in from the cold. They had better make it worth her while.
One - Suspicion
Natasha sat in the small cell, staring at the wall. She had known this would happen, but she had grown tired of being in the field, constantly on her guard. She had her safe houses, contacts and identities to fall back on. It kept her safe, but it was tiring. The conversation with Clint Barton in Budapest had gotten to her, more than she would have wanted to admit.
What did she want other than survival? She still didn't know.
So she waited and let him catch her again. She let him talk to her. She let him offer sanctuary with SHIELD again.
And this time, she said yes.
There was utter chaos when he brought her in, the disbelief on the face of his handler and the grim acceptance that came after. "Are you sure?" he had asked, anxiety in his tone but not in his facial expression.
"I'd stake my life on it," Clint had replied.
"You just might," his handler replied, anxiety replaced by dry sarcastic wit.
The relationship made her gut ache. She'd never had that kind of trust and acceptance in the Red Room or on her own. It hurt to see.
So she let them think the cuffs would hold. She let them put her in this cell with its bed bolted to the floor and the walls bare of any decoration. It had a simple sink and toilet, both activated with motion sensors. There was nothing to use as a weapon, but she didn't need tools. Her body itself was a weapon, and she could take anyone down if she had to.
When it seemed as though they weren't coming back right away, she twisted her wrists out of the cuffs and left them at the foot of the bed. She sat cross legged in its center, facing the door, her hands on her knees in a relaxed posture. Waiting was no difficulty. She knew how to wait, to keep her mind occupied and her senses alert. If they thought this was going to be torture, they were sadly mistaken. She had endured far worse as a child, far worse when on her own.
Hours passed, and finally the door unlocked. There was one guard with a tray, another behind him with a pistol in hand. She remained still as the guard put the tray on the bed and retrieved the useless cuffs. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see plastic utensils to eat with. They could still be used as weapons, and no doubt these men knew that. Why else have an unholstered pistol in the same room with her? She could easily retrieve it if she so chose.
But she sat still, and smiled slightly at them. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said sweetly.
The two guards were definitely thrown. They had likely thought she would murder her way through SHEILD as she had through several Vory families and a number of lesser thugs that had tried to hire her to intimidate drug trafficking rivals.
Once the door was locked, she turned her attention to the food. Simple fare, likely from their cafeteria menu. They didn't intend for her to starve, so the hours of silence were unlikely to be a form of torture. It most likely meant that they didn't know what the hell to do with her and the secrets she likely held. Still, she sniffed the food and took a small sample to taste for the usual array of poisons. After ten minutes, she still felt fine. Not that they were likely to try to kill her, but it was nice to have confirmation of that.
Natasha allowed herself a small smile and tucked in.
***
There was a parade of paper pushers and a few psychiatric evaluations. Natasha lied to all of them, making sure the lies were obvious and a sign of her disdain. She had chosen to come in from the cold, yes, but they had to make it worth her while. They looked down on her because of her age and her sex, seeming to forget how lethal she could really be.
It was a surprise when it was Clint Barton on the other side of the cell door, a box in hand and a grin on his face. "Hey. Betcha you're ready for a change of scenery."
"The room leaves much to be desired."
"I'll take that as a yes."
There were two SHIELD agents behind them, clearly meant to be guards. She didn't find them intimidating at all, but was polite enough not to say so. It was difficult to memorize the twists and turns between her cell and wherever Clint was taking her, though she would never admit it to him. He seemed so very proud of himself for this, and she really was grateful for the change of pace. "So. Coulson's about ready to crack, I think," he announced partway through their walk.
"Oh?" she asked, sounding bored.
"Yep. I think you're going to give him a migraine bigger than the ones I do."
"Your handler, then. The one that was concerned over your safety."
"Yeah. I might've broken a few regs to bring you in, remember? I got reprimanded, notations put in my file, kicked off base for three weeks. No big deal, really."
"You were disciplined for this."
"To be expected. You're still breathing, after all," Clint replied in an offhand manner. "C'mon, we're here."
Here turned out to be a practice range deep underground, if Natasha had to guess by the concrete walls. There were two others in different lanes, but Clint steered them toward the side farthest from the doors, then put the box on the table against the wall. "I figured you were bored. Now, remembering what that was like, I thought you'd like an actual target this time."
She lofted an eyebrow at him. "Really?"
Opening the box, he took out a small tray that had been wedged in on the top. "Really. I found these for you."
She looked at the tray he offered her. Three tactical knives on a black velveteen backing to show off the craftsmanship and shine of the blades. She retrieved one, setting the guards on edge, and tested its heft. "I like it."
"Used by US Army," Clint said with a smile. "Better make than the pieces of shit we used." Her grin answered his. "I figured a soldier's daughter should have something sound to use."
Her grin faded a bit. "Well. How can you be sure that wasn't a lie?"
He gave her a look that clearly said I'm not stupid. "How about a little competition, then? The most bullseyes wins. If you win, you get to ask for something. I'll see if I can get it."
"Range time," she replied immediately. Idleness was not in her nature. "Pistols."
"I'll have to check," Clint promised.
"And if you win?"
"You have to tell at least one truth in all those interviews." He grinned at her blink. "I might've managed to get my hands on one of the interviews. Those stories were things of beauty, I'll give you that. I particularly liked the one with your mother throwing you out of a burning building to save your life. Dramatic touch."
Natasha snorted. "How do you know that isn't the truth? That I lied to you earlier."
"I wasn't. You weren't. I think you lied because they sent assholes your way." When she rattled off the names, he snorted. "Yep. They deserved that. So. Do we have a deal?"
His cavalier manner was likely what rattled his superiors. But for some reason, she was drawn to it. Possibly because he was treating her the same way. She was a person, not an object, not a thing to be handled. She was valuable in her own right, not for what she could do for him.
"Deal. What will you use if you got these knives for me?"
Clint grinned and whipped out his bow, snapping it to full size with a practiced flick of his wrist. "I plan to be using this."
"You're serious."
"Deadly," he confirmed. He put on his quiver and pulled an arrow to shoot the bullseye in the lane he was standing in, not even looking. "So. Match me? We'll see who can hit the center no matter what trick shot we do."
Smirking, Natasha took the knife in her hands and threw it at the bullseye in the lane she was standing in without looking, relying on memory.
"Pretty good," Clint said, a playful challenge in his voice.
They both had hit the center, and the competition was fun, rather like how it had been in the arcades playing with knives with her mother, or later with some of the other girls. He was as good as he claimed to be, and had no qualms cracking jokes in between his shots. She pulled faces at him, making him laugh, and it was good to laugh along with him. It was the first time in months that she had done so, and the sound of her laughter startled the guards and the agents in the other lanes. But who cared? Her mood was so good that it didn't even matter that one of her throws was slightly off center, closer to the ring at the outer edge of the bullseye. Clint was a good winner at the end of the session, merely smirking back at her and declaring "You pick the truth, Natasha. Any truth, I don't care. I'll know."
"How will you know? Will you be there?" she challenged him.
"I'm pretty sure I know you best out of anyone in this entire building. I'll know."
She snorted, and allowed him to escort her back to her cell. Of course he had to keep the knives along with his bow on the range. But he had given them to her, and it was clear that he was merely holding onto them until the time she was trusted to walk the halls with them. "I haven't killed anyone here yet," she had snarked.
"I know," he replied, smirking back at her. "I think they're taking bets on when the body count is going to start. If it does, I suggest starting with the south wing. Most of those specialists are assholes, and I won't miss them."
"What makes you think I won't go after you for bringing me here?"
"My wit and charming smile," he snarked, opening the door to her cell. "Your castle awaits, milady," he said, complete with bow and sweeping arm gesture toward her door.
She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him or flip him a rude gesture. "My thanks."
When the door closed behind her, she actually slept with a smile on her lips.
***
Clint strolled into Coulson's office without knocking and plopped himself down in the chair in front of the desk. Coulson was on the phone, and frowned at Clint, but didn't pause in his end of the conversation. Clint tuned it out, picking at one of his cuticles until it bled when he finally pulled it off. Sticking his finger in his mouth to suck off the blood, he waited patiently for Coulson to finish what he was doing. His reputation was of a hothead, but as a sniper, he knew how to wait as long as necessary to take the shot.
"To what do I owe this dubious honor?" Coulson finally asked once he was off the phone.
"Can I see the report?"
"You'll have to be a little more specific, Agent Barton."
Snorting, Clint repressed the urge to stick his feet up on the desk. Sucking on a finger was probably disrespectful enough as it was. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," he said, rolling the syllables effortlessly off his tongue as if he spoke Russian every day, "had her interview with Belinkoff. I want to see the transcript and report."
"You know that's above your clearance level."
"We have a bet," Clint admitted. "I won, so she has to tell one truth to whoever is doing the interviewing. I want to see if she welched."
Now he had Coulson's full attention and cooperation. "You know her well enough to tell? She beat every lie detector we put on her."
Clint snorted. "Of course she did. She was born and raised a spy. So? Can I see the transcript?"
Coulson sighed, then dug into the pile of folders on his desk to get it. Clint eagerly grabbed it, and read through the entire thing. He laughed in several places, then composed himself and handed it back. "Wow. He is such a douchebag."
"I don't officially agree with you," Coulson replied blandly, "but you're not wrong, either. So where was the truth?"
"That would be telling," Clint replied. "It would also break her confidence, I think." He sat up and leaned forward. "We're supposed to be building trust, proving we are worth her loyalty. Why are the higher ups throwing assholes at her? Why not give her someone she can trust?"
"It sounds like you have a suggestion."
"Dr. Tseng, of course."
The long exhalation was the only sign that Coulson was irritated by the suggestion. "We'll see what the Director thinks of that plan."
"He's not fond of her," Clint replied.
"Probably part of the reason why you like her so much," Coulson said.
Clint grinned. "It does help. But it's her, not just the Director's thought about it. Give her someone she can trust. Show her it was a good idea to come in, that we're the good guys. It's a waste, how we're treating her."
"She was a black target, Clint," Coulson replied, irritation in his tone and expression. "She was a hair away from a kill shot and you couldn't take it."
"Because she's a kid, never got a choice in the matter, and I don't fucking kill kids."
"And it would be an impressive waste of talent we can put to better use," Coulson admitted, leaning back in his chair. "That you brought her in speaks volumes about your character, you know. I don't think anyone else could've pulled it off."
"Probably no one else would've tried."
"No, I don't think so," Coulson agreed.
***
Natasha sat in the bare interrogation room, her wrists shackled to the table after the stunt she pulled with the paperclip when Dr. Belinkoff didn't believe she could do damage with it. She had promised Clint one truth, and her truth had been a killing blow with a paperclip.
She was sure she was becoming a legend in SHIELD.
When the door opened, she didn't even bother to look up. She did at the aggrieved "Oh, for Christ's sake, get those off of her!" that came from the door.
This doctor was a woman in business casual clothing, a little taller than Natasha herself, with tasteful, elegant jewelry that accented her purple sweater set. Her black hair was swept up in a chignon, and her almond shaped eyes were a lighter shade of green than Natasha's. By the eyes, nose and shape of her cheekbones, Natasha would put her as Chinese descent. The bridge of her nose was a little high, and her skin tone not quite as yellow as Natasha would have expected from a full Han Chinese. Mixed descent, then. And important, judging from the way the guard hurried to unlock Natasha from the table. The cuffs had been tight, but she refused to rub her wrists once they were removed.
"I'm Dr. Whitney Tseng," the doctor said as introduction. She pulled back the chair opposite Natasha and put down her pad and pens. No paperclips in sight, but there were notes already on the pad of paper. "I've looked over the other interviews you've had so far."
Natasha wanted to grin at this doctor, but refrained and schooled her features impassive. She sat there patiently, comfortable with silence.
"You weren't a particular fan of Dr. Belinkoff," she said after a moment, lips quirking into a bit of a smile. Natasha wanted to respond to it, and tamped down on that impulse. "Far be it from me to discuss colleagues, but I could see why. Your styles don't mesh at all."
"Oh? I have a style?" Natasha asked, making sure to sound innocent.
"Mmmm." Dr. Tseng leaned back in her chair and didn't consult the notes in front of her. "Why don't we start out a little differently? Hm? I'm sure the particulars of residency training is not usually something you're concerned with. After all, we all have training. But my colleagues had additional training in forensic psychiatry. I skipped that rotation," she said sweetly. Natasha sat up a bit more at attention. "I fast tracked and did a fellowship in child and adolescent psychiatry, and I worked at an outpatient clinic for four years before SHIELD."
Ah. This was definitely different from the others. "What kind of patient population?"
"Some were indigent, some had commercial insurance." It was an answer that told Natasha nothing, and that made her estimation of the doctor rise a few notches. "What changed is that one of my patients came under SHIELD's notice. They didn't have anyone here able to handle him. No one with experience with adolescents. So they asked me to help, as we'd been working together for three years to handle his moods."
Past tense. "Where is he now?"
"Deceased," Dr. Tseng said quietly. "About a year after I started working here, he hung himself in his cell."
"Why?"
"Doctor-patient confidentiality."
"He's dead."
"It's still his tale to tell."
Natasha leaned back in her chair and brought her hands up to the table. She laced her fingers together, and looked from her fingers up to the Doctor's face. It wasn't as impassive as the doctor liked to think, not as good as hers was, but would be pretty good for the average patient. "How do I get the same courtesy?" Natasha asked after a long moment.
"Depends on the tales you have to tell."
"What do you want to hear?"
Dr. Tseng actually smiled, a warm and sincere one. Natasha suddenly realized why it seemed familiar, why the light in her eyes was something she craved.
Natalia.
"I want to hear what you'll tell me. I want to hear the truth, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to be."
"So you can drug me into submission?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "Yes, I know about medications. If those are necessary, we can discuss that. But I've also had some training in psychotherapies, and I've been able to keep up certification. I need to know where you came from and what's going on now in order to know how best I can help you."
"If I say I don't need your help?"
"I'm fairly certain you could walk out of here any time you like. There would be an impressive body count, there would be all kinds of terrorist warnings to get the rest of the US government involved in your capture. But you sit here. You cooperate. You give as much respect back as you get. This means we have something you want. There is something we can provide for you. You wouldn't be here otherwise."
Natasha breathed deeply and slowly. This wasn't Natalia. Alian was as good as dead. All of her sisters in the arcades definitely were. Why was she even here? Why was she still alive?
"Maybe I just want to know why Clint Barton won't kill me when everyone else would."
She shouldn't have said that aloud. She shouldn't have given this woman anything true.
But Dr. Tseng merely tilted her head slightly, assessing Natasha. "You haven't asked him."
Why should she? Wouldn't he just lie anyway?
Only, he hadn't ever lied. She could tell that much. He told her truth in their various meetings, scattered across the globe. He even got her a present and let her have an hour of freedom.
"I'm in solitary confinement," she said instead. "Too few opportunities."
Dr. Tseng considered her for another moment, then suddenly nodded and scooped up her belongings. "Hold on a moment, please."
Startled, she watched as the doctor banged on the door and ordered Natasha be brought to her office. Her office? There would be so many potential weapons there. The guard even told her so, but Dr. Tseng hushed him and ordered him to move Natasha for her interview.
As the guard hurried to do her bidding once more, Natasha decided she liked Dr. Tseng.
Both were silent on the way to her office, which was some distance from the interrogation room. It was above ground, with a window to the side of her desk. Dr. Tseng had her desk along one wall, with chairs across from it and around the room. Natasha immediately noticed that they would be equidistant from the door. There was a laptop on the desk with the SHIELD logo as the screensaver, book shelves in one corner of the room stuffed full of books, and there were even toys in one corner of the room near the door.
"You asked about confidentiality," Dr. Tseng said as Natasha sat down in one of the armchairs. It was very plush, very comfortable. "There are some things that wouldn't be entirely confidential," she admitted. "Anyone with Level 9 or 10 clearance could theoretically get into your file."
She ranked that high? She supposed she should be flattered. "So how many is that?"
Dr. Tseng gave her an apologetic look. "More than you'd like, I can tell you that much."
Natasha's lips flattened into a thin line. "What would it take for me to get the confidentiality that I need?"
"I can find out." Dr. Tseng immediately stood up, her pad and pens on top of her desk. "You can stay here. I'll leave the guard at the door."
"You trust me in here? That I won't take something or try to kill you when you get back?"
"I have the feeling if you wanted to, you could have killed me on the way. You have to trust me that I'm going to do as I say. And I have to trust you that you'll do as you say."
That was an excellent point, and Natasha nodded. "This is fair."
Nodding in return, Dr. Tseng smiled at her. "So have a look. Maybe you'll want to play with the toys? They certainly don't get too much use here."
"So why have them?"
"I'm a child and adolescent psychiatrist. That reminds me."
Natasha remained silent as Dr. Tseng left, and she remained in the chair for a moment to be sure the guard wasn't going to enter the office. When he didn't, she did a visual inspection of the room. The furniture was worn in places, indicating it had been in use for a long time. The weight of them pressed into the carpet, an industrial blend of colors meant to be soothing but was in fact rather nauseating. The desk was plain, cherry wood laminate, with the laptop, a closed agenda book, her notepad and pens. There was a phone on the desk, a paper tray stacked full of files, and three framed photographs that would be difficult to see from the plush chair she had been sitting in. Careful not to disturb them, she peered at the photographs. One was Dr. Tseng in a cap and gown holding her diploma, and she was standing between a Chinese man with curly black hair and streaks of gray and a Caucasian woman about her height. Another had Dr. Tseng with a young man that looked just like her, a young woman with blonde hair on his other side, and a Hispanic young man standing next to Dr. Tseng. The third photo was of three young children sitting on a black leather couch mugging for the camera.
She felt discomfited by the sight of her personal photos and looked at the books on the shelves. Most of them were psychiatric texts or psychopharmacology texts, some books on therapies of different kinds, a few that looked to be from board review courses. Disinterested, Natasha looked at the walls, which held peaceful landscapes and her diploma from medical school, her certificate for completing residency and then the certificate for completing her fellowship. Her license to practice medicine in the state of New York was on the wall as well. No board certification certificates on her wall, but Natasha doubted that Dr. Tseng failed the exams. It was more likely that she didn't want them there, whether because it disturbed the aesthetics of the room (highly unlikely) or because she didn't like the concept of the certification. Interesting.
Avoiding the files on the desk and the laptop, Natasha peered at the toys. There was a Fisher Price Little People dollhouse, complete with furniture and dolls tucked inside in the appropriate places. It looked well worn and played with. A plastic container held army men of different colors, small dinosaurs and toy cars. Another container had crayons, and that container was carefully placed on top of coloring books and activity books for young children. She had a small tub of Lego blocks, some stuffed animals, and a doll in a pretty blue dress with torn white lace edging. Natasha picked up the doll, curious about the dress. The doll was older, the blonde hair losing some of its processed curl, and the blue glass eyes stared at her. There was even a printed smattering of freckles across the doll's nose, and the cupid's bow mouth was permanently curled in a soft smile. The dress was a satiny finish, cheap fabric, mass produced.
But she looked like Yelena. Those babysoft cheeks, the smile when Natasha had pulled her into the Romanova arcade and played cards with her, or sat with scrolls of blank paper and they colored, drawing maps for pretend armies to march across.
Collapsing to her knees, Natasha cradled the doll to her chest and began to openly sob. She didn't even hear when Dr. Tseng came back into the room, when she knelt down and called out her name properly. She leaned into the doctor when an arm came around her in a comforting gesture, her eyes sliding shut. Yelena, what have I done?
"I'm sorry, they want the recorded transcripts of every session," Dr. Tseng whispered. "But I'll see what I can do. You need this, I'll take care of it."
She meant it, too. Natasha could see that. Dr. Tseng would do exactly what she promised she would do, and she would find a way to give Natasha the privacy she needed.
"You can keep her," the doctor said when Natasha tried to push the doll into her hands. "I think she's been waiting for you."
Her throat closing up, Natasha only sobbed harder. She didn't even protest when Dr. Tseng accompanied her back to her cell, didn't think to be worried about the unhappy expression on the doctor's face at the sight of where she stayed.
"I'm going to take care of this," Dr. Tseng promised again, and Natasha believed her.
***
***
To Chapter Two - Settling
Series: #6 in The Secrets of the Red Room
(#1 - Bloodlines, #2 - Soldiers, #3 - Memories, #4 - Legends, #5 - Knives)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: PG (due to language)
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine! Takes place within the MCU with nods toward comic books.
Summary: It was time to come in from the cold. They had better make it worth her while.
One - Suspicion
Natasha sat in the small cell, staring at the wall. She had known this would happen, but she had grown tired of being in the field, constantly on her guard. She had her safe houses, contacts and identities to fall back on. It kept her safe, but it was tiring. The conversation with Clint Barton in Budapest had gotten to her, more than she would have wanted to admit.
What did she want other than survival? She still didn't know.
So she waited and let him catch her again. She let him talk to her. She let him offer sanctuary with SHIELD again.
And this time, she said yes.
There was utter chaos when he brought her in, the disbelief on the face of his handler and the grim acceptance that came after. "Are you sure?" he had asked, anxiety in his tone but not in his facial expression.
"I'd stake my life on it," Clint had replied.
"You just might," his handler replied, anxiety replaced by dry sarcastic wit.
The relationship made her gut ache. She'd never had that kind of trust and acceptance in the Red Room or on her own. It hurt to see.
So she let them think the cuffs would hold. She let them put her in this cell with its bed bolted to the floor and the walls bare of any decoration. It had a simple sink and toilet, both activated with motion sensors. There was nothing to use as a weapon, but she didn't need tools. Her body itself was a weapon, and she could take anyone down if she had to.
When it seemed as though they weren't coming back right away, she twisted her wrists out of the cuffs and left them at the foot of the bed. She sat cross legged in its center, facing the door, her hands on her knees in a relaxed posture. Waiting was no difficulty. She knew how to wait, to keep her mind occupied and her senses alert. If they thought this was going to be torture, they were sadly mistaken. She had endured far worse as a child, far worse when on her own.
Hours passed, and finally the door unlocked. There was one guard with a tray, another behind him with a pistol in hand. She remained still as the guard put the tray on the bed and retrieved the useless cuffs. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see plastic utensils to eat with. They could still be used as weapons, and no doubt these men knew that. Why else have an unholstered pistol in the same room with her? She could easily retrieve it if she so chose.
But she sat still, and smiled slightly at them. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said sweetly.
The two guards were definitely thrown. They had likely thought she would murder her way through SHEILD as she had through several Vory families and a number of lesser thugs that had tried to hire her to intimidate drug trafficking rivals.
Once the door was locked, she turned her attention to the food. Simple fare, likely from their cafeteria menu. They didn't intend for her to starve, so the hours of silence were unlikely to be a form of torture. It most likely meant that they didn't know what the hell to do with her and the secrets she likely held. Still, she sniffed the food and took a small sample to taste for the usual array of poisons. After ten minutes, she still felt fine. Not that they were likely to try to kill her, but it was nice to have confirmation of that.
Natasha allowed herself a small smile and tucked in.
***
There was a parade of paper pushers and a few psychiatric evaluations. Natasha lied to all of them, making sure the lies were obvious and a sign of her disdain. She had chosen to come in from the cold, yes, but they had to make it worth her while. They looked down on her because of her age and her sex, seeming to forget how lethal she could really be.
It was a surprise when it was Clint Barton on the other side of the cell door, a box in hand and a grin on his face. "Hey. Betcha you're ready for a change of scenery."
"The room leaves much to be desired."
"I'll take that as a yes."
There were two SHIELD agents behind them, clearly meant to be guards. She didn't find them intimidating at all, but was polite enough not to say so. It was difficult to memorize the twists and turns between her cell and wherever Clint was taking her, though she would never admit it to him. He seemed so very proud of himself for this, and she really was grateful for the change of pace. "So. Coulson's about ready to crack, I think," he announced partway through their walk.
"Oh?" she asked, sounding bored.
"Yep. I think you're going to give him a migraine bigger than the ones I do."
"Your handler, then. The one that was concerned over your safety."
"Yeah. I might've broken a few regs to bring you in, remember? I got reprimanded, notations put in my file, kicked off base for three weeks. No big deal, really."
"You were disciplined for this."
"To be expected. You're still breathing, after all," Clint replied in an offhand manner. "C'mon, we're here."
Here turned out to be a practice range deep underground, if Natasha had to guess by the concrete walls. There were two others in different lanes, but Clint steered them toward the side farthest from the doors, then put the box on the table against the wall. "I figured you were bored. Now, remembering what that was like, I thought you'd like an actual target this time."
She lofted an eyebrow at him. "Really?"
Opening the box, he took out a small tray that had been wedged in on the top. "Really. I found these for you."
She looked at the tray he offered her. Three tactical knives on a black velveteen backing to show off the craftsmanship and shine of the blades. She retrieved one, setting the guards on edge, and tested its heft. "I like it."
"Used by US Army," Clint said with a smile. "Better make than the pieces of shit we used." Her grin answered his. "I figured a soldier's daughter should have something sound to use."
Her grin faded a bit. "Well. How can you be sure that wasn't a lie?"
He gave her a look that clearly said I'm not stupid. "How about a little competition, then? The most bullseyes wins. If you win, you get to ask for something. I'll see if I can get it."
"Range time," she replied immediately. Idleness was not in her nature. "Pistols."
"I'll have to check," Clint promised.
"And if you win?"
"You have to tell at least one truth in all those interviews." He grinned at her blink. "I might've managed to get my hands on one of the interviews. Those stories were things of beauty, I'll give you that. I particularly liked the one with your mother throwing you out of a burning building to save your life. Dramatic touch."
Natasha snorted. "How do you know that isn't the truth? That I lied to you earlier."
"I wasn't. You weren't. I think you lied because they sent assholes your way." When she rattled off the names, he snorted. "Yep. They deserved that. So. Do we have a deal?"
His cavalier manner was likely what rattled his superiors. But for some reason, she was drawn to it. Possibly because he was treating her the same way. She was a person, not an object, not a thing to be handled. She was valuable in her own right, not for what she could do for him.
"Deal. What will you use if you got these knives for me?"
Clint grinned and whipped out his bow, snapping it to full size with a practiced flick of his wrist. "I plan to be using this."
"You're serious."
"Deadly," he confirmed. He put on his quiver and pulled an arrow to shoot the bullseye in the lane he was standing in, not even looking. "So. Match me? We'll see who can hit the center no matter what trick shot we do."
Smirking, Natasha took the knife in her hands and threw it at the bullseye in the lane she was standing in without looking, relying on memory.
"Pretty good," Clint said, a playful challenge in his voice.
They both had hit the center, and the competition was fun, rather like how it had been in the arcades playing with knives with her mother, or later with some of the other girls. He was as good as he claimed to be, and had no qualms cracking jokes in between his shots. She pulled faces at him, making him laugh, and it was good to laugh along with him. It was the first time in months that she had done so, and the sound of her laughter startled the guards and the agents in the other lanes. But who cared? Her mood was so good that it didn't even matter that one of her throws was slightly off center, closer to the ring at the outer edge of the bullseye. Clint was a good winner at the end of the session, merely smirking back at her and declaring "You pick the truth, Natasha. Any truth, I don't care. I'll know."
"How will you know? Will you be there?" she challenged him.
"I'm pretty sure I know you best out of anyone in this entire building. I'll know."
She snorted, and allowed him to escort her back to her cell. Of course he had to keep the knives along with his bow on the range. But he had given them to her, and it was clear that he was merely holding onto them until the time she was trusted to walk the halls with them. "I haven't killed anyone here yet," she had snarked.
"I know," he replied, smirking back at her. "I think they're taking bets on when the body count is going to start. If it does, I suggest starting with the south wing. Most of those specialists are assholes, and I won't miss them."
"What makes you think I won't go after you for bringing me here?"
"My wit and charming smile," he snarked, opening the door to her cell. "Your castle awaits, milady," he said, complete with bow and sweeping arm gesture toward her door.
She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him or flip him a rude gesture. "My thanks."
When the door closed behind her, she actually slept with a smile on her lips.
***
Clint strolled into Coulson's office without knocking and plopped himself down in the chair in front of the desk. Coulson was on the phone, and frowned at Clint, but didn't pause in his end of the conversation. Clint tuned it out, picking at one of his cuticles until it bled when he finally pulled it off. Sticking his finger in his mouth to suck off the blood, he waited patiently for Coulson to finish what he was doing. His reputation was of a hothead, but as a sniper, he knew how to wait as long as necessary to take the shot.
"To what do I owe this dubious honor?" Coulson finally asked once he was off the phone.
"Can I see the report?"
"You'll have to be a little more specific, Agent Barton."
Snorting, Clint repressed the urge to stick his feet up on the desk. Sucking on a finger was probably disrespectful enough as it was. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," he said, rolling the syllables effortlessly off his tongue as if he spoke Russian every day, "had her interview with Belinkoff. I want to see the transcript and report."
"You know that's above your clearance level."
"We have a bet," Clint admitted. "I won, so she has to tell one truth to whoever is doing the interviewing. I want to see if she welched."
Now he had Coulson's full attention and cooperation. "You know her well enough to tell? She beat every lie detector we put on her."
Clint snorted. "Of course she did. She was born and raised a spy. So? Can I see the transcript?"
Coulson sighed, then dug into the pile of folders on his desk to get it. Clint eagerly grabbed it, and read through the entire thing. He laughed in several places, then composed himself and handed it back. "Wow. He is such a douchebag."
"I don't officially agree with you," Coulson replied blandly, "but you're not wrong, either. So where was the truth?"
"That would be telling," Clint replied. "It would also break her confidence, I think." He sat up and leaned forward. "We're supposed to be building trust, proving we are worth her loyalty. Why are the higher ups throwing assholes at her? Why not give her someone she can trust?"
"It sounds like you have a suggestion."
"Dr. Tseng, of course."
The long exhalation was the only sign that Coulson was irritated by the suggestion. "We'll see what the Director thinks of that plan."
"He's not fond of her," Clint replied.
"Probably part of the reason why you like her so much," Coulson said.
Clint grinned. "It does help. But it's her, not just the Director's thought about it. Give her someone she can trust. Show her it was a good idea to come in, that we're the good guys. It's a waste, how we're treating her."
"She was a black target, Clint," Coulson replied, irritation in his tone and expression. "She was a hair away from a kill shot and you couldn't take it."
"Because she's a kid, never got a choice in the matter, and I don't fucking kill kids."
"And it would be an impressive waste of talent we can put to better use," Coulson admitted, leaning back in his chair. "That you brought her in speaks volumes about your character, you know. I don't think anyone else could've pulled it off."
"Probably no one else would've tried."
"No, I don't think so," Coulson agreed.
***
Natasha sat in the bare interrogation room, her wrists shackled to the table after the stunt she pulled with the paperclip when Dr. Belinkoff didn't believe she could do damage with it. She had promised Clint one truth, and her truth had been a killing blow with a paperclip.
She was sure she was becoming a legend in SHIELD.
When the door opened, she didn't even bother to look up. She did at the aggrieved "Oh, for Christ's sake, get those off of her!" that came from the door.
This doctor was a woman in business casual clothing, a little taller than Natasha herself, with tasteful, elegant jewelry that accented her purple sweater set. Her black hair was swept up in a chignon, and her almond shaped eyes were a lighter shade of green than Natasha's. By the eyes, nose and shape of her cheekbones, Natasha would put her as Chinese descent. The bridge of her nose was a little high, and her skin tone not quite as yellow as Natasha would have expected from a full Han Chinese. Mixed descent, then. And important, judging from the way the guard hurried to unlock Natasha from the table. The cuffs had been tight, but she refused to rub her wrists once they were removed.
"I'm Dr. Whitney Tseng," the doctor said as introduction. She pulled back the chair opposite Natasha and put down her pad and pens. No paperclips in sight, but there were notes already on the pad of paper. "I've looked over the other interviews you've had so far."
Natasha wanted to grin at this doctor, but refrained and schooled her features impassive. She sat there patiently, comfortable with silence.
"You weren't a particular fan of Dr. Belinkoff," she said after a moment, lips quirking into a bit of a smile. Natasha wanted to respond to it, and tamped down on that impulse. "Far be it from me to discuss colleagues, but I could see why. Your styles don't mesh at all."
"Oh? I have a style?" Natasha asked, making sure to sound innocent.
"Mmmm." Dr. Tseng leaned back in her chair and didn't consult the notes in front of her. "Why don't we start out a little differently? Hm? I'm sure the particulars of residency training is not usually something you're concerned with. After all, we all have training. But my colleagues had additional training in forensic psychiatry. I skipped that rotation," she said sweetly. Natasha sat up a bit more at attention. "I fast tracked and did a fellowship in child and adolescent psychiatry, and I worked at an outpatient clinic for four years before SHIELD."
Ah. This was definitely different from the others. "What kind of patient population?"
"Some were indigent, some had commercial insurance." It was an answer that told Natasha nothing, and that made her estimation of the doctor rise a few notches. "What changed is that one of my patients came under SHIELD's notice. They didn't have anyone here able to handle him. No one with experience with adolescents. So they asked me to help, as we'd been working together for three years to handle his moods."
Past tense. "Where is he now?"
"Deceased," Dr. Tseng said quietly. "About a year after I started working here, he hung himself in his cell."
"Why?"
"Doctor-patient confidentiality."
"He's dead."
"It's still his tale to tell."
Natasha leaned back in her chair and brought her hands up to the table. She laced her fingers together, and looked from her fingers up to the Doctor's face. It wasn't as impassive as the doctor liked to think, not as good as hers was, but would be pretty good for the average patient. "How do I get the same courtesy?" Natasha asked after a long moment.
"Depends on the tales you have to tell."
"What do you want to hear?"
Dr. Tseng actually smiled, a warm and sincere one. Natasha suddenly realized why it seemed familiar, why the light in her eyes was something she craved.
Natalia.
"I want to hear what you'll tell me. I want to hear the truth, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to be."
"So you can drug me into submission?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "Yes, I know about medications. If those are necessary, we can discuss that. But I've also had some training in psychotherapies, and I've been able to keep up certification. I need to know where you came from and what's going on now in order to know how best I can help you."
"If I say I don't need your help?"
"I'm fairly certain you could walk out of here any time you like. There would be an impressive body count, there would be all kinds of terrorist warnings to get the rest of the US government involved in your capture. But you sit here. You cooperate. You give as much respect back as you get. This means we have something you want. There is something we can provide for you. You wouldn't be here otherwise."
Natasha breathed deeply and slowly. This wasn't Natalia. Alian was as good as dead. All of her sisters in the arcades definitely were. Why was she even here? Why was she still alive?
"Maybe I just want to know why Clint Barton won't kill me when everyone else would."
She shouldn't have said that aloud. She shouldn't have given this woman anything true.
But Dr. Tseng merely tilted her head slightly, assessing Natasha. "You haven't asked him."
Why should she? Wouldn't he just lie anyway?
Only, he hadn't ever lied. She could tell that much. He told her truth in their various meetings, scattered across the globe. He even got her a present and let her have an hour of freedom.
"I'm in solitary confinement," she said instead. "Too few opportunities."
Dr. Tseng considered her for another moment, then suddenly nodded and scooped up her belongings. "Hold on a moment, please."
Startled, she watched as the doctor banged on the door and ordered Natasha be brought to her office. Her office? There would be so many potential weapons there. The guard even told her so, but Dr. Tseng hushed him and ordered him to move Natasha for her interview.
As the guard hurried to do her bidding once more, Natasha decided she liked Dr. Tseng.
Both were silent on the way to her office, which was some distance from the interrogation room. It was above ground, with a window to the side of her desk. Dr. Tseng had her desk along one wall, with chairs across from it and around the room. Natasha immediately noticed that they would be equidistant from the door. There was a laptop on the desk with the SHIELD logo as the screensaver, book shelves in one corner of the room stuffed full of books, and there were even toys in one corner of the room near the door.
"You asked about confidentiality," Dr. Tseng said as Natasha sat down in one of the armchairs. It was very plush, very comfortable. "There are some things that wouldn't be entirely confidential," she admitted. "Anyone with Level 9 or 10 clearance could theoretically get into your file."
She ranked that high? She supposed she should be flattered. "So how many is that?"
Dr. Tseng gave her an apologetic look. "More than you'd like, I can tell you that much."
Natasha's lips flattened into a thin line. "What would it take for me to get the confidentiality that I need?"
"I can find out." Dr. Tseng immediately stood up, her pad and pens on top of her desk. "You can stay here. I'll leave the guard at the door."
"You trust me in here? That I won't take something or try to kill you when you get back?"
"I have the feeling if you wanted to, you could have killed me on the way. You have to trust me that I'm going to do as I say. And I have to trust you that you'll do as you say."
That was an excellent point, and Natasha nodded. "This is fair."
Nodding in return, Dr. Tseng smiled at her. "So have a look. Maybe you'll want to play with the toys? They certainly don't get too much use here."
"So why have them?"
"I'm a child and adolescent psychiatrist. That reminds me."
Natasha remained silent as Dr. Tseng left, and she remained in the chair for a moment to be sure the guard wasn't going to enter the office. When he didn't, she did a visual inspection of the room. The furniture was worn in places, indicating it had been in use for a long time. The weight of them pressed into the carpet, an industrial blend of colors meant to be soothing but was in fact rather nauseating. The desk was plain, cherry wood laminate, with the laptop, a closed agenda book, her notepad and pens. There was a phone on the desk, a paper tray stacked full of files, and three framed photographs that would be difficult to see from the plush chair she had been sitting in. Careful not to disturb them, she peered at the photographs. One was Dr. Tseng in a cap and gown holding her diploma, and she was standing between a Chinese man with curly black hair and streaks of gray and a Caucasian woman about her height. Another had Dr. Tseng with a young man that looked just like her, a young woman with blonde hair on his other side, and a Hispanic young man standing next to Dr. Tseng. The third photo was of three young children sitting on a black leather couch mugging for the camera.
She felt discomfited by the sight of her personal photos and looked at the books on the shelves. Most of them were psychiatric texts or psychopharmacology texts, some books on therapies of different kinds, a few that looked to be from board review courses. Disinterested, Natasha looked at the walls, which held peaceful landscapes and her diploma from medical school, her certificate for completing residency and then the certificate for completing her fellowship. Her license to practice medicine in the state of New York was on the wall as well. No board certification certificates on her wall, but Natasha doubted that Dr. Tseng failed the exams. It was more likely that she didn't want them there, whether because it disturbed the aesthetics of the room (highly unlikely) or because she didn't like the concept of the certification. Interesting.
Avoiding the files on the desk and the laptop, Natasha peered at the toys. There was a Fisher Price Little People dollhouse, complete with furniture and dolls tucked inside in the appropriate places. It looked well worn and played with. A plastic container held army men of different colors, small dinosaurs and toy cars. Another container had crayons, and that container was carefully placed on top of coloring books and activity books for young children. She had a small tub of Lego blocks, some stuffed animals, and a doll in a pretty blue dress with torn white lace edging. Natasha picked up the doll, curious about the dress. The doll was older, the blonde hair losing some of its processed curl, and the blue glass eyes stared at her. There was even a printed smattering of freckles across the doll's nose, and the cupid's bow mouth was permanently curled in a soft smile. The dress was a satiny finish, cheap fabric, mass produced.
But she looked like Yelena. Those babysoft cheeks, the smile when Natasha had pulled her into the Romanova arcade and played cards with her, or sat with scrolls of blank paper and they colored, drawing maps for pretend armies to march across.
Collapsing to her knees, Natasha cradled the doll to her chest and began to openly sob. She didn't even hear when Dr. Tseng came back into the room, when she knelt down and called out her name properly. She leaned into the doctor when an arm came around her in a comforting gesture, her eyes sliding shut. Yelena, what have I done?
"I'm sorry, they want the recorded transcripts of every session," Dr. Tseng whispered. "But I'll see what I can do. You need this, I'll take care of it."
She meant it, too. Natasha could see that. Dr. Tseng would do exactly what she promised she would do, and she would find a way to give Natasha the privacy she needed.
"You can keep her," the doctor said when Natasha tried to push the doll into her hands. "I think she's been waiting for you."
Her throat closing up, Natasha only sobbed harder. She didn't even protest when Dr. Tseng accompanied her back to her cell, didn't think to be worried about the unhappy expression on the doctor's face at the sight of where she stayed.
"I'm going to take care of this," Dr. Tseng promised again, and Natasha believed her.
***
***
To Chapter Two - Settling