Widow's Letters (Stargate Atlantis/Avengers) 8/8 COMPLETE

[mhalachaiswords]

I know everyone's off watching Doctor Who, but I am finally done this story! I hope you enjoy!

Widow's Letters 8/8 COMPLETE
An Avengers/Stargate Atlantis story
by mhalachaiswords

At AO3

Summary: Natasha Romanoff tries to reconnect with her son. This is understandably easier said than done.
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Starts in 2002 and goes through the end of Stargate Atlantis; before the Avengers and Iron Man 2.
Characters: Natasha Romanoff, John Sheppard. Guest appearances by Clint Barton, Phil Coulson, Teyla Emmagen, Torren, Jack O'Neill.
Words: 11,025 this chapter; 25,000 total.
Warnings: Swearing, a great deal of violence.
Notes: Beta thanks to websandwhiskers on this story. This chapter contains some swearing and a great deal of violence towards characters; be warned. Thanks for the journey, folks, I had a great deal of fun on this story and hope you did as well. More installments will be forthcoming!

<< Part Seven

Natasha stood on the edge of the roof, the Pacific Ocean at her feet, and let the wind blow through her hair.

"We should go on vacation more often," she said. Twenty feet to her left, Clint Barton let out a snort.

"We need to work on your definition of vacation," he said. "Starting with the fact that on vacations, I'm usually not hanging off a building staring at nothingness."

"Nor," Coulson's voice came through their earpieces, "Do I have to listen to the two of you attempt witty banter."

"Killjoy," Natasha said. She hopped back onto the roof proper and headed in Clint's direction. "Do you see anything?"

"My eyes are like perfect hothouse flowers," Clint mused, focusing on the ocean. Natasha raised her eyebrows. "Requiring constant attention, daily feeding, perfect conditions."

"You can't see anything, can you."

"Not a damned thing," Clint agreed. He blinked a few times and reached into his kit to retrieve his scope. "And that's the problem."

"You'd think with the US Military blocking off half the shipping lanes outside San Francisco, there'd be something to see," Natasha finished for him. "Coulson, any luck on finding out what happened in Nevada?"

"Negative," Coulson informed them. "The team assigned to analyze data from the destruction at Area 51 in Nevada is not having any success."

"Do we know if the closure off San Francisco is even related?" Clint asked, peering through his specially calibrated scope.

"You think that an Air Force base in Nevada blowing up, a giant fireball in the sky over California, and a naval blockade off San Francisco, all within the space of an hour, aren't related?" Natasha asked. "Are you interested in a bridge I'm selling in Brooklyn?"

"Director Fury wants us to assume that the incidents are connected in case of any developing terrorist activity," Coulson said. "Our contacts overseas haven't noticed any up-tick in chatter with the usual suspects."

"And outside the massive wave surge three days ago, there haven't been any additional oddities," Natasha added.

"That's too bad," Clint said, squinting into the distance. "I was hoping for aliens. You know, Area 51."

"You are such a dork," Natasha told him. "Wouldn't this all be easier if the US Military would just cooperate with us?"

She could almost hear Coulson rolling his eyes. "Because they have been so open to sharing information with us in the past?"

"Yeah, what's up with that?" Clint asked, but the words were distant. "You guys know what's weird?"

"All of this?" Natasha asked, resting her arms on the railing beside Clint.

"The air in that area is moving in odd patterns, the birds are drifting on weird air currents," Clint told her. "Like there's something out on the water that we can't see."

Natasha leaned closer, trying to see what Clint saw. "So maybe whatever it was didn't burn up in re-entry?"

"Possibly."

Natasha let out a frustrated growl. "Coulson, isn't there anything Fury can do?"

"I trust this will go no further than the two of you," Coulson explained patiently, "But Director Fury is not God, nor the President of the United States, and he cannot tell the military what to do."

"What about the World Security Council?"

"This is being described as a purely domestic incident."

Natasha shook her head. "Give me twenty minutes out there and I'd figure this out."

"Sure," Clint scoffed. "I'll go get you a boat. Hope you like to row."

"Watch me."

"Fine," Clint said, putting his scope away. "I'll bring popcorn. That'll be better than Shark Week."

"You hate sharks."

"No I don't."

"Fine, you hate water."

"I do not," Clint snapped, picking up his weapons case.

"There's a tattoo on your left kneecap that says, I hate water."

"You're such a liar."

"Here lies Clint Barton, who hated water."

"Shut up, you can't see anything underwater."

"And the truth is revealed," Natasha said, sauntering across the rooftop. "So you take Nevada, I'll take the naval blockade, and we'll meet back here in the morning?"

Over the wire, they could hear Coulson sigh. "Both of you, take a break. I'll report back with the Nevada briefing information when I have it."

"Yes sir," Clint said, giving a salute that Coulson couldn't see. "Barton out."

"Except for the part where we're still on comms," Natasha said. Her phone started ringing. "Welcome to time off, SHIELD style." The phone's display showed an unfamiliar local number. Wondering if it was one of her contacts, Natasha accepted the call. "Hello?"

"Hey," came a very familiar voice, one Natasha had not expected to hear in San Francisco, not now. She stopped in her tracks. "How's it going?"

"John?" Natasha said, her voice going up in surprise. "Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Just hanging out," John said. He sounded rough around the edges, but happy. "Our mutual friend tells me that you're in Frisco, want to grab a coffee?"

"I am," Natasha said, unable to stop herself. "And yes I do," She looked up at the sky, her eyes stinging oddly. She hadn't seen her son since the events surrounding Patrick's funeral, and it finally hit her how much she had missed him. "Where can I find you?"

John rattled off an address, on the other side of the peninsula. "Can you be here soon? I don't know how much more shore leave we have."

"Yes, I'll be right there," Natasha said. "I'll see you soon."

"Ditto." John rang off, leaving Natasha holding a dead phone in her hand on a rooftop overlooking a large empty expanse of ocean.

Clint slid his sunglasses back into their case. "So, John," he said.

"He said he called Coulson," Natasha told him. There was something in John's language that had set off her attention. "That Coulson told him I was here, that he didn't have a lot of shore leave left."

"That's an odd thing to hear from an Air Force pilot," Clint said.

"It is," Natasha said. This was all too much coincidence: the military blocking off San Francisco shipping lanes after a giant fireball in the sky; the Air Force research base in Area 51, blowing up.

And now her son, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force posted to a very secret mission, appearing in San Francisco on "shore leave".

"Coulson..."

"Play it out, Agent Romanoff," came Coulson's reply through the earpiece. "Run it to the ground, see if there's any connection."

Natasha took in a deep breath, let it out slowly instead of cursing Coulson or quitting SHIELD on the spot. "And what exactly would you like me to report back?" she asked, voice cold.

"Any connections you find," Coulson said, sounding not at all repentant. "Barton, please provide backup."

Clint hesitated. "Not to be a wet blanket," he said, "But it's kind of shitty to ask Nat to go gather intelligence on her own kid."

There was a small click on the line, and Coulson's voice went flat with electronic interference - for their ears only. "You are of course welcome to go back to work and not meet with Col. Sheppard," he said. "If it's not a coincidence, then Col. Sheppard knows exactly what I'll be asking you to do. He is the one who called me for your location."

Clint and Natasha shared a glance. "Fine," Natasha said stiffly. "But I'm not going to do anything that will compromise my position."

"Which is why I'm sending Barton with you." The line shifted again, opening back up to the full monitoring system. "The clock is ticking on your source's location, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha swore in Russian, turning on her heel. "Barton, you on the ground or in the air?" she asked.

"I'll take air," Clint said, falling in step with her. "I know that plaza, there's a good balcony across the street. Keep your ears open."

"This is a bad idea, Hawkeye," Natasha said under her breath, certain that the SHIELD operations centre would hear every word, not sure she cared.

"Yes it is, Black Widow," Clint replied.

A disastrous idea, but Natasha could not give up the chance to see her son.

John was her weakness, and Coulson knew it.

Damn him. Damn herself.

The fog had started to roll in when Natasha approached the cafe. Across the street, Clint was in place on the balcony, surveying the scene in case this was a trap, in case there was a problem, in case she needed him.

She spotted John first, in profile as he spoke to someone Natasha couldn't see. Natasha's step faltered. It was John, and yet...

He was growing old. Older now than Natasha had ever seen his father, years piling upon years, nearly forty years old.

Natasha's stomach clenched. Her son was growing old and she hadn't aged a day in over fifty years.

Then John glanced around, saw her, and his expression lit up. He lifted his hand to wave her over, and the movement revealed his companions: a woman across the table, and a dark-haired toddler sitting on John's lap.

"What..." Natasha breathed.

Over the earpiece, Clint let out a whistle. "So, do I get to call you grandma, or can I toss babushka in now and again?"

"If you ever call me 'babushka'," Natasha threatened, "I will cut your bowstrings." She put a smile on her face and crossed the fog-tipped courtyard toward her son.

John stood as she reached the table, transferring the boy to his arm. "Hey you," John said, wrapping his free arm around Natasha's shoulders in a hug. She couldn't stop herself from hugging him back.

"I missed you," Natasha whispered in John's ear, knowing the SHIELD Monitoring centre had heard, and hating them all because of it.

Colson cleared his throat. "I'll put your conversation on ears-only," he said. "Barton and myself."

Natasha hummed a light note to indicate she understood. John pulled back to look at her, still smiling. He had more lines around his eyes than last year, a few more grey hairs. "I missed you too."

The little boy made a burbling noise as John bounced him higher on his arm.

"This is Torren," John said. The child could be no older that two years old, Natasha deduced. "And this," John went on, turning to the woman at the table, "Is Teyla Emmagen."

The woman stood, graceful and elegant in spite of her too-large American military jacket and the faded trousers. She inclined her head at Natasha.

Something was going on here, some undercurrent between the woman and John. The apparent ease in John's manner was masking some apprehension, and it took Natasha a moment to realize that John was nervous about this meeting, but not from an intelligence perspective.

This woman was important to John, Natasha could see.

"This is my cousin, Natalie," John was telling Teyla.

"Yes," Teyla said, looking at Natasha with direct frankness. "Ronon has told me of you."

"That's nice," Natasha said, distracted by Torren waving his tiny hand in her direction.

"So," John said awkwardly. "Can you join us for a bit?"

Natasha pulled a chair over to the table and waited until John had seated himself, arranging Torren on his lap, before sitting herself. "How are you doing?" Natasha asked.

John shrugged. He was trying to prevent Torren from overbalancing as the baby stood on John's knees. "Kinda busy. Kinda good. How's Coulson?"

Natasha hid a smirk at the sigh that came over the line. "He's fine," Natasha said. "He sends his love."

"I thought he might." At Teyla's confused expression, John explained, "Coulson is like Natalie's imaginary friend. Like Chuck back home."

Teyla's confusion shifted into wariness.

"It's okay," John went on. "Nat's okay."

"You are certain of this," Teyla asked. Her attention never left Natasha.

"Yup." John stopped Torren from climbing onto the table. "Why are you in town?"

This last was aimed at her. "You know," Natasha said. "San Francisco in the winter. It's the traditional fireball in the sky season."

John grinned. "Yeah, wasn't that something?"

He was bullshitting her and she knew it; also knew that she wouldn't get anything out of him without breaking this casual peace they had between them.

Natasha set her elbows on the table and smiled at John. "How have you been?"

"Fine," John said automatically. A waitress appeared with drinks for Teyla and John and vanished as quickly. "Busy. The usual."

He tried to reach for his coffee cup, but Torren darted in first, nearly upsetting the cup all over the table.

"Here," Natasha said, holding out her hands. "Can I hold him?"

John glanced at Teyla, who nodded after the briefest of hesitations. "Careful, he's wily," John cautioned as he passed the toddler to Natasha.

"So were you," Natasha said, settling the little boy onto her lap. He looked up at her with careful consideration, suddenly serious after his escape attempt from John. "Hello."

Up close, any superficial similarities to John removed themselves - Torren's hair was dark and fine, but curly, and while he had Teyla's eyes, the shape of his facial features belonged neither to Teyla nor to John.

This was not John's son.

Torren reached for Natasha's hair. She deftly pulled the curls out of his tiny hands and shifted him around so his body was braced against hers, one arm around his stomach while she reached for a napkin with the other. "He's adorable," Natasha said to Teyla.

"He is," Teyla said, her alertness softening into a smile.

The boy squirmed while Natasha wiped his dirty nose with the napkin. He wrinkled his nose and said "bah!" while kicking at her leg absently.

"How old is he?" Natasha asked.

"Nearly two," John said, mouth full of mocha.

Natasha pushed Torren's curls back from his forehead, wondering. At that age, John had been speaking in nearly full sentences. Although, Natasha conceded, John had always been far ahead of other children his age; she shouldn't be making assumptions about this child.

"Are you on the same expedition as John?" Natasha asked Teyla.

The woman smiled. "John and I met when he came to the land of my people."

It was an odd way to speak, Natasha reflected, but it nicely hid any details about their meeting.

In her ear, Clint grumbled. "Why am I up on a roof while Natasha gets brioche?"

Natasha resisted the urge to acknowledge his presence by flipping him off.

Torren twisted around in her lap, looking confused. He climbed up on his knees and reached for Natasha's face, poking her cheek.

It was almost as if he was looking for another voice. Natasha pushed that thought away. There was no way the baby could have heard Clint's voice in her earpiece. She was being fanciful.

"John invited me to serve on his team, many years ago," Teyla was saying. "He is my good friend."

"Yeah, she even asked me to be Torren's godfather," John said, ruffling Torren's hair.

"Ah," Natasha said. That explained everything.

Torren grew tired of patting her face. He dropped back to her lap and reached out for the table, seemingly aiming at the pastry.

Natasha reached out to help, but her hand moved past the pastry to the glass of water across the table, and she felt a sense of satisfaction when she picked it up.

It was a thought that was not her own.

Hesitating slightly, Natasha sat back, guiding the glass of water to Torren's mouth, helped the boy take a sip. As she did so, the lingering thirst, which was not her own, eased.

Natasha set the glass on the table and lifted Torren up so she could look him directly in the face. She dismissed her earlier impression that the boy, for his lack of vocabulary, was dim. His eyes were bright as John's had been at this age, seeing everything and understanding, full of delight and interest.

Natasha directed all her attention to remembering Ronon Dex, John's friend. She filled her mind with the man's image, his speech patterns, his posture. And then, in very clear words, she thought, who is that?

The boy grinned at her, showing all his baby teeth. "Ronon!" he shouted, bouncing on Natasha's lap.

Natasha glanced up to see John frown, Teyla's expression close off.

No wonder. This child was a reader.

Natasha had heard of such people, had suspected some of such skills. It was one thing to understand people and have experience in reading posture, body language. It was quite another to be able to pry into someone's thoughts and put your own there in return.

To think of an adult as a reader was terrifying, in Natasha's line of work.

The idea of a child with such skill made her anxious for a very different reason. That such a child was beloved by John, filled her with dread.

Now, however, was not the time to indicate any of what she had discovered. Torren was not her mission.

She kissed Torren's cheek, a big noisy smack that made him laugh. "Did Ronon come with you this time?" she asked John, pulling Torren back onto her lap and letting him have another drink.

John shifted in his seat, radiating uncertainty. "No, he's a bit under the weather," John said. "On the mend, though."

"Good," Natasha said. "How long are you in town?"

"Another few hours, then we got to head back," John said. He picked up Teyla's cup without seeming to notice and took a sip of her drink. "I'm glad we could meet up."

"As am I."

Teyla, who had been looking back and forth between John and Natasha for some minutes, spoke. "Who are you, really?"

John's shoulders tensed, but Natasha had known this moment was coming, ever since she had seen the sharpness in Teyla's eyes. John cleared his throat, cast Natasha an apologetic glance, and said, just like that, "Natasha is my mother."

Teyla looked at Natasha, but not with disbelief or even surprise. "You have told us in the past that your mother is dead."

"Yeah, well," John said. "It's kind of complicated."

"And that her name was Natalie."

"It's a nickname?"

Teyla sighed. "I can see the resemblance," she said, absently handing Torren a paper napkin to play with.

John frowned. "Wait, what? You're okay with that? She looks young enough to be my sister."

"She looks young enough to be your daughter, in the way of your people," Teyla pointed out. "You know how old I am, why do you think this would shock me?"

That stopped John cold.

Natasha licked her lower lip as she sat forward. Part of her wished that John hadn't blown her cover on a San Francisco terrace, but mostly her heart beat with unexpected emotions. Since he came back into her life, John had not acknowledged her as his mother in front of anyone besides Coulson, in far darker circumstances.

What stood out far stronger, however, was what the revelation told Natasha about Teyla's place in John's life.

"Teyla," Natasha said quietly. "About this..."

"I will not reveal the contents of this conversation, as I hope you will not," Teyla said.

In Natasha's ear, Clint made a confused sound. "What am I missing, Tasha?"

"Not a word," Natasha said, patting Torren's head as he once again reached for her earpiece.

"Fuck it," Clint said. "Next time you get to meet the in-laws, I'm bringing popcorn and the closed captions."

Torren started squirming, slithered out of Natasha's lap to the ground. He righted himself and started off across the crowded plaza. Teyla was out of her chair in a moment, catching Torren in a few steps and taking his hand as he explored in the fog.

John blew out a quick breath. "He's never going to learn," John said. He sounded worried.

"He's too young to know he's not to wander off," Natasha pointed out. She watched mother and son progress. "You used to get into everything."

John shook his head. "We can't let him."

He was unusually insistent, and Natasha took her eyes off Teyla, now showing Torren a green leaf in a planter in the middle of the plaza. "Are you worried someone will take him?"

John sighed. "Where Teyla comes from? All the time," he said quietly.

Natasha put her hand on John's. From the day John was born, Natasha had lived with the very real threat that someone would take her son because of who his mother was. It was her burden, born from a life as the Black Widow. She would not have thought that her son would one day find himself in the same situation.

"You love her."

"What?" John demanded, startled. He looked at Natasha. "Well, yeah, she's on my team."

"John."

"It's not like that, she's--" John broke off. He took a deep breath. "You remember what you told me last time, about Barton?"

"I do," Natasha said evenly. Clint was going to have a field day with this one.

"Well, it's like that with me and Teyla. She's like the best person I know, you know?"

"Yes."

Clint let out a small chortle. "Oh man, Nat, you think I'm awesome?"

Annoyed, Natasha looked away from John to where she presumed Clint was perched. She couldn't see him, but her eyes picked up something in the encroaching fog, people moving across the plaza like the others, but the thread of movement was wrong, it was with a different purpose, toward Teyla who was paying too-close attention to Torren and not the world around her --

"Hawkeye," Natasha said, and in the next heartbeat one of the men pulled a gun from his pocket and shot Teyla two times in the chest.

"Teyla!" John shouted, already out of his chair, half a step in front of Natasha, running across the plaza but it was too late, Teyla was on the ground and the other man had picked up a screaming Torren, and a plaza of terrified people stood between Natasha and a clean shot.

Noise whooshed over Natasha's earpiece; the conversation opening up into the full monitoring capacity of SHIELD. "I've got eyes on," Clint said, voice clipped. "If I shoot at this angle I may hit the kid."

Natasha made a split-second analysis of the situation. With Hawkeye on the balcony and SHIELD's eyes in the sky, she was in a far better position to track Torren in the fog than John would be. Her skills would be useless at helping Teyla. It was with these key facts in mind that she shouted to John, "I'll get Torren!"

John didn't respond, just skidded to a halt beside Teyla. Natasha didn't stop; kept running after the men who had Torren. They blurred into the fog, rounded the corner of a building, and Natasha had the option between running full tilt around the corner blind; or slowing to do a slower, safer check, and risk losing her prey in the fog.

"Hawkeye?" she demanded as she ran, only a few steps left to decide.

"You're clear," Clint said, and Natasha went around the corner at top speed. The street before her was busy and foggy and Natasha couldn't see her targets.

"A little help?" Natasha demanded.

Across the street, a metal pong echoed weirdly. "They're heading east in a black van," Clint said. "I tagged the van with a transmitter but they're going to ditch at the soonest opportunity."

Natasha was familiar with the common modus operandi of child abductors. Anyone who was willing to shoot a woman in a crowded street would almost certainly have an unpleasant reason for taking the child.

Coulson said, all business, "Satellites are up; the fog is obscuring the visuals but the street overlay and Hawkeye's tracker will help."

Natasha didn't answer as she slid to a halt next to an older model car, one she could break into and hotwire in less than thirty seconds.

"I'm on my way down to street level," Clint announced. "Widow, meet up?"

"Negative," Natasha said. "Let's see if we can cut them off before they transfer vehicles."

"Sort of like Chicago?"

"I was thinking Santiago," Natasha told him. The car door popped open and she slid into the driver's seat.

"Oh goody."

"Black Widow," Coulson said calmly as Natasha fumbled with the ignition wires. "When Director Fury asks me why we are running an unauthorized mission on U.S. soil, what should I tell him?"

Natasha jabbed at the wires until the car engine turned over, and pulled the car out into traffic. "This isn't unauthorized," Natasha snapped. "Where I am going?"

"Right at the next light, down for three blocks. They just turned onto the freeway."

"Affirmative," Natasha said. She swung the car around the corner, ignoring the angry honking behind her.

"I'm mobile," Clint announced. "Where to?"

Coulson told Clint which direction to drive, as Natasha darted in and out of lanes to end up on the freeway at speeds nowhere close to legal.

"Agent Romanoff. Director Fury?"

"It's not unauthorized, it's his directive," Natasha said. Her heart was pounding and her limbs ached with the adrenaline rush. It happened in any mission, even those which didn't involve her son. "You wanted us to find out what happened outside of San Francisco. It's likely that a woman directly involved in the military action was shot point-blank, and her son taken by operatives unknown."

"Understood," Coulson said, with that you are in over your heads and I'm not going to help tone of voice. "I'll let the director know."

Clint snorted. "You're a peach."

"Don't ever call me that again."

Natasha was listening to the hum of traffic, looking for the black van. She knew the mission she had assigned herself - find Torren and bring him back safe. But to what? "Did anyone call paramedics to the plaza?"

Coulson was silent for a minute. "Yes," he finally said. "Paramedics have been dispatched and will be on-scene in minutes."

"Our people should be there to monitor," Natasha added.

"The logistic are under control." Which was Coulson's way of telling her to do her job; he would do his.

She wanted to scream that this was different, this had to do with John and she had to get his godson back safe, she had to, after so many years and so much that she'd missed in his life, she could not let him down now.

"Black Widow."

Natasha slammed a lid on her emotions, pulled the cloak of the Black Widow around her. Coulson was right. The best way she could help John was to be the Black Widow, the finest creation of Department X, the best operative SHIELD had even seen. Find the van, extract the child, destroy the enemy.

There was nothing Natasha could do for Teyla. John would have to see to that.

"I'm turning off the freeway," Clint said. Natasha checked the highway signs. "How we going to do this?"

"Our best chance is when they stop to change vehicles," Natasha said. She changed lanes to get to the exit.

"They might have backup," Clint objected. "Might be better to get them before the change-over."

Natasha considered. The fog might mask their activities, giving Clint's plan better play. "Did you happen to see if there were any other operatives in the van?"

"Nope. But with a kid, they might not - one of the ones on the ground got into the driver's seat, that's more likely if there were only two of them."

"The target vehicle is slowing," Coulson said.

"I'll distract," Natasha said, cutting down a back alley. "Hawkeye, can you get behind the van?"

"Already there," Clint said. "Vehicle is in sight."

Natasha sped up, turned a corner, and there was the van. She took a deep breath. "When you get the kid, think really hard about me."

"What?" Clint asked, understandably surprised.

"Big happy pictures of me," Natasha said. "The kid's a reader."

There was no more time for explanations. Natasha let the wheel turn, clipped the van at top speed, overcompensated as she slammed on the brakes. The car did a one-eighty, brakes screaming, until the nose of the car slammed into a lamp post.

Natasha had time to brace for impact, which at that speed only meant that she could turn her head and hope she didn't break her neck. The angle of the crash slammed her into the door, her arm up to cushion her head from the blow. The sudden stillness of the car was worse than the impact, too similar to unconsciousness. Then sound rushed back in and Natasha was fumbling for the door latch.

The van had pulled to a halt behind her as she had cut off access to the street. The driver emerged, screaming in words Natasha couldn't parse as she stumbled free of the wreck.

She lifted her hand to her head and wondered at the blood she felt, wondered if she was hurt worse than she expected. But she was the Black Widow, she had been made for this. They'd manipulated her body and her mind into maintaining control at all times in such situations.

"--the fuck is wrong with you, bitch?" the driver was screaming at her. "Get the fuck out of the fucking road!"

Natasha let tears rise to her eyes and made her shoulders shake; the first stages of hysteria. "I didn't see you, what happened? Oh my god, my dad's car!"

The driver brushed past Natasha, heading for the car. The man was actually going to move the vehicle out of the road, Natasha realized in disgust. It would be so much more professional if he just turned the van around.

"Can you help?" Natasha asked, grabbing the man's arm. He didn't immediately shake her off, which meant that he didn't think she was a threat.

Noise in her earpiece; a muffled "Hey!" and loud thumps.

As the driver reached the car, Natasha grabbed his jacket with her free hand. Kicking out his knee, she slammed his head into the car frame and he dropped like a stone. Natasha used the momentum of his falling body to push him into the car, tucked his legs inside, and closed the door behind him.

"Clear!" Clint said, as Natasha ran toward the van. Clint was climbing into the driver's seat, and Natasha jerked open the passenger door and barely had time to dive inside before Clint had the van in reverse, narrowly missing the other operative, now lying in the middle of the street.

To the untrained eye, it looked like a hit and run.

"Torren?" Natasha demanded.

"In the back," Clint said tersely. "Coulson, I could use some eyes on the street."

Natasha climbed over the seat into the back of the van. The little boy was huddled in the corner, tears on his cheeks and his eyes wide with fear. As soon as he saw Natasha, he reached for her with grasping hands.

"You're safe," Natasha told him, wrapping him in protective arms. The van lurched, and Natasha fell onto her side with Torren in a tight hold. "You're safe now and we're going to take you back home."

The boy took deep snuffling breaths but didn't cry, which Natasha would have thought odd had she not been subject to an overwhelming outpouring of emotions that could only be Torren's; panic and anxiety and overwhelming fear.

It took over sixty years of mental training, but Natasha closed off her own emotions and focused on warm, calming thoughts. "You're safe, baby," she whispered in Russian, cupping the back of Torren's head with a bloody hand. "Shh, the bad men are gone, you're safe."

An image of Teyla falling to the ground popped into Natasha's head.

Natasha hugged Torren tighter. "Your mommy's going to be okay," Natasha promised, praying to the gods she didn't believe in that she wasn't lying. "I'm going to take you back to her and John right now."

Outside the van, distant sirens sounded. Natasha held Torren in her arms and listened to Clint curse.

Torren began to sob.

Two hours later, Natasha walked into San Francisco Memorial hospital. The assistant at the desk hadn't been able to give her any information on Teyla's condition, but had pointed out where Natasha could find the waiting room for the trauma centre.

Natasha hefted her large backpack and walked as evenly as she could towards the elevators. She hated hospitals; everything in them reminded her of death and losing control.

Natasha got onto the elevator with a crowd of other people, the sick and the stressed and the panicked, and she just hoped she could get to the right floor without any screaming.

Clint and Coulson were quiet in her ear, and all she could do was wait for the elevator to rise.

She was among the last to get off the elevator, took a left towards the waiting room area, her sine aching with the weight of the backpack. Almost there, she thought.

There were three men in the enclosed waiting room, she could see through the glass square in the door. One was Ronon, identifiable by his hair and his height. The other man was not familiar, but the third was John, pacing back and forth with nervous energy.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha pulled open the door to the waiting room and stepped inside.

The unfamiliar man stopped talking mid-sentence, looking at Natasha with confusion. Ronon didn't move. John whirled around, his clothes still covered in blood. The momentary flash of hope in his eyes died when he saw her with empty arms.

"John--"

He crossed his arms over his chest, hunched in on himself. "You were supposed to bring Torren back," John said, voice on the edge of panic. "Why didn't you bring him back?"

Natasha glanced at Ronon. "Is this room secure?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Sheppard, what is going on?" the other man demanded. When he spoke, Natasha recalled his voice and his face, absently labeled him McKay as she slid the backpack carefully off her shoulders and placed it on a table.

"Natasha," John said, pleading, but he got no further because Natasha has undone the zipper on the overly large backpack, pulling open the flap to reveal the curly-haired baby tucked inside, his dark eyes bright with delight at the game Natasha had told him they were playing.

"What the fuck?" McKay demanded. John dove forward, pulling Torren out of the backpack. He hugged the boy tight, putting a hand on the back of Torren's head and letting out a very shaky breath.

"He's fine," Natasha said, half-pushing John into a chair. Torren had wrapped his arms around John's neck and was making a soft burbling noise that Natasha was beginning to understand was his way of speaking. "A couple of scrapes, that's all. I had to get him in here without anyone seeing, in case you were under surveillance."

John shifted Torren around so he could look at the boy, ran his hand over the baby's head, felt his limbs and his chest. A gamut of emotions crossed John's face, ending with a heartfelt smile. "Hey, buddy," John said, touching Torren's cheek. "You've had an adventure, haven't you?"

"An adventure?" McKay nearly shouted. "He got grabbed by kidnappers in the middle of an American city and saw his mother get shot--"

"Rodney!" John interrupted, glaring at the man. In his arms, Torren was looking at Rodney with a solemn expression, his lower lip trembling.

Rodney's expression changed from anger to terror. "Torren, I'm sorry, I'm just worried about your mom, I promise, everything's going to be okay, don't cry."

"Uncle Rodney's right," John said forcefully, bouncing Torren a little. "Your mommy is with the doctors. Doc Keller came all the way out here to make sure mommy's going to be fine, okay?"

The threat of tears receded slightly, although Torren did grip John's shirt tighter.

"What happened?" Ronon asked Natasha, arms crossed over his chest menacingly.

"An excellent question," Rodney snapped, rounding on Natasha. "For starters, who the hell are you?"

Natasha was unimpressed by the man's bravado. In the four years since she'd received John's email video from his secret mission, she had done a little research. One of her contacts in Siberia had spent some time working with a Doctor Rodney McKay, who had been described by most as a genius and a complete asshole.

An asshole who vanished into a secret military mission at the same time as John had.

"Sheppard's cousin Natalie," Ronon contributed. "Except she's not."

Natasha stayed in her stare-down with Rodney. "My name is Natasha Romanoff. I'm an agent with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I was meeting with Col. Sheppard when the situation occurred."

"You call being shot twice in the chest and having your kid grabbed a 'situation'?"

John made hushing sounds, but at Torren or Rodney, Natasha couldn't tell. "You are aware that Torren understands you, right?" Natasha demanded. She had spent two hours with the boy in her arms, with him poking and prodding at her thoughts in an innocent attempt to understand the world, and it was understandable if Natasha was feeling a bit protective.

John stood up and stepped between Rodney and Natasha. "Everybody gets to calm the fuck down," he said mildly. He patted Torren's back in reassurance. "And we get to talk in calm voices like fucking adults, so Torren doesn't bring this up in therapy in ten years. Are we good?"

Rodney jutted his jaw defiantly, but he deflated when John leveled up his glare. "Fine," he muttered. Natasha didn't bother to respond.

"Now," John said in the same Stepford Wives tone, "Natasha, can you please explain what happened with Torren."

Natasha described her pursuit of Torren in clinical terms. She kept most of the obvious violence out of the description, although she noted that John winced when she used the phrase threat incapacitated.

"And then we removed Torren to a safe location while our agents secured the operatives and started the trace on their communications," Natasha finished. Torren was looking at her, his finger in his mouth, and she couldn't help herself from reaching out to touch his arm. "We got here as soon as we could."

Rodney was frowning. "Who the hell is 'we'?"

Natasha tossed her hair over her shoulder, ignoring the pounding headache from the car accident. "Myself and my partner."

"Barton?" John asked, resigned.

At the mention of Clint's name, Torren perked up. The boy had been quite entranced by Clint when they were in the safe house, as Clint had distracted the boy with stories and magic tricks while Natasha washed blood off her face.

"Yes," Natasha said. "Clint was with me."

Apparently deciding that Clint was a more interesting mental image than whatever John had in his head, Torren wiggled and reached for Natasha, nearly flopping out of John's grip.

"Whoa, partner," John said, making a last-minute save and handing Torren to Natasha. "Why am I not surprised that he likes you?"

"Maybe because you like me," Natasha pointed out, kissing Torren's cheek with just a hint of smugness. "And I'm probably not projecting as hard as you are."

Rodney's eyes went wide. "You told her about that?" he demanded.

"No, McKay, I didn't," John snapped. "She gets it."

Natasha tuned them out for the moment, filling her head with warm and safe images for Torren to play with. She could feel his mind meeting hers, touching on her memory of telling John a Captain American bedtime story.

"Once upon a time," Natasha said softly, rubbing Torren's back as he put his head on her shoulder, "There was a young man named Steven Rogers, who wasn't very big and wasn't very strong, but he always stood up to bullies and never walked away when someone was scared."

Rodney and John continued to bicker, while Ronon loomed in the middle of the room and tried to hide his concern.

"Nice story, Nat," Clint interrupted in her ear. "But I've got an Air Force officer making his way down the hall. FYI."

Natasha never broke off her story as force of habit made her angled her body between Torren and the door. Considering her afternoon, she wasn't letting her guard down again until John himself said it was time to stand down.

The door opened and in walked a man in Air Force blues, and Natasha's mind snapped from fairy stories to a screaming rush of tension. She knew that man. Decades had intervened and he was older than when she had left him in that warehouse in Krakow, but she knew him as well as he would know her, and she hadn't aged a day in fifty years.

John snapped to attention, said "General O'Neill," but the man was scanning the room and looked right at Natasha and his eyes moved over her without any recognition whatsoever, settling on Torren on Natasha's arm and that wasn't right and Natasha had her knife out even before she saw the glowing disc in the man's hand. She let her knife fly as she saw the man's thumb move towards the blinking button on the top of the disc. The long blade buried itself in the man's chest, knocking him back into the wall as the glowing disc tumbled to the ground.

The man was dead before he hit the floor.

Rodney yelped and Torren was crying, jarred awake by Natasha's adrenaline rush and sudden action. Ronon pulled a gun from somewhere and aimed it at Natasha, while John knelt by the dead man.

"What did you do?" John demanded, horrified. The moment the words left his mouth, the man on the floor started to change, the appearance of Jack O'Neill melting away to leave an unfamiliar corpse in its place.

John jumped up, backed away from the body. There was a moment of appalled silence, broken only by Torren's wails.

"What the motherfucking hell?" John demanded. Ronon, his gun still trained on Natasha, moved towards the glowing disc, but Rodney stopped him.

"Don't," Rodney said urgently. "I've seen those in Area 51, they can stun everyone in a fifty foot radius, do not touch." He stepped over to the body and pointed at a small metal circle pinned to the unfamiliar man's shirt. "Don't you see what this is?"

John was breathing hard. "Proof that my mother didn't just knife a three-star general in an earth-side hospital?"

"No, it's one of the alien cloaking devices that nearly caused a foothold situation in--" Rodney pulled up short. "Wait, what, your mother?"

The waiting room door opened again, and this time Natasha had her gun out before she registered that it was just Clint. He took in the room and said, "Huh."

Ronon hesitated, not sure where he should point his weapon, but Natasha lowered her gun and said, "It's okay, he's a friend."

"He's your friend," Ronon rumbled, but John shook off his confusion and held up a hand.

"Barton? John asked Natasha. He received an answer in her eyes, for he waved Ronon down. "They're like BFFs."

Ronon gave Clint one last glare, and went to stand by the door.

Natasha slid her gun into her belt holster and concentrated on comforting Torren, who had descended into a full-on melt-down. He wanted his mother and only his mother and Natasha had to draw on distant memories of calming John from one of his tantrums to make a dent in the noise.

"This is not the guy who came down the hall," Clint pointed out. He pulled his SHIELD-issued phone from a pocket and took a scan of the dead man's face.

"Like I was saying," Rodney interjected with irritation. "That's alien technology, enabling anyone to mimic the appearance of someone else, it's highly classified and should not be outside Area 51. And mother?"

"How did you know it wasn't General O'Neill?" John asked Natasha, looking at her with unfamiliar intensity.

Natasha kissed Torren's cheek, rocking him as his wailing became intermittent and he snuffled against her neck. Making sure to mask her thoughts, Natasha said, "Jack O'Neill and I have a history. That man looked past me like I wasn't a threat."

John's eyebrows went up. "What do you mean, a history?"

Natasha gave him a look. On the floor, Clint smirked as he pretended to be involved with his phone. "There may have been handcuffs involved," Natasha said.

John only looked more perturbed. "My question stands," he said, but moved over to Clint's side. "Any clue who he is?"

Clint held up his phone. "Facial recognition says Gregory Mellas, known mercenary. It tracks with the other two we pulled out of the van. Guns for hire."

John's face closed off. "I'm going to want those two in my custody," he said.

Clint shrugged, standing up. "Your boss and my boss can talk about it, it's over my pay grade."

"Uh huh." John stuck out his hand. "John Sheppard."

"Clint Barton," Clint responded, taking John's hand and shaking a bit harder than was necessary.

Natasha rolled her eyes and went to sit in the chair furthest away from the body. Torren was close to sleep now, and she didn't want to experience the emotional echo of another tantrum. She pretended to not notice how Ronon sat in the chair between her and the door.

"So we have my people call your people," John was saying.

"Already done," Clint said, tapping his earpiece. "Sounds like my director is just pleased as punch."

"Coulson?" John asked.

"Nah," Clint responded. "Though he says hi, by the way."

"So glad to hear it," John said. He looked down at the body on the floor. "What are we going to do about this?"

At that very moment, the door opened and a young woman in doctor's scrubs came into the room. She looked at the group, down at the body on the floor, then at Rodney. "Okay, what?" she asked, not nearly as confused as she should have been.

"Jennifer!" Rodney said, at the same time John exclaimed "Dr. Keller," and the woman just held up her hands and smiled.

A wave of relief washed over Natasha. She kissed Torren's head and rocked him as Dr. Keller told the room that Teyla was going to be okay, the surgery had been a success, and Teyla just needed time to heal.

"Your mommy's going to be back with you soon," Natasha whispered to Torren, wishing she could keep the boy safe and knowing that was impossible.

She hadn't counted on Director Fury himself showing up.

The body in the waiting room had been covered and retrieved by SHIELD operatives, and Dr. Keller had returned to monitor Teyla's post-op recovery. John and Rodney were talking in low voices, at least John was. Natasha sat in her chair, weighed down by a sleeping baby and Clint's uncharacteristic silence.

"On a scale of one to ten, how much trouble are we in?" she asked.

Clint shrugged. "You stabbed a man masquerading as a lieutenant general and saved a kidnapped baby from some kind of international classified mission. I think we've cranked this one up to eleven."

It was at that point that Director Fury swept into the room, all eye patch and black leather, and said as firmly as he could, "Strike team Delta, with me."

Natasha handed the sleeping baby to Ronon and trailed the man out into the hall, Clint and John on her heels.

She stopped so suddenly John walked into her. At the far end of the hall stood a familiar man, a man she had stabbed not an hour before. Jack O'Neill was older, greyer, and he stared at her with such apprehension that the years fell away, and it was like Krakow all over again.

"That is why I knew it wasn't your O'Neill," Natasha told John, never breaking eye contact with the General. "Some things you never forget."

Clint shrugged and walked after Director Fury. "Do we need some tumbleweeds?" he asked, although he didn't cross the line of sight between Natasha and O'Neill. "Some classical guitar?"

Natasha followed him, although she was not thrilled at being this close to Jack O'Neill again. She wouldn't be altogether surprised if the man pulled a gun on her; it was his turn.

"Agent Romanova," O'Neill said with false enthusiasm as she approached. "I hear we have you to thank for saving the day."

"Just going my job, General," Natasha said. She put her hands behind her back and stood at attention. "I look forward to hearing exactly what that was all about."

O'Neill gave her a sardonic smile. "There is not a goddamn chance in any hell that you'll be read into this project."

"Damn it, Jack--" Natasha started, but Director Fury cut her off.

"Agent Romanoff, the US Air Force thanks you for your contribution," Fury said, irritation bleeding through in every word. "At this time, you are relieved of your duties in this operation."

Natasha whirled on the man. "What?"

"Pack it in and head back to base, you and Barton are on paid leave."

"There is no way I'm walking away--"

"Romanoff--"

"Twice these people tried to grab Torren and twice I had to--"

"Agent Romanoff!" Fury roared, startling her into momentary silence. "You're off this!"

"But--"

"Walk it off. Now!"

Wanting to stab Jack O'Neill for a second time in one day, Natasha backed up down the hall, not breaking eye contact with O'Neill until she was at the corner.

Then she stalked out of the building, past the SHIELD cordon, before she could do anything unfortunate. She'd have to trust that Torren was safe with Ronon and Rodney, that John would understand.

She hit the hospital entrance and kept going, down the street in the soft foggy darkness until she reached a small sparsely populated alcove. One of the occupants, a patient with an IV pole, noticed her pacing. "Hey," he said, and held out a pack. "Looks like you need this more than I do."

Natasha took the pack, fished the last cigarette out of the foil, and accepted a light from a doctor. "Thanks," she said after a deep lungful of smoke.

The patient nodded, gripped his IV pole and began his slow shuffle back to the hospital. After a minute, the doctor gave Natasha a nod and walked after the man, leaving Natasha alone to her thoughts.

Natasha sat in the odd illumination of the halogen lamps, and tried to remember how to breath steadily.

After the first flush of her anger at Director Fury, she could understand why he threw her under the bus. There was no way Jack O'Neill would let the Black Widow in on anything to do with the American military, and there was no way that Director Fury would jeopardize the chance of SHIELD being brought in on the Nevada/California situation.

That didn't mean Natasha wasn't pissed off.

A dark shape shambled out of the fog. Natasha watched as John walked over and slumped on the cold metal bench beside her. Natasha offered John the cigarette, which he accepted and took a puff from before handing it back.

John broke the silence. "So I guess you meant handcuffs in a bad way."

Natasha sighed. "You just told me way too much about your sex life."

John shook his head. "General O'Neill's a really good guy."

"I know he is," Natasha said, surprising John. "There was a time in my life that I was tasked with stopping the good guys, remember?" She sucked down the last of the cigarette, feeling the glow of the embers burn her fingers, before tossing the butt into the nearby ashtray.

"He, uh, knows about you. And me," John said after a minute. "When I was first tapped for the project, he nearly had me pulled when he found out about you. He was pretty choked."

Natasha put her aching head in her hands. "Why didn't he?"

"He said he figured that what I did was more important than where I came from."

"Smart man."

"Yeah."

After a few minutes of silence, Natasha made herself sit up. "Why was Torren a target?" she asked.

John let out a low breath, a sound of masked pain. "You figured out what he can do," John said raggedly. "When Teyla was pregnant, there was this guy. He, uh..." John swallowed. "You once told me that they experimented on you, trying to make you into something else."

"I did," Natasha said, pushing down her rage. It was one thing to experiment on a child of seven, but a baby still in its mother's womb...

"Michael was trying to make Torren into something he could use. After he was born, we figured that Torren was okay, but in the last few months he's been doing the mind thing instead of talking. We try to keep it quiet, never write it down or anything." John cleared his throat. "Before today, I would have said that not a single person on the expedition would do anything to hurt Torren and Teyla."

And there it was, the deep love and terror mixed in with betrayal.

Natasha took John's hand as he stared off into the distance. "Someone I trusted did this," he said. "They'd have killed Teyla and taken Torren, for what?" He was shaking with suppressed anger.

"There are people out there who would pay vast fortunes to control a reader," Natasha said softly.

John made a sound of pain. "Money? I'd understand ideology, but money?"

"Shh," Natasha said. She patted John's arm. "You're going to find out who they are, and you're going to make sure they never hurt anyone ever again."

He looked at her steadily, a low-burning promise of retribution in his eyes. Natasha knew that expression, had seen it countless times in the mirror.

John Sheppard was his mother's son, and it broke her heart.

"This is my fault," John said, rubbing his hand over his face. "I should have had Teyla's back, that's why she wasn't paying attention, I always have her back but I didn't think something could happen on home soil--"

Natasha squeezed John's arm. "Don't do this," she said. "These men, they would have followed you until they found an opportunity to grab Torren."

"I'd have spotted them if I'd been looking--"

"And then they would have shot you too," Natasha said firmly. "John, I know this type, I spent decades working with people like this. There is no way you would have walked away from this." She made him look at her. "John. They would have taken Torren and not left anyone alive to find him."

John pulled away. "You have no idea what I've done, in the past five years, in the past fifteen, I'd have been able to stop them!" he exclaimed.

"John, you can't change the past," Natasha said. "Teyla will heal and Torren is safe. This could have ended so much worse."

"Oh, I know," John said, and Natasha didn't understand the edge in his voice. "Do you want to know what I thought? Not at first, but when Teyla was in surgery and I couldn't get in touch with you..."

His voice was ragged and full of reproach, and Natasha suddenly knew where this was going.

"You thought I set it all up," Natasha answered for him, her insides turning to ice. "You thought that somehow I arranged the shooters and distracted you so you couldn't help Teyla. And I went after Torren because that was part of the plan."

"And then you brought him back and I didn't know what to say," John said, his voice cracking. He angrily wiped his eyes. "I just-- I spent ten years listening to stories about the Black Widow, about how you were the thing that gave the devil nightmares, the deadliest spy in Europe, all the things you'd done..." He swallowed hard. "I didn't know what to think and I didn't know who grabbed Torren and I didn't know what I was going to say to Teyla when she woke up and I didn't have Torren."

Natasha hunched in on herself. All she'd done in a lifetime of operations and intrigue, all the death and destruction she'd caused, and she never thought that her son would throw it in her face like this.

The problem was that John wasn't wrong about her past.

"I'm sorry," John said, sounding miserable and broken.

Natasha wanted another cigarette, wanted a drink, anything to stop the pounding in her head, to un-know that her son could think such things about her. "I want you to know something," she said after a few minutes. John held himself still, body tensed. "There's a lot of things that might happen, but I will never betray you. I need you to know that."

Slowly, the tension eased out of John's shoulders. "It's just..." He took a deep breath. "Torren's not my son, but he's Teyla's son. I'd do anything for him. I mean, before he was born I didn't know what to think, it wasn't like it had anything to do with me, but then he was born and I was just holding him and... I got it."

"Because he's her son," Natasha said. Out of the fog, Clint Barton approached on silent feet.

John looked at her, eyes full of things Natasha couldn't understand. "Yeah."

Natasha squeezed John's hand. "He's lucky to have you." She kissed his cheek and stood up. "You're a good man, John."

"Even if I thought you--"

"You looked at the facts laid out in front of you, took the intel as you understood it, and didn't let sentimentality get in the way," Natasha said firmly. "You do everything to protect your children, John. That's what matters. That is all that matters."

Natasha turned and walked away. She'd only gotten a few steps when John's voice made her pause. "Mom?"

She turned back.

"Thank you for Torren," he said, so serious that Natasha couldn’t think of anything to say.

So she just nodded, and walked away into the fog.

Clint walked beside her in silence as they approached the parking structure. "He's going to be okay," Clint finally said. "The kid."

"I know."

"What did John say?" Clint asked.

Natasha didn't answer, not until they were in the SHIELD vehicle and rolling through the streets. "Do you know much about your parents' past?"

Clint's hand tightened on the steering wheel. "A bit," he said, voice clipped. "There's not much worth knowing."

Natasha pulled her legs up to her chest. The adrenaline rush from the mission was fading, and every part of her body ached. "John knows all about me. My past. The Black Widow."

Clint looked at her, but didn't speak. What could he possible say, Natasha wondered.

"And I think today was the first time he realized what that means."

"I'm sorry, Tasha," Clint said.

Natasha shook her head. "Don't be," she said, making herself suppress her emotions. Her son was the only thing that made her weak, and she couldn't afford that right now. "I know what I've done."

The car came to a halt at a red light. Clint took the opportunity to touch Natasha's leg. "The only reason Torren's alive is that you are very good at what you do," he pointed out. "Just like the only reason John's alive is that you had a mission in New England in 1969. You get that, right?"

Natasha looked out the window. "I'm perfectly aware of the cause and effect nature of my line of work, Agent Barton."

"You did the best you could today, Tasha. Things worked out. Give John some time, he'll see that."

Natasha didn't respond. She knew she was the best at what she did, had done everything she could have done that day to rescue Torren, to protect those people John considered family.

She just wished that John hadn't realized the dark side of her nature. Natasha Romanova was the Black Widow, and the Black Widow was who she was.

She would just have to accept that the one thing she could not protect John from, was herself.

Hey Nat. We figured out who it was. I didn't think it could get any worse but this was someone I trusted for three years. Trust, ha.

They're not letting me in on the interrogation.

j

How are Teyla and Torren?

Natasha

Teyla's drugged up and cranky. she's back home tho which is good.

Torren's a total nightmare, it's awesome. I wish I knew what the hell you put in his head, the only way I've been able to get him to sleep has been to tell him those stupid Captain America stories, Rodney will not let me live that down.

we're leaving in a few hours. I won't be able to write for a while, so I wanted to say thank you. for torren. for everything.

and i'm sorry.

j

There's nothing to apologize for. I mean what I said. Our children are all that matter.

You may not wish to hear this, but I love you and nothing will change that.

Natasha

love u 2 mom

j

Four days later

Natasha stood at parade rest in front of Nick Fury's desk and stared at the wall. The man himself sat in his chair and glared with more than his usual vigour.

"The U.S. Air Force really doesn't like you, Agent Romanoff."

"I don't have much time for the Air Force either, sir."

Fury narrowed his eye at her. "Was there a question anywhere in what I said, Agent?"

"No."

"You're right, no." Fury picked up a folder and tossed it across the desk to her. "So you're going to stop poking your nose into all the data coming out of Nevada and California, do I make myself clear?"

Natasha remained silent.

"That requires a response!"

"Yes sir," Natasha retorted. "A completely useless response considering my background in monitoring U.S. military actions--"

"Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?" Fury demanded. "This is about Junior and we both know it. Do me a favor and save me from having to hold your hand and talk about your feelings, there is no way you're getting in on this project!"

Natasha clenched her jaw and counted to ten in Croatian.

"I've had enough of the crap that you and Barton get into to last me a fucking lifetime. You're being assigned a long-term cover. Barton's getting rotated."

"What?" Natasha demanded. "This is bullshit--"

"Agent?"

"This is bullshit, sir! Barton and I are well-suited to working together--"

"You're a walking disaster zone! You're going to work on separate projects and get the fuck over yourselves, do I make myself clear?"

Natasha picked up the folder and angrily flipped it open. The top pages held details of her cover identity. Natasha scanned the pages, growing more incredulous by the word. "What is this?" she demanded. "Legal counsel? Gymnastics?" She flipped another page, and nearly had an aneurism. "Modeling in Japan? Where the hell are you sending me?"

"Stark Industries," Fury said, standing up in a sweep of leather. "Tony Stark is a self-destructive time bomb and we need someone to keep an eye on him and Iron Man."

"This is babysitting!" Natasha said. "I'd be so much more useful doing anything else!"

"Agent Romanoff, I watched you blow a hole in an operation in San Francisco because of your personal life," Fury said, driving the final blow home. "You prove to me that you can do your job like a professional and we'll talk about your next assignment."

"No."

"What did you just say?"

"I said no," Natasha snapped. She dropped the folder on Fury's desk. "Everything I did in San Francisco was professional, and you know it. The fact that the child I saved was my son's godson had no bearing on the method in which I carried out my mission. That's why you hired me, that's why you keep me here year after year. Because I can do things you need done!"

Fury crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

They stared at each other. Natasha was breathing a bit heavily, mostly from the force of effort she was having to expend to not turn the altercation physical. Not that she would make much headway; Fury was nearly as skilled in hand-to-hand combat as she, but it would be more satisfying than screaming at him.

"Fine," Fury said, uncrossing his arms.

"What?"

"You're right," Fury said. "And you are still going to Stark Industries because you are a goddamn pain in my ass and you've been living in Barton's pocket for nearly ten years and I've had enough of it."

"Sir--"

"Stop talking," Fury ordered. "Pick up your folder, go read a law book or something. Just get the hell out of my office."

Not sure if she'd been dressed down or complimented, Natasha picked up the folder and turned to go.

"Have fun with Stark, Agent Romanoff, he's like a overactive toddler on crystal meth," Fury said.

Natasha looked over her shoulder. "So just like any other day at SHIELD, then?" she asked, and sped off down the hall before he could kick her ass.

She had to find Clint and Coulson and see what the hell was going on.

John,

I am going on another assignment. I am to be a lawyer in Los Angeles. You can write me if you like; you are to be my cousin again.

Please pass my regards on to Teyla and Torren.

You can address any correspondence to Natalie Rushman, c.o Stark Industries.

With love,

Your mother.
the end