#shield agent reader

“I'll be able to relax a lot sooner if we leave. Are you certain that this… “establishment” is where we'll find these must-have pancakes? Do they not deliver on that app? Why come out to,” his voice trailed off as he carefully lifted his arms off the table and made sure that nothing stuck to his sleeves for the tenth time since they sat.

“They'd get soggy and cold by the time they got to us.” She scrunched her nose. “Plus, the atmosphere is part of it.” He flinched as she rested her arms confidently on the table. His spine went straight as she leaned her weight on her arms with such confidence. His eyes frantically searched her arms, as if expecting the piece of furniture to liquify and meld with her or collapse at her weight.

“Very well, very well, sit down!” He softly clicked his tongue, lightly nudging her shoulders and picking up her arms to make sure she was unharmed. “Your lack of self-preservation is always astounding.” He muttered under his breath. 

“Self preservation? What do I need to preserve myself against here? The inanimate furniture? They are actually very clean here, promise! I wouldn't bring you to a place that’d make your skin crawl. It’s just how the finishing on these types of tables get after a while.” Her grin, though reassuring, felt terribly misplaced and deceptive. Had not been so put off by his surroundings, he would actually be somewhat proud of the latter aspect of her smile.

When the waitress finally came around, she gave them a smile that seemed far too bright for this time of day. He left the order to Seihara, slightly tilting his head towards her. It was the wiser decision that bypassed the need for him to touch the tacky feeling menu and interact with the overly energized staff. She jotted things down on her little notepad before stuffing it into her waist apron before taking thelarge,e cumbersome laminated sheets. 

“I'll put in your order and get your drinks out right away.”

“Thank you,” Seihara chirped with matching energy. Loki closed his eyes and rubbed his eyes. “Alright, back to the main reason I summoned you here.”

“The main reason?” He dropped his hand slightly to look at her. “The ‘pillowy perfection’ was not that?”

“They are, they just aren't the main reason. The number one reason for us convening is far more important.” She attempted to lean forward once more, but the waitress arrived with their drinks to his relief. He still did not trust the table. “Do you know what’s coming around the corner?”

“What's coming around the corner?” He raised a brow, steeping his teabag.

“Yeah, next week to be precise.”

“Next week?” The corners of his lips slightly tugged downwards as he carefully sifted through his schedule, her schedule, and any possible group meetings, but nothing came to mind. My mission is not due to start the week after, and I don't recall there being any mandatory meetings or gatherings at the agency. Did we plan to do something? No, we didn’t plan anything. Y/N and I have nothing planned either. “Nothing, to my knowledge. Am I forgetting something?”

“I knew it!” She deflated back into her seat, but it was only for a moment. She jumped back with renewed energy and determination burning in her eyes. “Next Thursday is Y/N’s birthday.” Loki choked on his tea, nearly spilling the hot liquid all over himself.

“I beg your pardon, her what?” He coughed into his napkin and wiped any spilt tea.

“Yup,” she nodded her head. “She probably knows how busy she has been with her own work, but she most likely hasn’t told you because she doesn't want to bother you with ‘minor details’ since you'll likely be busy with prep for your mission.” She rolled her eyes and emphasized with air quotes.

No, that’s not possible. She would have undoubtedly told me. That's not something she would have hidden from me just because of a meeting or a mission. Seihara has told me time and time again just how important these days are, regardless of how nonchalant Y/N may be. Had we not gotten close enough for her to tell me? Does she not trust me? Am I so unreliable? Was Odin ri-, his spiraling thoughts were disrupted by the soft thwap of a sugar packet hitting his forehead.

“Ah, ah, none of that! Y/N didn’t hide it because of those thoughts you got flushing you down the drain. She doesn’t want to burden you, since she knows just how much you've worked to earn the freedoms you gained at the agency. She’s willing to wait for a year or even years before making a move. That’s why you both have me.” She grinned, puffing her chest with pride. “I'll be your little helper to get everything set up as perfectly as possible so you can wow her with your razzle-dazzle!” She faced her palms forward and shook her hands with contained enthusiasm. He could not help but chuckle at her antics.

“Yes, you insufferable little trouble magnet.” His soft smile was met with a broad grin from her as their plates of food were brought to them. “Thank you, Seihara.”

“Anytime for my bestest biffers who are now dating. So, let's get down to business!” Grabbing her fork and knife, she began to dig into the platter of large pancakes. “What are you thinking?”

“So, tell me again why I’m being made to go out tomorrow, on my first day off in ages?” Y/N slumped further into the sofa beside Seihara, exhaustion evident in her drooping eyelids and sagging shoulders.

“Because you love me, and you love your boyfriend even more? C’mon, you promised me you’d hang out! He’s super excited to see you too! I mean c’mon, the Loki agreed to go to an aquarium with us. A crowded place with strollers, people, and animals! Plus, it’s not like you’re going to be there all day! We’ve got tons of spa stuff set up in the daytime, you'll be relaxed the majority of the time.”

“Fine , fine, fine! I give, I give!” Y/N feigned reluctance as best she could, but there was no hiding the way she lit up at the reminder of spending time with Loki. He doesn't know what tomorrow is, but at least I get to spend time with him. I honestly forgot we planned to meet up, good thing Sei is sleeping over. I wouldn't have remembered at all. “So, what shall we watch tonight?”

“Nothing but the back of our eyelids. You’re going to pass out mid-episode one anyway, and I'll end up watching the whole season alone. No, no! I will hear no arguments! We go to bed and wake up early enough to have breakfast before getting ourselves pampered head to toe!” She helped Y/N up onto her feet and led the way to the bedroom. Just as she predicted, Y/N was out the moment her head hit the pillow. 

Seihara made sure to wake up at least an hour earlier than Y/N, making sure she was well tucked in and settled back into sleep before sneaking out. She quickly washed up before sneaking over to the kitchen and pulled out her phone, texting a green light to Loki. The god of mischief appeared before her eyes in seconds, not even a whisper of a sound precluding his arrival. “Ready?” She grinned, handing him the cutesy half apron that had ruffles around the edges.

“As I’ll ever be.” He grabbed the offending piece of attire and tied it securely around his waist. 

“You got this, I'm here!” She patted him on the back and ushered him into the kitchen where he took charge in making Y/N’s breakfast. Starting with her favorite coffee from scratch, grinding her favorite beans that Seihara managed to get a hold of for him from a shop that was far from local. The next step was making the pancakes they had at the diner, a place Y/N loved to get on weekends but had not been able to with her swamped schedule. Everything was perfectly set at her usual spot at the table with a mini bouquet of three roses. He fidgeted with the setup quite a few times, something always looking a bit off. If Seihara had not shoved him out of his fixation, Y/N would have come out to see her boyfriend fussing over whether the eggs would be on the right or left of the pancakes.

“Mornin’,” Y/N yawned the greeting, rubbing her eyes and stretching as she appeared around the counter. “Mmmm, what smells so good?” She sniffed the air, mouth watering with anticipation as she took her seat.

“Good morning Sleeping Beauty! Breakfast is ready and waiting!” Seihara grabbed the apron that magically appeared in front of her, quickly rolling it up and tossing it into the kitchen. 

“Is this coffee from-” her words were cut off by a nod. “Really?! How?!” She eagerly sipped and melted into her seat.

“Magic,” Seihara wiggled her fingers at Y/N before taking a seat next to her. “Ask later, eat now! Everything is best eaten fresh!” She insisted. “And yes, the pancakes are exactly like the diner’s.” She added before Y/N could ask, seeing how her eyes widened in shock. “Go on, eat!” She snickered, the two digging in.

As planned, Y/N was pampered and polished from head to toe; which included a full body massage, facial, haircut with a wash and style, manicure, pedicure, makeup, and a styling session to have the perfect outfit set up for the day. 

“Sei, this is crazy! How did you manage to get all of this setup?” Y/N hooked her arm through her best friend’s, glowing even more with happiness as the two strolled through a beautiful botanical garden to kill the time before they had to head to the aquarium.

“I told you, magic!” She grinned, giving her the razzle-dazzle of spirit fingers once more.

“Stop that and be honest! How much was this, and when did you start planning? I’m not buying that magic excuse anymore!” She huffed, lightly whacking her arm.

“Oh, but you should, because that’s exactly the truth. It’s all thanks to magic.” Seihara slowed to a stop and turned Y/N to face the glowing path before them. “And this is where I leave you, Dorothy. Follow the yellow ‘brick’ road and all your questions will be answered. Well, you’ll see what I mean by magic.”

“Wha-Sei, no, tell me now!” Seihara zipped her lips, locked, and tossed the invisible key. Lightly nudging Y/N forward. The gentle prodding and silence helped her curiosity win over. Y/N slowly walked along the lit up path to a makeshift curtain of vines that magically pulled themselves apart to reveal a sight that left her watery-eyed and speechless. 

Before her was a small table set for two lit up by floating lanterns and candles. The cloth was a creamy white and the cushioned chairs a soft cerulean blue that matched the napkins. The crystal glasses twinkled in the light that grew brighter as the sky darkened with the setting sun. What really took her breath away was the handsome prince that stood there dressed in a three-piece suit with a large blue and white bouquet that held chrysanthemums, carnations, and forget-me-nots animated other things; her favorite.

“Happy Birthday darling,” stepping forward as he presented the bouquet to her. “I hope you've enjoyed your day so far.”

“Loki, what, this, ho-,” she fumbled with her words as a flurry of questions tried to come out all at once which led to nothing coming out.

“I believe the word that’s been used is magic.” It all clicked at that point. The one little word, the key to everything, finally made sense. It was not just magic, it was Loki. His magic, him. The tears finally spilled from her eyes and she quickly looked up, dabbing her eyes and cheeks to keep her makeup from being ruined. The flowers were gently removed from her arms and she was enveloped into the most comforting warmth that she has ever known. 

“If this is what gets you teary-eyed, I worry what’ll happen throughout the dinner.” She felt the vibrations of his chuckles as she threw her arms around him and held tight. 

“I’ll be an absolute mess, and it’ll be all your fault.” She sniffed.

“I shall proudly take responsibility if that's the case.” His soft smile reached his eyes, the warmth like a fire in the depths of winter. Reluctantly she pulled away from him and allowed him to lead her to the table where a well-dressed server wheeled over two cloches. Setting one in front of each before lifting the covers to reveal a curry and rice d dish, one of her favorites again.

Her heart was swelling to the point of bursting as the two of them dined through the sunset and were soon in their own twinkling world. Following dinner was an adorable two-tiered heart shaped cake in a beautiful cerulean blue with pearls, ribbons, and mini rosettes. Much to her glee and utter surprise, the usually aloof and confident prince was slightly red-faced and awkwardly singing happy birthday to her before allowing her to make a wish and blow out the candle.

It was the perfect amount of sweet to an already perfect evening. With the cake and food finished and the dishes cleared away, Loki set a soft velvety rectangular box in front of her. Cracking the lid open, a little spotlight lit up to showcase the subtle and beautiful bracelet. There was no doubt that it was expensive, but it was not gaudy and obvious. It was delicate, subtle, and easy to wear with anything she had daily. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a soft kiss.

“Happy birthday Y/N,” he secured the bracelet around her wrist. “The first of many together.” Her voice escaped her as her heart lodged itself into her throat, leaving her teary-eyed and speechless. Biting her trembling lower lip, she quickly nodded her head and cupped his face in her hands, giving a slightly wet kiss in return.

“Thank you, and yes, many more.”

Epilogue:

Y/N snuggled into the cool body of her boyfriend, happily sprawled in her bed. Happiness, pure and utter blissful happiness. It felt so inadequate of a word, and yet it was perfect all the same. The silent peace was momentarily disturbed by the ping of an email notification. Reluctantly she turned and grabbed her phone, expecting a work email but was surprised to see an email from Seihara.

“Happy birthday behind the scenes?” She mumbled the words, her eyebrows knitted together as she opened it to see several attachments with no explanation aside from “my gift to you”. Opening a random one, she was surprised to see him dressed in a very familiar frilly apron in a very familiar kitchen with a bag of coffee beans. 

“My gift to you, bestie! The secret behind the magic of your special day. Your boyfriend is making your birthday breakfast by hand while you're snoring away.” Seihara popped into the screen briefly. “He doesn't know I've been documenting him this whole time, but I know you'd appreciate seeing the lengths and efforts he put in even on the big day. Happy birthday, and enjoy!” She winked before setting the camera down once more. 

Y/N quickly closed the app when she felt arms tighten around her and a soft mumble of something. Happiness was no longer as inadequate as she thought. No, it was the perfect word. She set her phone aside and turned back to a sleeping Loki, wrapping her arms around him as she settled into his embrace once more.

What made his stomach knot wasn't just the situation—it was the realization that his captors had been thorough. Every hidden weapon he normally carried was gone: the lock pick in his boot heel, the silver knife usually strapped to his ankle, the small backup pistol normally tucked into his waistband. Even the paperclip he habitually kept in his jacket pocket. Whoever had them knew their routines.

Dean's eyes fixed on the small camera mounted in the corner of the room. The red light blinked steadily, someone watching their every move. He stared directly into it, letting his defiance show even as fear churned in his gut.

Sam groaned beside him, consciousness returning slowly. "Dean?" he asked, voice thick with disorientation.

"Yeah," Dean rasped. "Still here." He studied his brother carefully, checking for injuries. Besides a small cut above his eyebrow, Sam seemed intact.

"You remember anything?" Sam asked, blinking hard as he took in their surroundings, his hunter's instincts kicking in despite the fog of whatever drug they'd been given.

"We were grabbed," Dean muttered. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness. "You okay?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, just... fuzzy. Head hurts like hell."

"How long have we been out?" Sam asked, trying to rotate his wrists within the cuffs, wincing at the raw skin already forming.

Dean glanced at the window, noting the position of sunlight filtering through the blinds. "Few hours, I'd guess. Last I remember, we were walking back after I got the cure. It was around midnight then."

"So they know," Samuel said grimly. "About vampires, about hunters. This isn't random."

"No," Dean agreed, "this is targeted. Professional. Question is—by who?" A cold weight settled in his chest as possibilities flashed through his mind: demons, angels, any number of supernatural creatures with grudges. Or worse, humans with knowledge of their world. Those were often the most dangerous.

"Could be anyone," Sam sighed. "We're not exactly short on enemies."

"Crowley?" Samuel suggested.

Dean shook his head. "Not his style. He'd be in here gloating by now."

A heavy silence fell over the room as each man retreated into his thoughts, calculating odds and possibilities.

"You know what I keep thinking?" Dean finally said, his voice quiet.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"This is the kind of situation where we could use..." Dean's voice trailed off, unable to say your name aloud. The wound was still too fresh, the guilt too heavy. He'd made his choice a year ago, walked away from hunting, from the life. From you. For a shot at normal with Lisa and Ben.

And here he was, right back in it. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him.

Sam's expression softened with understanding. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "She always was good with the impossible situations."

"Who are you talking about?" Samuel asked.

Neither brother answered.

The sparring room at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility echoed with the sounds of combat. You moved with precision, driving your knee lightly into Ward's ribs—enough pressure to make a point without causing injury. In one fluid motion, you hooked your leg around his ankle and sent him tumbling to the mat, following him down to pin his hands above his head, your breathing barely elevated while his came in ragged gasps.

"I kinda like this," Ward flirted, a smirk playing across his lips despite his defeat. "Reminds me of last week."

The memory flashed unbidden—vodka burning your throat, his hands in your hair, the desperate attempt to feel something, anything besides the hollow ache that had become your constant companion. The morning after, you'd slipped out before dawn, avoiding his gaze in the hallways for days.

You didn't bother responding to his comment, simply released his wrists and pushed yourself up, walking toward your gear. The towel was rough against your skin as you wiped away sweat, your mind already drifting elsewhere—back to memories you'd been trying to drown in work and training and meaningless encounters.

"You're even quieter than usual today," Ward noted, coming up behind you. His voice held something between concern and frustration.

"Not in the mood for talking," you replied flatly, taking a long drink from your water bottle. The cold liquid did nothing to soothe the perpetual tightness in your chest.

"You're never in the mood for talking," he countered, grabbing his own towel. "But you used to at least pretend."

You stared at your reflection in the mirrored wall. Dark circles under your eyes, skin paler than it should be. You looked like someone haunted, and perhaps you were, haunted by green eyes and a crooked smile that you couldn't seem to exorcise no matter how hard you tried.

You weren't exactly emotionally available, and no one could blame you for it either, since the one you thought was the love of your life left you for someone better, someone more normal, someone who wasn't as fucked in the head as you were.

So you came back to S.H.I.E.L.D, asked them to take you on again, like you had when Dean first died and went to hell. You came here to escape the memories that had haunted you back then, and now when Sammy died, you were back here again—you didn't think you could feel pain like you did when Dean had died, but this was worse, so much worse, because he was alive, he was okay—he just wasn't yours. He didn't want to be yours. As soon as he had a semblance of an option, he chose someone over you.

"What do you want from me, Ward?" you finally asked, voice low and tired.

Ward stepped closer, his expression softening. "I just want to know if you're okay."

"I'm fine," you lied automatically, the words so practiced they almost sounded true.

"Bullshit," he replied softly. "Nobody who spends sixteen hours a day in the gym or on missions is fine. Nobody who drinks themselves to sleep is fine. Nobody who looks at the world like it's already ended is fine."

Something hot and dangerous flared in your chest. "I don't remember asking for your psychological evaluation."

"No, you just asked for everything else," he shot back, frustration breaking through. "My body, my time; but god forbid anyone actually try to reach the person underneath."

You were saved from responding when a nervous-looking intern appeared at the doorway, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield. "Agent Coulson would like to see the two of you in conference room eight," he announced, his voice wavering slightly. "He says it's a mission. Priority level."

You and Ward exchanged glances, the tension between you momentarily forgotten.

"We'll be right there," you told the intern, who nodded quickly before scurrying away.

"Think it's serious?" Ward asked, grabbing his own towel, professional mask sliding back into place.

"Coulson doesn't call meetings over parking violations," you replied, gathering your things. "Come on."

The walk to the conference room was silent, your mind already shifting into work mode, the only place where you felt anything close to peace these days. Mission parameters, threat assessments, tactical strategies- these things made sense in a world where nothing else did.

When you pushed open the door, you found Rumlow, Romanoff, and Barton already seated around the table. The air held that particular tension that always preceded a high-stakes assignment.

"Wow," you muttered under your breath as you slid into an empty chair. "They're pulling out the big guns for this one."

Clint caught your eye and gave you a subtle nod. He'd been like a brother to you for years, and when he'd brought Natasha in from the cold, the three of you had become inseparable—"The Three Musketeers," as Coulson called you.

"You look like hell," Natasha whispered as you took the seat beside her.

"Always the charmer," you replied with a ghost of a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Now that we're all here," Coulson began, his expression serious as he entered the room, "I'll get straight to the point. This isn't a standard op."

"When is it ever with this crew?" Rumlow quipped, leaning back in his chair with casual arrogance.

Coulson didn't smile. "Three individuals on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watchlist have disappeared. We believe they've been captured."

"How do you know?" Clint asked, his posture straightening, eyes alert.

"Because we received a message demanding ransom," Coulson replied, his eyes flickering toward you for just a moment, but long enough to send a chill down your spine.

"What's the demand?" you asked, reaching for the file in the center of the table, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in your chest.

Coulson hesitated, then said simply: "You."

The room fell silent. You felt everyone tense, could sense their eyes on you as you slowly opened the file. Three familiar faces stared back at you: Sam and Dean Winchester, and a third man you'd never met but whose name you recognized instantly—Samuel Campbell.

Your world tilted on its axis. "Sam's dead," you said automatically, staring at the photograph as if you could will it to change. It had been over a year since he'd died, since Dean had chosen Lisa and Ben over you, since you'd walked away from hunting and back into the arms of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Apparently not," Natasha said softly beside you, her hand coming to rest on your arm.

You looked up to find Coulson's gaze steady but apologetic. In that moment, understanding crashed over you like a wave, he'd known. Known that Sam was alive, and hadn't told you.

"How long?" you asked, your voice deadly calm even as your insides churned with betrayal.

"Almost a year," Coulson admitted. "We've been monitoring the situation."

"A year," you repeated, feeling Natasha's hand tighten on your arm, subtle but supportive. "And you didn't think I deserved to know?"

"It wasn't my call," Coulson said, though his expression suggested he might have disagreed with that decision. "The order came from higher up."

You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth. "Fury?"

Coulson's slight nod confirmed it.

"Why tell me now?" you demanded, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

"Because now we need you," Coulson said simply. "Whoever has them knows about your connection to the Winchesters. They want to trade—you for them."

"What's so special about these guys anyway?" Rumlow asked, leaning forward to peer at the file. "They're on our watchlist, why?"

"They're hunters," Natasha explained before you could. "Specialists in supernatural threats."

"And apparently someone valuable enough to S.H.I.E.L.D. that we're having this conversation," Ward added, studying your face carefully.

You stared at the photos, mind racing. Sam was alive. Had been alive for a year. And Dean... had he known? Had he chosen to keep this from you too?

"We have a plan," Coulson said, pulling you back from the edge of your spiraling thoughts.

"I'm listening," you said, crossing your arms, fighting to keep your expression neutral despite the storm raging inside.

"We make the exchange, with conditions," Coulson explained. "You'll be wired, tracked, and we'll have teams in position. The moment the Winchesters are clear, we extract you."

"And if something goes wrong?" Clint asked, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

"Then we move to plan B," Coulson replied.

"Which is?" you pressed.

"We take out everyone except you and the targets," Rumlow said with a predatory smile.

As the others began discussing strategy and extraction points, your mind drifted to the last time you'd seen Dean, his face when he told you he was going to Lisa, that he was done with hunting, done with the life. Done with you. The pain and betrayal on your face that you'd tried so hard to hide. The way he'd looked away first, unable to meet your eyes.

You wondered what he would think when he saw you again, if he even wanted to see you at all. You wondered if Sam knew you'd never been told he was alive. You wondered how much more your heart could take before it shattered completely.

Before you could sink your mind deeper in that wormhole, you heard a name, Blackwood.

You stopped them from discussing further. "Blackwood?" you asked Coulson, your body suddenly alert.

"Ellen Blackwood. She is the one who made the demands. You know her?" he asked, looking at you with renewed interest.

You closed your eyes, trying to think back to the case years ago. The memories came flooding back with startling clarity—the way they always did when it came to your past cases. You remembered every detail, every death, every mistake, every victory. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"Blackwood," you repeated, opening your eyes. "Yes, I know her, or rather, knew her brother."

"Care to share with the class?" Rumlow prompted when you fell silent.

You remembered it clearly, remembered every single one of them. Fury had assigned you the case years ago—an Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agent who had gone rogue and killed several of their agents, taking help from a witch. That's why Fury had called you in—you didn't really get involved until it was supernatural back then, not wanting to get caught up in S.H.I.E.L.D politics, but you had needed something from Fury: information about the faith healer that saved Dean all those years ago, in exchange for completing this mission.

"It was a mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., I wasn’t officially working for them back then." you explained, eyes fixed on the table. "James Blackwood, Ellen's brother. Former agent turned rogue. He'd had some arrangement with a witch, started eliminating his old team members one by one."

"I remember that case," Clint said with a frown. "How many dead?"

“One hundred and fourty seven people over the course of five years” You told them, and took in the horrified expressions “It started when he still worked here. Then he left and his old teammates started dying, so they investigated, they couldn’t do much with what they found, so they sent me.” You replied, looking at all of them. All of them took betrayal seriously, and if this asshole was killing people, people who trusted him, then he didn’t deserve to live. 

"Fury brought me in because of the witch connection. I had just met the Winchester boys back then, but I'd known their father for way longer. I felt I owed it to him, to his boys, to help them with something they were dealing with. So I made a deal with Fury—information they needed in exchange for taking care of his witch problem."

Clint calling out your name brought you out of your head. "I killed her brother," you said flatly, looking down at the file in front of you. "He was using a witch to kill people. I put him down like the rabid dog he was."

"This explains why they want you," Nat shrugged, her eyes filled with anger at Blackwood.

"Revenge," Ward concluded. "Classic."

"It's been years," you said, shaking your head. "Why now?"

"Because the Winchesters are back in play," Coulson suggested. "They've been more active lately. Perhaps she's been watching, waiting for the right leverage."

Your chest tightened with a toxic mixture of emotions: fear for Sam and Dean, anger at being kept in the dark about Sam's return, anxiety about seeing Dean again after all this time, and underneath it all, a bitter, unwelcome spark of hope.

"So what's the plan?" you asked, straightening your shoulders. "When do we move?"

"We have twenty-four hours to respond," Coulson said. "The exchange is set for tomorrow night."

Natasha's hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. "You don't have to do this," she said quietly. "We can find another way."

But you both knew there wasn't one. Not really. Not in time.

"Yes, I do," you replied, meeting her gaze. "I owe them that much."

And maybe, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind, maybe you owed it to yourself too. To finally face the ghosts that had been haunting you for the past year.

"Then it's settled," Coulson said with a nod. "Prep begins immediately. Barton, Romanoff, you'll be primary backup. Ward and Rumlow, you'll coordinate the perimeter team. We move at 2200 hours tomorrow."

As the others began to file out of the room, Coulson caught your arm.

"A moment," he said quietly.

You waited until the others had left before saying, "You should have told me."

"I know," he admitted. "For what it's worth, I argued that you deserved to know."

"Doesn't change anything," you replied, the betrayal still raw.

"No," he agreed. "But there's something else you should know before you go in there."

You steeled yourself. "What?"

"Sam Winchester doesn't have a soul."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "What are you talking about?"

"When he came back, something was... wrong," Coulson explained. "Our intel suggests he's been hunting with this Samuel Campbell for the past year. Dean only rejoined them recently, after leaving the civilian life behind."

Your mind raced. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Coulson admitted. "This is beyond even S.H.I.E.L.D.'s understanding. But you need to be prepared. The Sam Winchester in that room may not be the man you remember."

You nodded slowly, processing this new information. "Thank you for telling me."

As you walked out of the conference room, your mind was already shifting into mission mode—compartmentalizing emotions, focusing on tactics, on survival. It was what you did best, after all. It was how you'd survived this long.

But underneath it all, a voice whispered: Dean. You're going to see Dean again.

And despite everything—the pain, the betrayal, the year of silence—your heart still skipped a beat at the thought.

Dean paced the length of the small room for what felt like the hundredth time, muscles tense with restless energy. They'd been moved from the chairs to a more comfortable but equally secure setup, a room with two beds, basic facilities, and a door that remained stubbornly locked.

"Wearing a hole in the floor won't get us out of here any faster," Samuel remarked from where he sat on one of the beds, methodically checking the bandage on his forearm where their captors had drawn blood.

"Neither will sitting on your ass," Dean shot back.

Sam looked up from his position by the window, where he'd been studying the security measures. "Dean," he said calmly, "you need to conserve your energy. We don't know when we'll get a chance to move."

Dean knew Sam was right, but the enforced stillness was making his skin crawl. Three days they'd been here, with regular meals and no abuse beyond the initial capture, which made no sense. Monsters tortured; humans interrogated. These people were doing neither.

"What kind of kidnapper provides three squares and medical attention?" Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"The kind that needs us alive and well for something," Samuel replied.

The sound of footsteps outside drew their attention. The door swung open to reveal a woman flanked by two armed guards. She was tall, elegant in an austere way, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to hold no emotion whatsoever.

"Mr. Winchester. The elder one, I presume?" she said, her gaze fixed on Dean.

"Depends who's asking," Dean replied, tension radiating from every line of his body.

"Ellen Blackwood," she offered with a cold smile. "Though the name likely means nothing to you."

"Should it?" Dean asked, eyes flicking to the guards and their weapons, calculating odds.

"No," Ellen replied. "But it meant something to someone you once knew quite well."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Ellen said, "that your freedom has been arranged. Conditionally, of course."

"What's the catch?" Sam asked, his voice lacking the emotional inflection it should have had.

Ellen's eyes traveled to Sam, and something like distaste flickered across her features. "The catch, Mr. Winchester, is an exchange. One life for three."

"We're not interested in anyone dying for us," Dean said firmly.

Ellen laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "How noble. But unnecessary. You see, the exchange has already been agreed to. Your former associate has quite the hero complex."

Dean's heart stuttered in his chest as understanding dawned. There was only one person she could mean. "No," he said, his voice rough with sudden fear. "Whatever deal you think you've made, it's off."

"That's not your decision to make," Ellen replied calmly. "The exchange happens tonight. I simply came to inform you of the arrangement... and to give you this."

She nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward and handed Dean a small device.

"What is it?" Samuel asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"A live feed," Ellen explained. "I thought you might want to see your rescuer in action. Consider it a courtesy."

With that, she turned and left, the guards following and the door locking behind them with a definitive click.

Dean looked down at the device in his hand, a small tablet that flickered to life at his touch. The screen showed a security feed of what appeared to be the facility's entrance. And walking through it, flanked by men in tactical gear, was you.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, his face draining of color.

"Is that..." Sam began, moving closer to look at the screen.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, his voice tight. "It's her."

Samuel peered over their shoulders. "Who is she? Some hunter?"

Dean didn't answer, couldn't answer. His eyes were fixed on your face—the face he'd tried so hard to forget over the past year. You looked different, harder, colder, your movements precise and controlled as you walked through the security checkpoint. Your hair was different, your clothes were different, but the way you carried yourself was unmistakable.

"She works for the S.H.I.E.L.D now," Sam said when Dean remained silent. "She left hunting after..." He trailed off, glancing at his brother.

"After I told her to go," Dean finished, guilt churning in his stomach. "After I chose Lisa and Ben."

Samuel raised an eyebrow. "And now she's walking into a trap for you? Must have been some goodbye."

Dean shot his grandfather a glare that could have melted steel.

"We need to get out of here," he said, turning to Sam. "Now. Before she reaches us."

"Why?" Sam asked, genuinely perplexed. "She's obviously here to get us out. Why not let her?"

"Because it's a trap, Sam!" Dean exploded. "This Blackwood woman, she's not just going to let us walk out of here. She wants revenge for something, and she's using us as bait."

"For what?" Samuel pressed.

Dean ran a hand down his face. "I don't know. But I'm not letting her sacrifice herself for us. Not again."

The unspoken history hung heavy in the air between them. All the times you'd put yourself in harm's way for the Winchesters. All the scars you carried because of it. Dean had sworn the last time would be the last—it was part of why he'd walked away. To keep you safe. To give you a chance at something better.

And now here you were again, walking straight into danger for him.

"We're getting out of here," Dean said with renewed determination. "And we're going to find her before Blackwood does."

In the tactical van parked two blocks from the Blackwood facility, you checked your weapons one last time. Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sidearm, plus your own personal arsenal: silver knife strapped to your ankle, holy water flask in your jacket pocket, and an angel blade concealed along your spine. Old habits died hard.

"Comms check," Natasha's voice came through your earpiece.

"Reading you," you replied, adjusting the fit.

"Remember the extraction plan," Clint said from the driver's seat. "Once the Winchesters are clear, head for the southeast exit. We'll be waiting."

You nodded, though anxiety gnawed at your insides. Ellen Blackwood had been specific in her demands: you alone, unarmed, or the deal was off. The weapons and backup were insurance, but if she was as thorough as her brother had been, she'd know they were there.

"If this goes sideways—" you began.

"It won't," Natasha cut you off. "But if it does, we've got your back. Always."

The simple declaration threatened to crack the careful composure you'd built over the years. These people—Natasha, Clint, Coulson—they'd become your family when your old one fell apart. They'd picked up the pieces Dean left behind.

"Time to move," Clint announced, checking his watch.

You took a deep breath, centering yourself. "Tell me about the building again."

"Three stories, underground parking level," Natasha recited. "Main entrance is north face. Security checkpoint, then a corridor leading to the central atrium. That's where the exchange is supposed to happen."

"And the Winchesters?"

"Being held on the second floor, east wing, according to the intel."

You nodded, committing the layout to memory. "If I'm not out in thirty minutes—"

"We're coming in," Clint finished. "Guns blazing if necessary."

"Try not to need us," Natasha added with a small smile. "Paperwork's a bitch when we have to explain bullet holes."

A ghost of a smile touched your lips. "I'll do my best."

With one final check of your equipment, you stepped out of the van into the cool night air. The walk to the Blackwood facility felt simultaneously too long and too short, your mind racing with possibilities and contingencies.

What would you say to Dean when you saw him? What could you possibly say after a year of silence? After he'd chosen someone else? After Sam had been alive all this time and no one had told you?

No. Focus. The mission came first. Feelings could wait.

The security guards at the entrance eyed you warily as you approached.

"I'm expected," you said simply.

One of them spoke into his radio, received confirmation, and nodded. "Arms out, please."

You complied with the cursory search, grateful they weren't being thorough enough to find your concealed weapons. They confiscated your visible sidearm, as expected, then escorted you through the entrance and down a long corridor.

The building was eerily quiet, your footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Your escort led you to a large central area—the atrium Natasha had mentioned, with a domed glass ceiling and minimalist furnishings. Ellen Blackwood stood in the center, flanked by her own security detail.

"Right on time," Ellen remarked as you approached. "I appreciate punctuality."

"Where are they?" you asked without preamble.

Ellen smiled, a cold expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Straight to business, then. They're being brought down as we speak. But first, I thought we might have a chat."

"I'm not here to chat," you replied coldly, your posture deceptively relaxed. "I'm here for the exchange. Bring them out."

Ellen's smile widened, something predatory in her eyes. "The exchange? Oh, I'm afraid there's been a slight change of plans."

You sensed the trap too late. The prick of a needle in your neck sent ice through your veins, your enhanced reflexes dulled by whatever drug was now coursing through your system. As you staggered, two guards moved in, catching your arms before you could reach for any of your concealed weapons.

"You didn't really think I'd let a S.H.I.E.L.D agent walk in here without precautions, did you?" Ellen asked, her voice distant through the growing fog in your mind. "I've been planning this for years."

Fighting against the drug's effects, you tried to activate your emergency beacon, but your fingers wouldn't respond. The room tilted and swayed, Ellen's face blurring in and out of focus before darkness claimed you entirely.

You woke to pain, sharp and insistent. Cold water dripped down your face as consciousness returned in agonizing increments. The room swam into focus—sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, the tang of antiseptic barely masking the metallic scent of blood. Your blood.

Your arms were secured above your head, shoulders screaming from supporting your weight. Your feet barely touched the ground, toes straining for purchase on the smooth concrete floor. The tactical suit you'd worn was torn in places, dark with blood both dried and fresh.

As your vision cleared, you realized you weren't alone in the room. Across from you, chained to chairs bolted to the floor, sat Sam, Dean, and Samuel Campbell. Dean's face was bruised, a split lip crusted with dried blood. He strained against his restraints when he saw your eyes open, panic written across his features.

"About time you joined us," Ellen's voice came from behind you as she stepped into view, a knife twirling between her fingers. Not just any knife—the same one you'd used to kill her brother. The irony wasn't lost on you.

You didn't respond, using the silence to assess your situation. The comms unit was gone, as were all your weapons. The wound in your side throbbed, caused by whatever they'd done while you were unconscious. But your mind was clear—the drug had worn off.

Your eyes met Sam's across the room. There was something calculating in his gaze, something cold that confirmed Coulson's warning about his missing soul. No emotion, just assessment. Samuel watched with wary interest, but Dean—Dean looked wrecked, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You know," Ellen continued, circling around to face you, "I've been telling her about my brother. About how I found him after she was done with him." The knife traced a line down your throat, not quite breaking skin. "Seven stab wounds. Throat cut. And for what?"

You finally spoke, your voice hoarse but steady. "Yeah, and he died like a fucking pussy."

The room went silent. Ellen's eyes widened with shocked rage before she backhanded you hard enough to split your lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded your mouth as your head snapped to the side.

"You shut your mouth," Ellen hissed.

You spat blood onto the floor, a cold smile curving your lips. "He killed 147 people in five years, good people, people that trusted him to have their backs." You met Ellen's gaze unflinchingly. "And he cried at the end. Begged. Hardly the soldier you're making him out to be."

Ellen's face contorted with fury as she drove the knife into your shoulder, a quick jab that had Dean roaring threats from across the room. You didn't make a sound, didn't even flinch, your eyes never leaving Ellen's face.

"You're lying," she snarled, twisting the blade before yanking it out.

"Read the mission report," you replied calmly, as though you weren't hanging by your wrists with blood streaming down your arm. "It's all there. Every pathetic detail."

Ellen slashed the knife across your midsection, opening a shallow cut that immediately began to seep blood through your already torn tactical gear. "My brother was a hero."

"Your brother was a coward who couldn't handle the job," you countered. "He broke under pressure and took out his failures on innocent people. Just like you're doing now."

The knife sliced again, this time across your thigh. Through the haze of pain, you heard Dean struggling violently against his restraints, the metal cuffs clanking against the chair.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "Ellen, this isn't going to bring your brother back!"

Ellen ignored him, her focus entirely on you. "I'm going to carve you apart inch by inch while they watch. And then I'm going to start on them."

You laughed, the sound hollow and cold. "You won't live that long."

"Is that a threat?" Ellen asked, pressing the tip of the knife beneath your eye. "From someone in your position?"

"It's a statement of fact," you replied. 

A flicker of unease crossed Ellen's face before she masked it with a sneer. "Your backup isn't coming. We've taken precautions."

"Not good enough ones," you said with certainty.

Ellen's jaw tightened as she stepped away from you, walking over to Dean. She pressed the bloodied knife—your blood—against his throat. "Maybe I should start with him? Would that loosen your tongue?"

"Go ahead," you said, your voice eerily detached. "One less complication in my life."

Dean's eyes widened slightly at your words, hurt flashing across his face before understanding dawned. He knew you were playing for time, trying to keep Ellen's attention focused on you rather than following through on her threats against them.

Ellen studied your face for a long moment before laughing. "You really have changed, haven't you? The woman I researched would have torn the world apart for him."

"That woman died a year ago," you replied flatly. "When he chose someone else."

The words hung in the air between you and Dean, weighted with a year's worth of unspoken pain and resentment. His expression crumpled, guilt written in every line of his face.

Ellen looked between you, a slow smile spreading across her features. "Oh, this is delicious. He doesn't know, does he? About what you've become?"

She turned to Dean, the knife still pressed against his throat. "Did you know your ex has the highest kill count of any S.H.I.E.L.D agent in the field this year? Thirty-seven confirmed eliminations in twelve months. They call her 'the Ghost' now. No hesitation, no mercy." Ellen's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "She's more like my brother than she'd ever admit."

"She's nothing like your brother," Dean growled. "Your brother killed innocents. She protects them."

"Such loyalty," Ellen mocked. "Even after she just offered you up as a sacrifice."

A commotion outside the door drew Ellen's attention. Muffled shouts and what sounded like gunfire echoed from somewhere in the building. Her eyes narrowed as she pressed a hand to her earpiece, listening to a frantic report from one of her men.

"Secure the perimeter!" she snapped into the comm. "I don't care how, just keep them out!" She turned back to you, fury etched into every line of her face. "Your friends are persistent, I'll give them that."

"You have no idea," you replied, a cold smile playing at the corners of your bloodied lips.

Ellen turned toward the door, knife still in hand, her composure fracturing at the sounds of combat echoing through the building. "Looks like your friends didn't get the memo about coming alone," she snarled.

"I never come alone," you replied, your voice steady despite the pain radiating from your wounds.

In that moment of distraction, you made your move. With a sharp intake of breath, you pulled your body upward, using the chains as leverage to swing your legs up and wrap them around Ellen's neck in one fluid motion. The move sent fresh waves of agony through your wounded shoulder and abdomen, but adrenaline pushed it aside.

Ellen gasped, the knife clattering to the floor as her hands flew to your legs, trying desperately to break your hold. You tightened your thighs around her throat, twisting your body to use the momentum to your advantage.

"Stop her!" Ellen choked out to her two remaining guards who stood by the door.

They rushed forward, weapons raised, but you were already in motion. With a powerful twist of your hips, you used Ellen's body as a human shield. The first guard hesitated, unwilling to shoot his boss, and that hesitation cost him. You swung Ellen's body around, forcing her to collide with the guard. As they stumbled, you released your leg hold, dropping back to your hanging position for just a second before using the chains to swing yourself up again.

Your feet connected with the second guard's chest in a powerful kick that sent him flying backward into the wall with a sickening crack. He slumped to the floor, unconscious or worse.

Ellen was scrambling to her feet, gasping for air, her hand reaching for the fallen knife. You twisted your body, ignoring the screaming pain in your shoulders, and wrapped the chains around your wrists for better leverage. With a violent jerk, you pulled yourself up, the metal digging into your flesh as you strained against the restraints.

One of the bolts securing the chains to the ceiling groaned, then gave way with a metallic screech. Your right arm came free, the sudden release almost making you lose your balance. With one arm still chained, you swung down, your feet hitting the floor just as Ellen lunged with the knife.

You caught her wrist with your free hand, stopping the blade inches from your ribs. The force of her attack pushed you back against the wall, chains rattling. Ellen's face contorted with rage as she pressed the advantage, using her body weight to drive the knife closer.

"I've waited years for this," she hissed.

"You should have waited longer," you replied coldly, before smashing your forehead into her nose.

Blood sprayed as Ellen stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. You seized the opportunity, twisting your body and using the remaining chain as a pivot point to swing your legs up, wrapping them around Ellen's arm. With a vicious jerk, you heard the satisfying crack of bone breaking.

Ellen screamed, the knife falling from her useless fingers. You released her arm only to grab her by the throat with your free hand, squeezing just enough to keep her in place.

"Now listen carefully," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. "You're going to release them, or I'm going to finish what I started with your brother."

"Go to hell," Ellen spat, blood from her broken nose dripping down her face.

"Been there," you replied with a cold smile. "Didn't take."

With a swift, calculated movement, you slammed her head against the wall, rendering her unconscious. As her body slumped to the floor, you turned your attention to the remaining chain, searching for weaknesses in the link.

The first guard was stirring, reaching for his sidearm. Without hesitation, you used the chain as a whip, catching him across the face with enough force to send him back to unconsciousness.

Dean watched the entire sequence with a mixture of awe and horror, while Sam's expression remained analytically detached. Samuel's eyebrows were raised in grudging respect.

"Anyone got a paperclip?" you asked casually, as if you weren't bleeding from multiple wounds and hanging partially from a chain.

The door burst open and you tensed, before relaxing when you realised it was Ward.

Ward lowered his gun, his eyes quickly assessing the room before landing on you. "So," he said to Dean, his voice deceptively casual as he trained his weapon on Ellen, "you're the Dean Winchester."

"Ward," you acknowledged, relief coloring your voice despite your best efforts to remain detached. "You're late."

"Traffic was hell," he replied, stepping fully into the room. Behind him, you could see more S.H.I.E.L.D agents securing the corridor. "Looks like you started the party without us.” he commented before adding, “Romanoff and Barton are clearing the west wing. Should I be concerned that you're hanging from the ceiling?"

"Nothing I can't handle, you know I hate waiting." you replied, ignoring the blood dripping steadily onto the floor beneath you.

Ward holstered his weapon, moving quickly to where you hung. "Medical's on standby," he said as he reached up to cut through the ropes securing your wrists. "Try not to bleed out before they get here."

As the pressure on your shoulders released, pain shot through your arms like fire. You collapsed forward, Ward catching you before you hit the ground. He lowered you carefully to the floor, propping you against the wall as more agents flooded the room, some moving to free the Winchesters and Samuel.

"I had it under control," you muttered, pressing a hand against the wound in your side.

Ward's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Clearly."

Across the room, Dean was freed from his restraints. He immediately pushed past the agents tending to him, making a beeline for you. You tensed as he approached, your expression carefully blank despite the pain radiating through your body.

"Are you okay?" he asked, dropping to his knees beside you, hands hovering uncertainly as though afraid to touch you.

"I'm fine," you replied automatically, the lie obvious given the state of your body.

Dean's face was a storm of emotions—guilt, fear, concern, and something deeper that you refused to acknowledge. "You're not fine," he argued. "Jesus, look at you."

"Nothing that won't heal," you said dismissively, turning your attention to Ward. "Extraction plan?"

Ward nodded toward the door where Natasha had appeared, her expression darkening as she took in your condition. "Quinjet on the roof. We move as soon as Medical clears you for transport."

"I don't need clearance," you insisted, trying to push yourself up only to have both Ward and Dean reach out to stop you.

"Don't be stubborn," Dean said, his hand gentle but firm on your uninjured shoulder. "You've lost a lot of blood."

You jerked away from his touch, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through your battered body. "Don't," you warned, your voice low and cold. "Just... don't."

The hurt that flashed across his face should have given you satisfaction, but you felt nothing. The emotional walls you'd built over the past year were too thick, too necessary for survival.

Sam approached, his expression more curious than concerned as he surveyed the room. "We should move," he said pragmatically. "Ellen might have had more men in the building."

"Already cleared," Natasha reported moving in, her eyes never leaving you. "You look like hell."

"You should see the other guy," you quipped weakly.

"I did," she replied with a glance at Ellen's body. “Clean up is on the way.” 

The medical team arrived shortly after, their efficiency a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded them. You winced as they examined your wounds, refusing the offered painkillers with a curt shake of your head.

"Three lacerations requiring immediate attention, possible shoulder dislocation, multiple contusions," the lead medic reported to Ward, who hovered nearby. "She needs to be moved to the Quinjet now."

"I can walk," you insisted, already pushing yourself to your feet despite the protests of both the medic and Dean.

Natasha stepped forward, her expression brooking no argument. "Either you let them carry you, or I sedate you myself. Your choice."

You glared at her, but the look she returned was equally unyielding. With a resigned sigh, you nodded to the medics, who quickly moved to prepare a stretcher.

"The Winchesters and Campbell come with us," you said to Ward, your tone making it clear this wasn't a request.

Ward nodded. "Already arranged. Coulson wants a full debrief anyway."

As the medics secured you to the stretcher, your eyes met Dean's across the room. His face was a mask of conflicted emotions—concern warring with guilt, relief tangled with regret. You looked away first, unable to bear the weight of that gaze.

The journey to the Quinjet passed in a blur of pain and the clinical voices of the medical team working to stabilize you. By the time you were loaded onto the aircraft, your tactical gear had been cut away, replaced with temporary bandages and an IV drip that you'd finally relented to.

The interior of the Quinjet was dimly lit, the hum of the engines a familiar comfort as Clint prepared for takeoff from the pilot's seat. The Winchesters and Samuel were seated across from you, Dean's eyes never leaving your face despite your determined efforts to ignore him.

Natasha sat beside you, her presence a silent support as the medical team continued their work. "Ellen?" you asked quietly.

"In custody," she confirmed. "Along with the remaining members of her security team. Fury wants them interrogated at the Triskelion."

You nodded, wincing as the medic tightened a bandage around your thigh. "Any casualties on our side?"

"Two agents wounded, none critical," Ward reported from nearby. "Could have been worse."

"Much worse," Natasha agreed, her eyes flickering briefly to the Winchesters.

The Quinjet lifted off, the slight jolt sending fresh pain through your battered body. You bit back a groan, unwilling to show weakness, especially with Dean watching so intently.

"You should rest," Natasha advised, noting the strain on your face. "We've got a two-hour flight back to base."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though the words lacked conviction even to your own ears.

A shadow fell across you as Dean rose from his seat, approaching despite the warning look Natasha shot him. He knelt beside your stretcher, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the same eyes that had haunted your dreams for the past year.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "For coming for us. You didn't have to do that."

You stared at the ceiling of the jet, unwilling to meet his gaze. "It was a mission, Dean. Nothing more."

A flash of hurt crossed his features before he masked it. "Right," he said, clearly not believing you. "Still... thank you."

Before you could respond, Sam appeared beside his brother, his expression clinically curious rather than genuinely concerned. This close, the difference was jarring—the Sam you remembered had been empathetic, kind. This version studied you like an interesting specimen.

"You work for S.H.I.E.L.D now," he stated rather than asked. "Since when?"

"Since you died," you replied coolly. "Or didn't, apparently."

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the steady beeping of the medical equipment monitoring your vitals.

"I hear you've been busy," Sam continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thirty-seven confirmed kills this year?"

Dean shot his brother a warning look. "Sam—"

"It's forty-two now," you corrected flatly. "Ellen's brother wasn't the only monster I've put down."

Sam's lips quirked in what might have been approval. "Impressive."

"That's enough," Natasha intervened, her voice carrying a subtle threat as she positioned herself between you and the Winchesters. "She needs rest, not an interrogation."

Dean nodded, rising to his feet. "Sorry," he said, directing the apology to you rather than Natasha. "We'll talk later?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. You closed your eyes, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. "Maybe."

As they returned to their seats, you felt Natasha's hand on your uninjured arm, a gentle squeeze of support. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

"No," you admitted, the honesty surprising even you. "But I will be."

The rest of the flight passed in relative silence, the hum of the engines lulling you into a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep. The painkillers had finally begun to take effect, dulling the sharp edges of your injuries to a more manageable ache.

When the Quinjet touched down at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility, you were immediately transferred to the medical wing, Natasha and Clint flanking your stretcher like protective shadows. The last thing you saw before the doors closed was Dean's face, watching you with an expression that spoke of all the words left unsaid between you.

Hours later, patched up and stubbornly refusing to remain in the medical bed, you stood in one of the observation rooms, watching through the one-way glass as Coulson debriefed the Winchesters and Samuel Campbell. Your body protested every movement, the fresh stitches pulling uncomfortably beneath the clean S.H.I.E.L.D-issued clothing, but you ignored the pain with practiced ease.

The door opened behind you, and you didn't need to turn to know who it was. "Shouldn't you be resting?" Fury asked, coming to stand beside you.

"Shouldn't you have told me Sam Winchester was alive?" you countered, not taking your eyes off the scene in the interrogation room.

Fury sighed, his one good eye fixed on the Winchesters as well. "It was a judgment call."

"It was the wrong one," you replied coldly.

"Perhaps," he conceded, surprising you with the admission. "But it's done now. The question is, what happens next?"

You finally turned to look at him, your expression carefully neutral despite the turmoil of emotions beneath the surface. "They go back to hunting, I go back to my job. Nothing's changed."

Fury studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Everything's changed," he corrected. "And we both know it."

Before you could respond, the door to the observation room opened again, revealing Ward. "They're asking for you," he said, his eyes flickering between you and Fury.

"I'm busy," you replied dismissively.

Ward raised an eyebrow. "Winchester was pretty insistent. Said something about owing you a conversation."

Fury nodded toward the door. "Go. That's an order. Medical tells me you're pushing yourself too hard anyway. Take some time."

With a resigned sigh, you moved toward the door, each step a careful study in controlled pain. Ward fell into step beside you, his presence a silent offering of support.

"You don't have to see them alone," he said quietly as you made your way down the corridor.

You almost smiled at that. "I've faced worse than Dean Winchester."

"Have you?" Ward asked, his tone suggesting he knew better.

You didn't answer, pausing outside the interrogation room door to gather yourself. Through the small window, you could see Dean pacing while Sam sat calmly at the table, Samuel looking increasingly impatient in the corner.

"I'll be fine," you assured Ward, though whether you were trying to convince him or yourself remained unclear.

With a deep breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, immediately feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on you. Dean stopped pacing, relief washing over his features as he took in your appearance—still bruised and battered, but standing.

"You should be in medical," he said by way of greeting.

"And you should be thanking me instead of criticizing my choices," you replied, crossing your arms carefully to avoid aggravating your injuries.

Samuel chuckled from his corner. "She's got you there, Dean."

Dean shot his grandfather an irritated glance before turning back to you. "Can we talk? Alone?"

You hesitated, considering refusing. It would be easier to maintain the walls you'd built if you kept your distance. But something in his expression—a vulnerability you rarely saw in Dean Winchester—made you nod.

"Five minutes," you conceded. "Then I have a debrief with Coulson."

Dean looked to Sam and Samuel. "Give us the room?"

Samuel nodded, moving toward the door without argument. Sam remained seated for a moment, studying the interaction between you and Dean with clinical interest before finally rising.

"Don't forget we have our own problems to deal with," he reminded Dean as he passed.

Once the door closed behind them, an awkward silence filled the room. Dean ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you remembered all too well.

"How are you feeling?" he asked finally.

"Like I got stabbed multiple times," you replied dryly. "But I'll live."

Dean winced at your bluntness. "Look, I—" he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle with his words. "Thank you. For coming for us. I know you didn't have to, especially after..."

"After you left me for Lisa and Ben?" you finished for him, the words more bitter than you'd intended.

Dean's expression crumpled slightly. "Yeah."

You sighed, some of the anger draining away despite your best efforts to hold onto it. "It was a mission, Dean. You got captured cause of me. I had to come."

"Bullshit," he said, taking a step closer to you. "You could have sent a team. You didn't have to come yourself."

"Maybe I wanted to see if Sam was really alive," you countered. "Since apparently everyone knew but me."

Guilt flashed across Dean's face. "I wanted to tell you," he said quietly. "But he's... he's not Sam. Not really. Something's wrong with him."

"He doesn't have a soul," you stated flatly.

Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you-"

"S.H.I.E.L.D has been monitoring the situation," you explained. "Coulson told me before the mission."

"And you came anyway," Dean said, a hint of wonder in his voice.

You looked away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. "Like I said, it was a mission."

Dean took another step closer, close enough now that you could smell the familiar scent of him, leather and gunpowder and something uniquely Dean. "I missed you," he admitted softly.

The words hit you like a physical blow, your carefully constructed defenses cracking under the weight of them. "Don't," you warned, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, don't."

"I made a mistake," Dean continued, ignoring your plea. "Walking away from you... it was the biggest mistake of my life."

You finally looked at him, allowing him to see the pain and anger you'd been carrying for the past year. "You made your choice, Dean. You chose them."

"I was trying to keep a promise to Sam," he explained, his voice rough with emotion. "I was trying to have the normal life he wanted for me. But it wasn't..." He swallowed hard. "It wasn't right. It wasn't where I belonged."

"And where do you belong, Dean?" you asked, hating the tremor in your voice. "Because from where I'm standing, you seem to bounce between whatever option hurts me the most."

Dean flinched as if you'd struck him. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," you replied, gesturing between the two of you. "It never has been."

A heavy silence fell between you, filled with all the words neither of you seemed able to say. Finally, Dean broke it.

"Come back," he said suddenly. "Help us hunt. Help me fix Sam."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Are you serious? I have a life here, Dean. A job. People who depend on me."

"People like that Ward guy?" Dean asked, a hint of jealousy in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "That's none of your business."

"It is if you're..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"If I'm what, Dean? Moving on?" you challenged. "Because that's what you told me to do, remember? 'Go live your life,' you said. 'Be happy,' you said. So that's what I've been trying to do."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And are you? Happy?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Were you happy? The honest answer was no, not really. S.H.I.E.L.D gave you purpose, a way to channel your skills and rage into something productive. But happy? That was a luxury you'd stopped expecting long ago.

"I'm alive," you answered finally. "That's enough."

Dean shook his head, taking another step toward you until he was close enough to touch. "It's not enough," he insisted. "It's never been enough for either of us."

Before you could respond, the door opened, revealing Natasha. Her eyes quickly assessed the situation, noting your tense posture and Dean's proximity.

"Time's up," she announced. "Coulson's waiting for the debrief."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Natasha's expression made him think better of it. "This isn't over," he said to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"It has to be," you replied just as quietly, before turning to follow Natasha out of the room.

Being an orphan was tough, and being the orphan child of seasoned, skilled agents was tougher. Back then, you did not understand why they took risks and ended up leaving you all alone, but today, you understand.

As you stared at the memorial dedicated to all fallen agents, you could not help but let your eyes remain longer on the engraved names of your parents. The marble structure reflected your reflection, and you wondered what they would think of you, seeing you following their footsteps with the same insanity and dedication they apparently had.

Sometimes, when the lobby emptied, you would come and faintly talk to them, for there was no true grave and no bodies for you to see. That particular day, you just felt like visiting them, even if no words would be exchanged.

The sound of footsteps against the tile floor caught your attention, eyes narrowing faintly as you focused on their speed. Despite the people passing around you, your training allowed you to detect certain pairs you had been told to always look out for.

This pair was heavy, long strides that emitted confidence, and you knew of only one person walking in such a way. Your suspicions were proven correct when you heard a male voice close by.

“Thought I would find you here.”

You did not turn to face the visitor, their dark-skinned reflection visible on the marble memorial. “Director Fury,” you greeted him. “Am I becoming that predictable?”

“To some of us, you are. Don’t think of it as a bad thing. Makes it less of a hustle to find when I need you,” he responded, not commenting on your lack of eye contact. “I have a mission for you.”

Now that he had captured your interest, you finally graced him by turning to face him. Your gazes locked. “So soon?”

It was not long since you had come from a rather dangerous mission in Russia, tasked with infiltrating a Hydra Terrorist Cell. The mission was a success, but it cost you men and many days of life. Not to mention, you came more than once close to joining your parents on that grim memorial.

“This cannot wait any longer. Follow me,” he said and started to walk, knowing too well you would follow him without him having to repeat everything.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When you entered his office, you remained standing while you got comfortable on his director's chair behind the desk. He tapped something on the holographic screen, and the information was projected up, allowing you to see it in detail.

You took notice of a woman, her face popping up in different pictures across different times; no sign of ageing, and you doubted all those women were just descendants of one another. Your attention went to different articles and secret memos, all around big catastrophes that had taken place in the last century.

“We have been monitoring unusual cases long before the New York invasion. Just in case it was Hydra trying to mess up again,” Fury started to explain, tapping a few things on the pad. “What we found recently was the fact that all big catastrophes had one thing in common; this woman, Agatha Harkness.”

You took a few steps closer, fingers stretching as you tried to read the ever-shifting articles. You frowned as you realized what situation your director was discussing.

The Twin Towers, Chornobyl, the Gas Explosion in 1966... even the Titanic was listed.

“Are we sure this is the same woman? How can she even be responsible for all of those events?” you asked, adverting your attention to the dark-skinned man.

“She has been spotted in every single one, and I know she is behind it. So, unless she is some sort of Grim Reaper waiting to do her job, I say she had been causing them.”

Your next question sounded dumb even in your head, but over the years, you had developed the skill of not really caring and simply speaking what you wanted. “Do we know why?”

“If you ask me, I say she has some sadistic motive, or she simply enjoys causing chaos and death. Wouldn’t be the first one,” Fury said as he pressed something,g and all the holograms disappeared. “But in order to make sure, we need to capture and interrogate her. Perhaps stop her from causing yet another mess with hundreds of casualties.”

“I understand. But why ask me and not someone else? Why not the Avengers?”

“The Avengers are busy as we speak, and I am not sending you there alone. You will take a small team and go capture this bitch before it's too late.”

“Yeah, but why me?” you asked again, not liking how he avoided your question in the first place.

Fury leaned forward, his face as serious as it could get. “Because if words are true, Agatha Harkness falls under the category of a Witch.”

That new piece of information made you part your lips in surprise, not expecting such an answer. Yet, you found no further comments or questions; Fury’s answer was more than enough for you at the moment.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It was a small team consisting of five agents in total, including you. You had worked with them quite a few times before, and you knew each other well enough for the mission to go smoothly.

The plan was simple.

Agatha had been also associated with quite a few missing person reports, women who allegedly followed her in search of a mystical road and never returned. So, what better way to approach and isolate her than by arranging a meeting with an interested-to-the-road woman.

The meeting would occur in a small forested area, away from the nearest little town, to ensure no casualties or curious passersby. Fury wanted this to be done silently and quickly, to capture and leave.

You waited for a while in a small clearing, hands in the pockets of your civilian clothing. Your team had been camouflaged and positioned close by, tranquiliser darts and nets ready to be used upon being given the command.

At last, you felt you were no longer alone, and you adverted your gaze towards the source of crushed leaves, getting a first close look at the famous Agatha Harkness. You inhaled faintly, realizing that the pictures taken of her did her little to no justice regarding her beauty.

The thick, slightly curled dark brown hair, those pink lips, and you could not even start talking about her piercing blue eyes.

If she truly did look like this, it was no wonder women willingly trusted and followed her blindly to their dooms.

“You are alone,” Agatha pointed out, clearly unhappy. “Where are the others?”

You had managed to fake an invite, informing you had other women interested in the Road; which was perhaps what had made her come in the first place.

“They are a little bit late. They should arrive soon,” you skilfully lied, offering a charming smile to throw away any suspicions she might have started to form about you.

Agatha did not truly like the answer. She was not a big fan of having her plans changed, even though she could easily improvise in worst-case scenarios.

“Is that so?” the witch questioned, taking a few confident steps towards you.

Unbeknown to her, this was what you wanted as she openly became an easier target for your team.

Your hand lazily moved towards your head, pushing a few strands behind your ears as your skilful fingers pressed on the little earpiece hidden there. “Fire.”

The order did not have to be repeated as your team made their move, guns up and aim stable. The first wave came for Agatha fast, tranquillized darts aimed for her neck and face, intended to bring her down without much of a fight.

Of course, Agatha was not a novice witch, and it was not the first time someone had tried to sneakily attack her. Her purple magic came alive and quickly stopped the little darts in mid-air, preventing them from harming her. She narrowed her blue eyes, and with a wave of her hands, she sent those pesky darts back to their senders, forcing the hidden agents to move to avoid getting hit.

At the same time, you pulled your sleeve up and exposed the little gadget wrapped around your wrist. Blue light glowed, and you steadied your aim before shooting a few thin projectiles packed with enough electricity to stunt a simple human with ease.

That little accessory had been a prototype, a gift from Natasha after you two spent a few months as prisoners. Your teamwork made it possible not only to escape but eventually take down your original target. Admiring your courage and your skill, she agreed and helped you get a prototype version of her spider bites, a gift that had saved your life more than once in a mission.

Agatha similarly used her magic, blocking your little attempt to take her down, only to see you smirking and giving yet another order. Before she could comprehend or prepare herself, you started shooting again, keeping her busy until it was too late.

A heavy net came from her blind side, the weighted edges pinning her to the ground as the steel cables that formed it pressed her down.

You smirked in satisfaction and covered your little gadget as your team started to walk carefully towards the trapped target, guns up and aimed at her.

“Call Fury, tell him the mission was a success,” you ordered one of the agents, one hand on your waist.

Agatha started to cackle, for a moment truly reminding you of those children's stories about evil witches who pursued children.

“Oh, how cute. You really think it would be so easy to take me down, hon?” she asked, fully confident despite being trapped by the net.

Before you could order the electricity to begin, you watched with wide eyes as Agatha dissolved into purple smoke and disappeared from where she was originally trapped.

“What?” you exclaimed, quickly looking around as her cackle echoed across the quiet clearing. “Keep your guards up. Change to stun bullets, now!”

Agatha appeared in the same purple smoke, right behind an agent. One hand was placed on her shoulder and the other on his head. His eyes changed to purple as she easily influenced his weak mind, ordering him to lift his gun and aim at his comrades.

The first shot grabbed your attention, a female agent close by falling unconscious on the ground; the stunt bullet glowing faintly as it paralyzed her nervous and mobility system.

“Agent, stand down!” you ordered even though you doubted your words would pass through, not after spotting his usual brown eyes having changed to a bright purple. “Stand down!”

Realizing this would get you nowhere, you prepare and shoot two spider bites at him, just as another agent shot him with the same stunt bullet. The hypnotized agent attacked as well, taking down his comrade before succumbing to the combined attacks.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Agatha comments as you spot her leaning against a tree. “I mean, I had been attacked before, but this... so pathetic.”

Your eyes blaze with anger, and you dare to pull the gun you had hidden in your back pant pocket. “Orders say to get you alive, not unharmed,” you say and remove the safety. “Last chance, Harkness. Come at peace or come bloodied.”

Agatha laughed at your brave words, finding your attempt to sound threatening both stupid and adorable. What she did not know was that you were simply buying time for your last team member to make his move.

Before Agatha knew it, she felt the sharp pain on her back as the stunt bullet threatened to bring her down, having failed to spot the silent agent standing two feet behind her. He was ready to attack her again, ensuring she would go down, but the Witch had other plans in mind.

The stunt bullet did pack quite a punch, and if she was a normal, weak human, she knew she would be on the ground by now. But she was Agatha Harkness, one of the most powerful witches to ever leave, and no stupid invention would take her down.

Deciding to put an end to this, Agatha’s eyes flashed purple with magic, and all it took was one swing of her hand for her magic to attack the agent from point-blank range. The force was strong enough to send him back, his body crashing against a tree, his neck breaking upon impact.

You watched with wide eyes at the attack, and by instinct alone, you started to shoot, only for the same purple magic to block your bullets.

“Haven’t you learnt anything so far?” Agatha questioned. “Let me give you a quick reminder.”

You saw the gathered amount of her purple magic heading your way, concentrated into a blast that crashed against your chest and stole the air from your lungs. The force sent you flying back, the ground rough against your landing, pieces of dirt scratching your clothes.

That blast should have killed you or knocked you down, yet you could still feel your heart pumping and your brain working. Your fingers twitched, and you could hear Agatha’s footsteps through half-open eyelids as she approached you.

When she was close enough to inspect if you had perished like you had to, you opened your eyes and went for the attack. You brought your legs, and with newfound energy, you kicked the side of her knees, causing her to fall to the ground rather ungracefully.

You crawled back, and once you had enough space and time, you jumped on your legs, wiping some dirt from the corner of your lips. Your chest heaved faintly as adrenaline finally rushed through your veins... veins that seemed to have grown paler against your skin.

“How?” Agatha exclaimed as she pushed her thick locks out of the way, her dark-painted fingers catching your attention. “Never mind, that!”

Another blast of purple magic was thrown your way, but this time, you were prepared. Bringing your hands up, you formed an X that protected your face and neck.

You normally don't drink coffee this late but it's some Christmas blend and you really just like the smell. 

On the t.v you're watching figure skaters glide across ice, their expressions focused and elated all at once. You wonder what it must feel like to be there, to be able to move the way they do on ice. 

Natasha could do it, you think. You glance over at her as she stretches and yawns on the sofa. You've never seen someone who can nap the way she does. She does those twenty minute cat naps. This afternoon, however, she napped a little the way you do – knocked out for a couple of hours. You’ll probably tease her about being ‘one of us lowly normal humans’ when she wakes... Then again, maybe you shouldn’t say things like that? Sometimes you think she might be a little sensitive about how... unique she is. 

You've already set a glass of water on the coffee table for her, knowing that you’re usually pretty dehydrated after a nap. 

Natasha's chartreuse eyes are on the figure skaters before she glances over to you. She smiles a little, then spots the glass of water. 

“Oh is that for me?” Her voice is a bit rusty from sleep. It sounds cute, honestly, and more than a little hot. You don't know why, but that rusty crack to a woman's voice has always been kind of sexy. 

“Yep. Figured you'd need some water after that nap.”

“Yeah,” She sits up slowly, taking the water and adjusting her back against the arm of the sofa. She takes slow sips. You whistle in awe as the figure skater on screen, a slight, Asian girl leaves the ice and spins in the air. Almost like a cat, she lands gracefully on her feet, slipping right back into the rhythm of the song blasting on the speakers. 

You're pretty sure Natasha could do that. And then your brow furrows. How come you've never seen her skate? Then again, when exactly do either of you have time for something like ice skating?

The sun is setting – it's only around four in the afternoon but it's late December in New York City. With the short Christmas tree you put up topping a table by the t.v and a lamp on, it feels cozy in here.

This is your apartment – ish. Technically it was going to be Natasha's but then you moved in. You know Natasha has probably eight other places she could stay – Stark nee Avenger's tower for instance, or Clint Barton's place. She likely has at least three safe houses, among other places even you don't know about. But this is the place the two of you share. So far, it's been nice having her as your unofficial roommate. 

She's smiling a little at the sight of the girl on tv who is blushing and breathless after her performance. Applause rings out and the announcers discuss the minute mistakes she made that most people watching would never even notice. 

Natasha’s feet are propped up on your lap – you aren't sure when they arrived there or if you propped them up while trying to gingerly sit down and not startle her out of sleep. Natasha can be a very light sleeper. They're currently donning warm, knit socks with bright Fair Isle patterns.

Natasha yawns as she eyes the people on screen.

“I need to work out,” she sighs. “I've eaten way too much-”

“Oh don't start that,” you plead. “Don't remind me how much gingerbread I've eaten.”

She looks at you in surprise. “Sorry,” she says a moment later, her lips curling into a smirk. Her eyes clearly say 'You're the one who insists on making gingerbread every year.'

Yes, and every year they get more ridiculous. Last year you had a punk gingerbread people theme. This year they all ended up being superheroes. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you made the first batch at Stark Tower and invited Rogers and Banner to join in.

The fact that they each made the other as a gingerbread man made it even better. Banner did a great job making Cap's cowl and Rogers nearly used up all the green icing to make a Hulk. 

“I'm gonna use this really big gingerbread guy,” Steve said as he began to outline it in green. “Hulk smash!”

The memory makes you smile. All that sugar was worth it just to see a couple of grown men act like little kids. Tony Stark joined in and complained that their Iron Man wasn't accurate. The mental image of Steve Rogers rolling his eyes and saying “It's art, Tony. It's cookie art” causes you to laugh.

“What?” Natasha asks. 

“Nothing. Just remembering your uh, teammates decorating gingerbread.”

“They're your teammates too,” she slips up from the sofa, setting her now emptier glass of water down.

Your lip stretches at one corner. “Sure.”

“What? They are.” Natasha heads into the kitchen. “You want cream and sugar?”

“Sure,” you call. “Yes to both.”

“They are your teammates,” she reminds you when she returns with two mugs. She carefully hands you one as she sits down, setting her own mug on the coffee table.

“Maybe,” you say. “But only ‘cause...”

“Cause what?”

You shrug, glancing away from the screen to look at her.

“I don't know...”

“Cause of me?” She asks after taking a sip of her coffee. You consider your own, breathing in the smell before taking a sip.

“Maybe.”

She snorts. “Maybe? Does it bother you? That you're on the team because of me?”

“I don't know... It doesn't bother me.” You shrug. “I just feel like... I'm kind of a temporary member? Or you know... I'm just there on occasion, when needed.”

“I mean, technically we're all just there when we're needed.” She shrugs. “We're hardly active all the time.”

“Yeah, that's true. I mean I guess you guys are more of a 'existential threats' kind of group.”

“What'd you call us? A raid group?” She smirks. Your face flushes. You got Natasha to game with you on occasion, but you're kind of the resident gaming nerd.

“Something like that,” you chuckle.

“I like it.” Natasha reaches out and takes your free hand in hers. It feels nice. Her hand is warm. “Whoo! Your hand is cold!”

“Yeah... I've been sitting here messing around on my phone.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Taking pictures of me while I sleep?”

You lean in to give her a gentle kiss. 

“You know it,” you joke.

“Creep.” She laughs, red hair tossing as she turns her head to look at the screen again. Every time you kiss Natasha it makes your heart beat a little faster. It causes other things to happen too but you remind yourself she just woke up from a nap and is probably feeling a little groggy.

“Have you seen yourself in underwear?”

She snorts. “Pervert.”

“Um, yeah. How long have we been living together? Three months?”

Something about saying it out loud sends your stomach into a little dive. You don't know why but you feel like clutching her hand even more tightly. She just shakes her head, looking amused, her eyes on the screen as she takes another sip of her coffee. You take a sip of your own, trying not to squeeze her hand in yours.

“Let's go ice skating,” you blurt. She gives you a puzzled look.

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Um... the sun is setting,” she laughs.

“Well... I think that skating rink is still open in the evening.” You point out. “We should go while it's still open.”

She tilts her head at you. “You mean the one where we met?”

“Yeah. Where you met me the first time.”

“I'll have to thank Nick for that.”

“Same.” You gently squeeze her hand.

“You sap,” she teases.

“Now you sound like Rogers.”

“He's probably rubbed off on me-” She stops herself immediately and rolls her eyes as you smirk and waggle your eyebrows. “Nice. Very mature.” But she laughs, in spite of your gross joke.

“You really wanna go ice skating?” She asks a moment later and you shrug.

“It's been forever honestly.”

“We used to, when I was a kid,” she says quietly. She rarely ever mentions being a kid and you know why. Natasha grew up in a place called 'the Red Room' – people took her and other little girls and trained them to be weapons. You're pretty sure her childhood was nightmare fuel so you don't press her about it.

“What time is it?” Natasha picks up her phone which is lying on the coffee table and peeks.

“Like... four?”

“Four thirty. Do you think it's open right now?”

“I've seen the one at the park open.”

“Which one?” Natasha is already opening Google Maps. “There are two.”

“Um... I think the one closer to our place. The one near the zoo. Wollman Rink?”

“Let me see...” The light from the phone washes over her face as she slides a finger over it. Her eyes reflect the screen, a little rectangle in a green world. “Yeah, looks like they're open until 11 tonight.” She looks at you again. “Wanna go?”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Let's finish our coffee first. Then we can bundle up. Are you hungry?”

“Not at the moment. But we could grab something after maybe?”

Coffee under your belts and plans made, the two of you set off. Wollman Rink isn't far on foot but it's freezing outside and you're glad you bundled up. Natasha is actually wearing a coat which isn't a total surprise but she tends to tease you and the others about what you consider 'cold.' Granted she is from like, Ukraine, and grew up in Russia. Winters there must be pretty intense compared to what you're used to. You're not even from New York either.

On the way there you see a Greek restaurant you might like to stop at later. You point it out and Natasha shrugs.

“Might be good.”

You offer one glove covered hand and take hers in it. She smirks.

“I like your mittens,” you tease.

“Shut up,” she laughs. “Rogers got them for me along with the hat. I think he just never knows what to get me for Christmas.”

The mittens and hat are both white with pink stripes and designs. The hat has a big white pom pom on it and you smile and shake your head.

“I think he was trolling you.”

“Pretty much,” She smirks. “But I figure, why not? I'll wear it.”

“The Hufflepuff scarf is pretty great too.”

“Oh. That was Clint,” She rolls her eyes. “He gave me this like a year ago actually.”

“Are you a Hufflepuff?”

She tilts her head at you for a moment. “What do you think I am?”

You're silent for a moment as you side step somebody.

“Hm... I mean I could easily see you as Hufflepuff – because you do like to help people.”

“Do I?”

“I think so. But you're also cunning. So I could see Slytherin.”

“I think everybody assumes I'm a Slytherin,” She says. “Or would if they even think about it.”

“I've tested Slytherin before.”

She laughs. “Is there an official test?”

“I mean, there's a test on Pottermore.” You feel your face flush.

“Pottermore?”

“Don't judge me! It's an official website,” You add in explanation after you laugh in embarrassment.

“Nice.”

“But there's other quizzes too.”

“I have taken Harry Potter quizzes – I will go ahead and admit it. Clint actually gave me one of the books to read... Back when I first joined SHIELD.”

“Cool. Sounds like good reading for when you're... about to join SHIELD I guess?”

She smiles.

“When you're leaving an organization that brainwashed you,” she points out.

“Yeah.”

SHIELD is in pieces now – or it was broken open and revealed to be full of HYDRA agents anyway. There are still SHIELD agents, working under Phil Coulson, and you're one of them. But your role these days is largely helping the Avengers.

Ice in the streets crunches under your boots as you walk. Natasha doesn't seem bothered by the cold. You've worn enough under layers to be warm so it's not bothering you yet either. The wind is a little cutting and you draw closer to her as you walk.

When you reach the rink, the two of you wrestle to pay the fee first. Natasha manages to get cash into the hand of the woman at the entrance first and you laugh, cursing her.

“How dare you!”

“You can get dinner,” she's snickering at how upset you are.

Next, you're strapping on a pair of ice skates and stuffing your shoes into the same cubby. Natasha is out first on the ice – the intrepid one this evening. Just as you suspected, she's slightly wobbly at first but takes to it like a duck to water, laughing and gliding along.

“Wait up!” you call, unable to help from smiling. “Jerk!” You shake your fist in mock anger and she snorts.

“Hurry up!”

You step out onto the ice, a little tense at first, but you gradually loosen up as you realize you're not going to fall on your ass in front of everybody. You catch up to her and she offers you her hand.

You take it, even though you're a little suspicious she might troll you, pull you along playfully.

“Let's go slow at first,” you point out.

“You're the one who's always rushing into stuff,” she laughs.

“That is true.”

Natasha is generally more cautious than you. Maybe it's because you're younger but you tend to throw yourself head first into some things.

“How do you say 'ice skating' in Russian?”

She groans. You're always trying to pick up more Russian and you even started using an app to learn.

“Come o-on!” You goad her.

“Kataniye na kon'kakh.”

“Katanya what?”

She snorts and speakers slower. “Kataniye. Na. Kon'kakh. Or if you wanted to say 'I like to ice skate' you could say “Ya lyublyu katat'sya na kon'kakh.”

“Kataniye na kon'kakh,” You murmur to yourself.

“Very good.” She smiles.

“What was the first language you learned beside Russian?”

She thinks for a moment, glancing out over the other people gliding on the ice. Most of them are couples or parents with kids. You watch a ten year old girl squeal as she slides over to her mom. The woman is smiling and holding her arms open to the kid. Nearby her husband and a little boy skate.

“English,” she says finally. “That and I think French? They tried to get us to learn as many as possible.”

You nod. You can speak a couple of languages but you're pretty sure Natasha has you beat. Then again, she is a master spy.

“Sometimes I like to imagine being a figure skater,” You confess, smiling a little.

“Yeah?” She looks at you. “You could still do it.”

You laugh. “Hell no. I mean, it's fun to do. It's a great hobby... But it's not what... It's not my dream.”

“What is your dream?”

You think about it for a few moments.

“I really don't know. I'd like to travel the world, I guess?”

Natasha nods. “You'll definitely do that working for SHIELD.”

“Well I don't mean for work. I mean... just 'cause.”

“Yeah... I don't know. Travel doesn't mean the same for me I guess.” She shrugs. “It's always been for work.”

“Is there anywhere you'd like to go?”

She studies a tree nearby, a fir decorated with baubles and lights.

“Maybe...” She smirks. “The North Pole?”

“Don't be silly.”

“No really. There's a place called The North Pole. In Finland.”

“You're bullshitting me.”

“No, I'm serious!”

“What they have like.. Santa Claus and elves?”

“They have reindeer.” She frowns. “Actually I'd really like to visit Machu Picchu.”

“Yeah. That would be pretty cool.”

“I don't know why, but I like ancient ruins.”

“I grew up watching Indiana Jones movies, so I get it, trust me.”

She laughs. “It's not like I think it would be this great adventure. It would just be interesting.”

“Yeah. Archaeology is pretty cool. I'd like to go surfing in different parts of the world.”

“I didn't know you surfed.”

“Yeah. I mean I haven't done it a lot of times – and I suck at it. But it's fun. I've heard about some really great places for surfing.”

“Yeah? Where?”

You shrug. “Australia.”

“Australia sounds interesting. If it's beaches we're talking though, I like Hawaii.”

“I've never been to Hawaii.”

“I went once, with Barton, a couple years ago.”

“That sounds nice.”

“There are some really beautiful parts of Hawaii.”

There's something pretty special about skating around the very spot you first met Natasha. You remember spotting her coming around the other side of the rink. Her hair was shorter than it is now, but just as bright, swinging loose from her hood as she pushed it back.

You can remember Nick Fury standing next to you saying 'Here she comes.' The way you couldn't take your eyes off her.

You squeeze her hand gently in yours.

“I'd like to go Hawaii with you.”

She smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You lean in and kiss her. She sputters at first, maybe surprised that you're kissing her in public. But you don't care if anyone sees. She's the most beautiful woman you've ever been with and you're out together, close to New Year's eve, ice skating. Life has never felt more like a movie than it has at this moment.

You want to say those three little words. But when you do use them, it's sparingly, because you're pretty sure Natasha has a hard time hearing and repeating them.

You chance it.

“I love you.”

She smiles, then glances away. She has a flush to her face and something about her reaction makes your heart break.

“Race me?” she says, glancing back at you, her lips in a wily smirk and a gleam in her eye.

“Yeah right. You already know you'll beat me. Hey!” You cry out, a laugh on your lips as she releases your hand and speeds ahead. “Dork!”

“Can't catch me!” She sings back, gracefully sliding around the little family you spotted earlier.

“This is so unfair!” You call after her, trying to catch up. You can't help but laugh as you nearly stumble several times. “How are you this fast?” You shout.

When you finally catch up, she's paused by the side of the rink and is laughing, both of you breathless.

“I thought you said it was years since you last skated!” You gasped.

“No! I said that I went skating when I was a kid.” She grins. “Barton likes to try and challenge me on occasion on everything from air hockey to handstands.” She rolls her eyes.

“Right,” you nod. You've seen those two battle over a pin ball machine and even in the archery range in Stark Tower. (The fact that it has an archery range is still kind of mind blowing and ridiculous, honestly)

“I forget you two are the Wonder Twins.”

She laughs. “The Wonder Twins. I love it when you say that.”

“Oh man, I should have gotten you guys t shirts for Christmas!”

“Well his birthday is coming up in the summer,” she smirks.

“Ahh,” You offer your hand. “Or your Unbirthday.”

Natasha doesn't know when her actual birth date is so she just picked a random day in April simply because she likes spring. You feel proud of the fact that you know that Natasha likes spring. It's one of those things most people don't know about her.

You figure a lot of people just expect her to be all dark and morbid but honestly? Natasha loves Halloween for the same reason she loves Christmas – it's an excuse to have fun and be with other people. This is the side of her that only you and a few other people get to see.

“You know something?” You hold her hands in yours and she groans.

“You're being sappy again,” she teases, but her eyes are alight and her lips are pulling into another smile.

“I am so glad I have you in my life.”

She looks back at you quietly for a few moments.

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “Cause you're such a dork!” You laugh and start to skate away. “The race isn't over!”

She laughs.

“You're the one who's a dork!”

She begins to chase after you after a moment.

Naturally, Natasha catches up and speeds past you, beating you pretty soundly. The two of you skate for a while longer until you're both complaining about your noses being frozen. Then you decide to stop by the restaurant you saw to pick up dinner.

Back at your place, on the couch, you curl up together and decide to watch Die Hard as you eat your take out.

“Samuel L Jackson will always remind me of Nick Fury,” You note. “Mothafucka.”

“Yeah... I'm pretty sure Ol Sam Jackson is more laid back than Fury.”

“You're probably right.” You scoot closer to her and she smiles. A few moments later, she leans into you.

“I don't care what you and Clint say. Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”

“Maybe not,” you shrug. “But it's worth watching during Advent all the same.”

“I'm happy to have you in my life too, you know,” she says it quietly but it makes you look at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leans in and kisses you.

“Well, I'm glad. Otherwise this would be really awkward.”

She snorts. Then she starts to laugh.

“You are such a dork,” she shakes her head and looks back at the screen.

“Am I your favorite dork?”

“Aside from Clint? Yes.” She smiles.