GIRL KISSER

Ongoing Series:

The Lucky One - Natasha Romanoff

You’re On Your Own Kid - Natasha Romanoff

One Shots:

Jealousy, Jealousy - Natasha Romanoff

The Aquarium - Natasha Romanoff

You could feel steel digging into your wrists.

Blurred vision greeted you as you began to stir, blinking up at the flickering bulbs screwed into painted over brick walls—A puke mint green that made you shiver. Dots swam in your eyes, but soon you were able to make out the details of your surroundings.

W-Where am I?

The room was cold, that sickly kind of chill that pulled shivers out of your small frame and left you feeling exposed, naked in a sense. Despite the temperature of the room, there was wetness to the air, a moldy mildewy stench hinting at the damp conditions and infrequent airflow.

You weren’t alone.

The background buzzing of the lights was interrupted periodically by muffled grunts and moans, whimpers even, that poured out of similarly chapped lips. There must’ve been about five other children chained to the floor, foreheads slick with sweat and enduring different stages of consciousness.

What happened?

A dull thud wracked at the base of your skull as you tried to remember, tried to recall anything besides glimpses of your parents' panicked faces and the backseat of your mother’s minivan.

They’d been driving for hours, you remembered, your father’s white knuckled grip clutching the steering wheel amid the tense silence of the car. You’d asked to turn the radio on, but your parents seemed too busy exchanging looks and silent conversation.

“Mama?” You heard a girl cry out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

She had to have been a few years younger than you, her face round with youth but blemished by scattered bruises and a split lip.

You watched as she started to thrash, pulling against the metal cuffs at her wrists—the same ones binding all of you to metal hooks in the wall.

It made you uncomfortable, her distress, the way she screamed and cried out snotty tears. The other children began to take notice, either just waking up from the noise, or like you, observing with cautious fear.

A metal door swung open like a gunshot, sterile white light flooding the room. Some of the children visibly flinched from the sound, cowering into themselves like they knew something you didn’t. It halted whatever questions you might’ve had for the pair of strange men that marched in.

You watched as they took in the little girl’s tantrum, sneering at her cries.

“Looks like someone’s volunteering to go first.” One of them said, the words meaningless to the girl who continued to sob. You merely watched as the other man unclipped the chains binding both the girl’s wrists and fisted both in one hand. Like a makeshift leash, the man wrenched his hand back, violently hauling the child forward. You grimaced watching her knees hit the concrete floor as her arms were yanked.

“Would you hurry up? It fucking stinks in here.” Complained the man still posted by the door, annoyed by his colleague who seemed fascinated watching the child under him squirm.

“You heard him, kid. Let’s go.” With a few more tugs, the child was forced onto her feet, legs shaking with unsteady steps.

You stayed silent as you watched the men leave with the girl in tow, dragging her behind them. The moment right before that steel door slammed shut was the last time you saw her.

X

Natasha couldn’t sleep.

The alarm clock on her nightstand blinked back 3:38 am, only a five minute difference from the last time she checked. It felt like the damn thing was mocking her.

The sight of her bedroom’s ceiling was beginning to irritate her as her mind refused to shut down for the night.

The insomnia was nothing new, a reoccurring itch that tugged at the back of her skull for years, only somewhat subdued by self discipline and sleeping pills. Her bottle ran empty earlier that week thanks to a sudden uptick in restless nights like this.

The nightmares had come back, plaguing the few moments she’d nod off, reinstating the perpetual cycle of suppressed memories bleeding into her dreams, a phase she’d thought she’d moved past.

3:41

The Russian breathed a curse into the air. Fuck it. She thought, propelling herself forward to sit up, throwing off tousled sheets.

Her laptop sat well within reach, lazily discarded from where she’d again been pouring over your case.

It wasn’t healthy to watch you. Natasha knew this, but it didn’t stop her. She could’ve gone back to bed, had every chance to between pulling up the instance of SHIELD’s database, typing in her security code, locating the cameras linked to the holding cells, and pulling up the video feed to yours.

She catches sight of herself in the reflection of the screen. Her hair is a mess, sticking up in odd places and tangled in others. The bags under her eyes swing low and deep, highlighting her exhaustion.

This past week was affecting her, she knew it. The explicit details in each report, the photos, your face. It was a suffocating feeling, a weighted knot sat tight in her stomach. She hated it. Hated that you reminded her of a weakness she’d buried, that you insisted on infiltrating her mind to the point of obsession.

Good, you’re sleeping. At least one of us is getting some rest.

It was a rare sight to see you so still, the closest you’ve been to a relaxed state since you got there. The only disturbance was the furrow of your brow, your face twisting in pain every once in a while, sometimes accompanied by low whines. She was entirely aware that pain seemed to be the only way to get you to make any kind of sound.

The battle didn’t last long.

From the grainy footage, Natasha watched as you bolted upright, sweat coating your forehead. There wasn’t any audio —a weird bug that occurred a few days ago— but she could tell you were screaming. Just when she began to be impressed by your lack of need to take a breath, you broke into a coughing fit.

Unbelievable.

With a slam, she forced the laptop shut, not even registering that she was purposefully getting out of bed until she was mid tying the laces of her shoes.

You were killing yourself. Slowly. It was infuriating to watch, to be a bystander to, as you shriveled up into nothing. An absurd amount of anger grated at the edge of Natasha’s mind. She’d be damned if you decided to up and die under her care.

X

“You’re not eating.”

The Russian had seemingly invited herself in, making that two mornings in a row that Natasha had sat in that chair and asked stupid questions.

It was morning, right?

You tried to do the math in your head, but ultimately gave up as a spontaneous flurry of wet coughs seized your attention. Apparently you’d sat in those wet clothes long enough for the chill to seep under your skin.

“And from the looks of it, you’re running a fever too.”

Maybe you did feel a little warm, but the foundation of your survival depended on you not paying any mind to your wilting body.

The Russian didn’t seem to share your apathy. She had her arms crossed with the attitude of a disappointed parent, feet planted firmly on the ground, and legs spread in a way you’d been told was “unladylike” by PR firms.

You were leaning on one of the glass walls your cot was positioned against, not really all “there”, but aware enough to avoid the scathing eye contact.

She clearly wanted you to say something.

You haven’t had the need to use your voice much, hardly said a word since your first day. It’d be nice to hear yourself talk again, to interrupt the constant silence.

You chose to pick at your damaged cuticles instead.

It was obvious she didn’t like that decision.

“At the rate you’re going, if you don’t get enough food in your stomach, we’re going to have to tube feed you.” It was supposed to be a warning, a threat, but something about the shift in her eyes made it seem more like a plea.

Here she was again, searching for something you refused to give.

You watched her pitch forward, hunched closer with her hands clutched in her lap. There was steel in her eyes, a razor meant to cut into and the walls you had up.

You watched the floor instead.

“Really? You want to be hooked up to those machines again? To be put under?”

She didn’t know how wrong she was. At that moment you’d give anything to get some decent sleep, preferably the kind where you didn’t wake up. You wanted to laugh, but instead you just sat there, unmoved except from the occasional chill.

A memory tugs at the back of your mind, a flash of similar threats and heated bravado all in an attempt to provoke you.

“What would your parents say? It’s your fault they had to die. Do you really want to waste their death being a stupid broken little girl?”

“There you go again, getting that look.” Natasha’s voice is grating, an unwelcomed interruption to your reminiscing.

“Where do you go, hm? Are you back there, at that place?” She’s fishing, and you know it. Tuning her out isn’t hard, in fact it’s relatively easy to retreat back into your darker memories, hoping the phantom pain of every slap, kick, or punch you endured would remind you that nothing SHIELD could inflict on you would be worse than what you’ve already suffered.

Still, the Russian kept pushing, “I saw it, you know? The tapes, the pictures, the things they did to you, made you do.”

She could be referencing anything for all you cared, the way her words flatlined. She probably expected you to gasp or lash out at the exposure.

If you were about five years younger, you might’ve. You used to break down so easily at the slightest mention of your past, would cling to Alison for hours in some panic-like state afraid that you’d wake up back at the lab with blood on your hands. It took years for you to actually have a conversation about it with Alison, and even then you were quick to anger and even quicker to hurt yourself.

Like a mind reader, the widow just seemed to know, “Does Alison know? All of it?”

That made you fracture. The smallest slip, really, a tightness in your jaw, the dilation of your pupils, and the way your eyes snapped back to hers instinctively, like you weren’t even aware of it.

Internally you’re screaming.

Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

It was a low fucking blow, and you both knew it, seeing the widow slightly flinch at your hardened stare.

She went fishing and hit a god damned landmine.

You want to spit, scream, fight back just to vent out your anger and protect that sacred thing between you and Alison. How fucking dare she?

Instead you took it out on your skin, digging your nails into your palm to form harsh crescent shapes. The pain kept you sane, it always had, whether it be self inflicted or the punishing kind you grew up with.

You know she sees it, the slightest glance at the white knuckled pressure you use to stab yourself. It doesn’t bother you, far used to ignoring the pitying stares both Riri and Alison would throw your way anytime they saw your body after one of your “episodes”.

Only, you don’t find pity in those green eyes. Acknowledgement, memorization in order to address it later, but not pity. You hate it.

You put every bit of resentment and unexpressed rage in your eyes as you insist on matching her stare.

A layer of skin under your fingernail finally gives way, blood blooming in the center of your palms only drawing your attention when Natasha opens her mouth to address it.

“Let me-

“Іди на хуй (fuck off).” It’s hissed between your lips with a venomousity as potent as you can muster in your weakened state.

The Russian visibly threw her off, making her pause. Even as she slowly goes through the process of getting up, she flounders at what to say.

As much of a mistake as it was exposing your knowledge of other languages, you couldn’t help but be somewhat satisfied leaving the widow speechless.

“Y-You speak Russian?”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the obvious, which you note makes you the slightest bit dizzy.

By the time the sudden vertigo diminishes, you realize the widow has both exited and re-entered your cell, now carrying a large cotton pad and some gauze.

It's deliberate the way you press your back into the wall, distancing yourself as much as you can from the other woman and her clear intent to bandage your bleeding hand.

Exasperated, Natasha halts mid-step and passive aggressively throws the medical supplies towards you, not so subtly taking in your reflexes as you snatch the items out of the air.

“So you know Russian. What else?”

Ignoring her prodding, you slowly wrapped your hand, deliberately making sure you still have enough mobility to throw a punch.

“¿Hablas Español? Sprichst du deutsch? Nàme zhōngwén ne?”

You understand it all as she switches from Spanish to German and then to Mandarin. It made you all that more grateful for your career and having an excuse to keep up with your linguistic skills. It was always nice to be able to speak at least one native language at every international stop on tour.

I should’ve been headed to Japan by now.

The reminder of your life’s upheaval stirs another wave of anger. You signal your end to the conversation by flopping over onto your cot, intent to stare daggers at the reflective walls instead of looking at the other woman.

You can feel the widow’s eyes still on you, paying little attention to the aggravated muttering leaving her lips. Waiting for her to leave, you close your eyes and fight down another onslaught of chills, refusing to shiver in the other woman’s presence.

Why hasn’t she left already?

You don’t anticipate the heavy steps that stalk over to you, but there’s the weight of another body dipping onto your cot, a sudden grip wrenching you onto your back with another hand at your face

Your eyes shoot open to see the redhead hovering over you, fingers gripping the hinge of your jaw and prying your mouth open.

Her knees were pinning both your legs, keeping your body angled her way as her other hand grips what looks like SHIELD’s own version of a liquid ration.

At first you’re paralyzed, it was too much all at once, but then that ugly itching settles, your nerves screaming at you to make it stop, her touch scalding you, the bile rising at the back of your throat from having her close, the helplessness you felt as your fists finally start pounding into her sides to no effect.

It’s an almost out of body experience, your mind refusing to process another shock, and your body relying purely on adrenaline and animalistic fear to keep fighting.

“I know, I know. Please don’t fucking cry.” The words are garbled in your ears despite just how close she is, a splash of the watery food spilling out of the pouch in her hand and onto your tongue.

You’re trying to shake your head free of her grip, not even noticing the tears until she mentioned them.

X

This is so fucked up.

The widow knew it, knew this was wrong and in no way a good idea to get you to trust her.

But the fact that you couldn’t simply shove her off was enough of a sign that you were getting weaker. If Natasha could just get some food into you, maybe she’d be able to fucking sleep at night.

And this was the only way to do it. If she came at you head on, you’d just outmaneuver her life before, and it was early enough in the morning that whoever was supposed to be watching you was obviously asleep.

“Just eat the damn thing and it’ll be over.” It’s gritted through her teeth and she’s honestly baffled at your sheer determination to fight her off.

She feels your limbs begin to tire, gets her hand and the ration pouch a few more inches past your lips.

Almost there.

Then she feels you give way.

Natasha wants to celebrate immediately, doesn’t even register the anger replacing the fear in your eyes. Her right hand is practically in your mouth, and her left loosens its grip on your jaw.

And your teeth clamp down. Hard.

The pain is instant, causing Natasha to recoil, peeling herself off of you as fast as she can, almost tripping on herself to gain some distance.

In utter horror, the widow examines her hand, perfect indentations of teeth carved into the now mangled flesh in between her thumb and pointer finger.

Her fury is blinding.

“You… you BIT me?” Natasha’s scream rattles inside the cell, not at all affecting you as you lie limp, blood trickling down your chin.

You’re not even looking at her, and that infuriates the spy enough for her to spew forth a string of colorful Russian curses.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!”

That does something.

You snap upright, baring crimson stained teeth, and pure hatred in your eyes. Natasha almost retreats at the animal-like craze you aim her way.

“GET OUT!”

“This is stupid.” Natasha mumbles.

The assassin is sitting outside a cleverly disguised SHIELD outpost—a brick and mortar storefront posing as a local cafe—trying to fight the scowl etched across her face.

When the Russian had gotten the order to set up a meeting with you, she had immediately felt a wave of dread wash over her.

The faux restaurant was far too intimate for her liking, coupled with the fact that she knew nothing about you aside from the opinions and perceptions of others which only painted you as some glorified sex symbol. Knowing her luck, you were exactly like every other celebrity she’d encountered before; egotistical, self-centered, and probably a pain in the ass to work with.

Clint pipes up from the other side of her ear piece, stationed on the roof of a building across the street, “Stop looking so broody. You know the guys would kill to be in your position.”

Natasha scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she imagined the rest of the team having even a hint of the same tact and composure.

Half of them can barely form a sentence.

“Yeah, well you can tell Sam that he’s free to take my place.” She muttered, fidgeting with the baseball cap and sunglasses shielding her face. The accessories clashed a bit with the loose gray hoodie she wore over a white T-shirt and jeans, making her stick out in a way that screamed “don’t pay attention to me”.

The case files tucked beneath her jacket felt heavy, but mostly due to the doubt laying at the forefront of her mind.

This is so dumb, the Russian kept thinking. She would no doubt be far more comfortable meeting you in a more professional setting, like a conference room or anywhere where there weren’t a dozen rookie agents posing as fake employees, ready to watch her fail at keeping a conversation—either due to her own aloofness, or if the rumors were true, your air headed-ness.

“Shush. You of all people are in dire need of a social life. Even Bucky has friends outside the team.” Clint chided in her ear.

“I don’t do friends.” Especially vapid Hollywood ingénues, she wanted to add.

“Well now you do. We need her to trust you enough to tell us everything, and you to vet her enough not to blow the whole operation.”

The widow rolled her eyes, “And we couldn’t find anyone better? Like someone with training?”

“She’s an actress. That’s like getting paid to lie. You two have that in common already.”

Fair enough.

It was puzzling to try and explain why the avenger was feeling so… uncooperative. She’d gone face to face with drug lords, dictators, biologically engineered soldiers, yet something about YOU specifically threw her off balance. Maybe it was the teasing from her colleagues, or having to stare at the damn photo that caused this entire thing one too many times.

She hadn’t even met you yet, but the image of you she was putting together in her head only furthered her irritation. She was above babysitting starlets.

Natasha kept her head low, only looking up when Clint identified the sleek black car pulling up to the “cafe”.

“Ok, I see her. I’m gonna let you two be alone now.”

X

This is crazy. The thought hadn’t left your mind since Felicia approached you with Tony’s invitation.

You hadn’t expected anyone involved with your supposed new BFF to reach out so soon, let alone insist on a meeting. That, and the mountains of NDA’s you signed.

You tried burying the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

You were used to under the radar agreements in the past—a playboy needing a beard, a musician wanting to clean up his image, arrangements made with a note of secrecy and an understanding between both parties. You had the feeling that when your agent approached the whole endeavor with vague and clipped details, that you weren’t stepping into something all that different.

Your driver, Ben, glanced back at you, an air of concern thrown your way from where your eyes met his in the rear view mirror.

“These people you’re meeting… are you sure of their intentions?”

“I can’t exactly say no to Tony Stark, can I? I’m sure whatever they want isn’t too bad. Maybe the avengers need a PR boost?” You didn’t believe the words even as you said them.

All you knew was Tony’s email had made it seem like refusing wasn’t an option and that someone of your expertise was needed, whatever that meant.

Felicia had already put the idea of a fake relationship—no friendship in your head, and this only seemed to cement it. It wasn’t completely impossible, given the other woman’s reputation, or lack thereof.

You noted the furrow of your driver’s brows, a grunt echoing at the back of his throat in displeasure.

“I’ll keep the car running just around the corner if you need me.”

A genuine smile flashed across your face, a soft curl of your lips that rarely saw use.

“Thank you, Ben.” You tried to keep that smile as your destination rounded into view, warring against the pit forming in your stomach.

As the car settled into park against the curb, you diligently slipped out your phone from its place in one of your designer handbags, using the camera to do a last minute sweep of your appearance.

Sure it was a little vain of you, given that you were promised strict privacy with the only other party accompanying you being the Black Widow herself, but old habits die hard and nothing was more habitual to you than scrutinizing your image.

You wanted to distract from the oppressing seriousness this meeting had, choosing to dawn a casual dandelion sun dress and a kitten heel. It wasn’t the most iconic or fashionable, but it and the minimal makeup you wore felt like a safe choice.

“If I’m not back in an hour, honk twice.” That had always been your shared signal to bail you out of stuffy events in the past. Hopefully it wouldn’t be needed.

You dare not look out the car’s window, allowing yourself a bit of preparation as you stepped out onto the curb of a quaint little cafe. There’s something almost bare bones about it, like it’s on the verge of bankruptcy or newly opened, but you hardly have the time to fret over the idea. Your eyes scanned the place, passing over a few scattered patrons, almost missing the one you were there to see.

I remember that shade of red hair.

She isn’t looking at you, her chair turned to face away from you so you don’t bother hiding the amused smirk that forms once you take in the god awful outfit she’s wearing. Honestly you expected the avenger to be a bit more dapper, although your smile fades when you consider maybe it was on purpose.

Maybe she didn’t want to be seen with you.

You shake the thought away, steeling yourself for your approach, much like you readied yourself for any public appearance, with a practiced smile and measured steps.

“Hi.” It comes out confident and not at all like you were battling the anxiety swirling in your stomach. She must’ve heard you coming, not at all surprised when you spoke from behind her, and only truly looking up to you the moment you’re directly across from her.

Remembering your manners, you quickly introduce yourself—something you honestly hadn’t had to do in a while—and offer your hand.

You didn’t expect the ex-assassin to simply look at the appendage unamused, keeping her arms crossed defensively over her chest.

Ouch.

Seeing as she’s unlikely to reciprocate, you slowly pull back, smiling regardless as you take the liberty of sitting down across from her, your hands settled in your lap so you wouldn’t fidget in front of her.

What a great start.

“Can I call you Natasha? Or do you prefer Black Widow?” You ask, tasting the way her name sat on your tongue. Despite the icy welcome, you’re trying to be polite, even if you’re already starting to regret showing up.

“Natasha is fine.” Her voice, not as husky as it was in the heat of battle but just as warm, brings on a sudden wave of shivers you have to suppress.

God she was pretty.

Up close with only a couple feet between you, you can’t help the thought from entering your brain. In fact, you almost let your breath hitch the moment she takes off the ridiculous sunglasses, piercing green eyes staring directly at you with the same intensity as during your rescue.

It’s awkward, the stilted silence that follows. Her sudden analytical gaze has you straightening your spine, fighting the flush that comes with the prolonged eye contact. The widow remains statuesque, unmoving, and absent of any real emotion other than thinly veiled boredom.

A part of you wonders if there’s any wait staff around to serve you, begging for the possible distraction and an excuse for caffeine.

Was this it? You glance down, anything to break the tension. You want to bolt, drop the act and let your unease show, but you were better than that. Instead, you opt to jump straight to business, schooling your features to appear amenable.

“I’m awfully flattered that Tony decided to reach out,” You try, “Even if it did come as a bit of a surprise.”

You aren’t sure if that offended her, the only reaction you get being a raised eyebrow. It’s unnerving, the nothingness you receive, rarely are you ever not awarded any fanfare.

Not much of a talker. You surmise sarcastically in your head. Seriously, what you wouldn’t kill for someone to show up to take your order.

“I’d actually like to take the time to once again thank you for saving me the other day.” You’d practiced this part in your head a thousand times, not anticipating her to merely reply with a low grunt of acknowledgement.

Your lips quirk, a subtle response to the obvious dismissal.

Does she not even want to be here?

“It’s admirable, what you do. The city is lucky to have you, all of you.” You watch her blink, slowly like a cat deciding you’re not worth their time. Still you continue, “It’s my understanding that Mr. Stark reached out to discuss some sort of deal between the two of us.” Again, you’re giving her ample opportunity to speak up and fill in the details, but when she doesn’t, you decide that maybe you should just bite the bullet and put all your cards on the table.

“What I mean to say is… while I’ve done these kinds of relationships in the past-

While you try to maintain a somewhat professional composure, your conversation partner does not and you somehow manage to get the other woman to falter, watching as she suddenly straightens up in her seat. She looks slightly aghast before becoming even more rigid, if such a thing was possible.

“Excuse me?” Her tone is biting, and it actually manages to make you flinch. You scramble mentally for a response, your tongue loosening more than you like.

“I-I apologize. Is that not what you wanted to hear? Maybe relationship isn’t the right word,” You’re fucking this up completely, “-um, would you rather call it an agreement? An arrangement, maybe? We’ll have time to work out the specifics later, after we discuss boundaries of course-

“Stop talking.” Frustration coats the interruption and you can almost visibly see the other woman grit her teeth. Curiously, her cheeks are dusted with the faintest shade of pink as she mumbles something foreign. You can’t help but find it cute.

The breath she releases is weighted as she reaches underneath her hoodie, making your eyes go wide for a second, only relaxing once she’s pulling out a crisp manilla folder and placing it in front of you, now avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“You- you- just… here.”

X

It wasn’t like her to get flustered. For the most part, Natasha had been downplaying you in her head, even as you greeted her with that thousand watt smile.

Sure, you were pretty. She’d have to be blind to not acknowledge that, but looks aside, Natasha couldn’t see a damn thing about you that made you so gosh darn special.

You were annoyingly formal with her, holding eye contact just the right amount, keeping your hands clasped in your lap, and not being discouraged by her attempts to make you squirm.

It was a beautiful act really, but the Russian could see the tension in your shoulders, the anxiety in your eyes, the rehearsed nature of your words and practiced flattery.

However, you had certainly caught her off guard the moment you said the word relationship. She silently cursed the others and their teasing for the way she unloaded her case work onto you with anything but grace. She’s all too conscientious of the other agents milling around in character, witnesses to her fumble.

“Real smooth, Romanoff.” She ignores Clint in her ear.

Spying the paperwork, Natasha watches as your forehead crinkles in thought, not at all expecting what had been placed in front of you. She notes your inherent curiosity, as you hardly wait before tearing into the document, scanning the first page with surprising intensity.

“Oh. This is…” You flip through the pages, paragraphs of redacted information and surface level evidence, notably choosing not to linger on the crime scene photos, “-definitely not what I was expecting.”

Your face pales as you further absorb the content of the files, and Natasha almost regrets not easing you into the subject a bit more delicately.

Just what the fuck did Tony tell you?

“What did you think this was?” It came out awfully defensive, not at all helped by the way the assassin curls in on herself protectively.

With your eyes now trained on the general debrief, you still manage to dawn an animated expression of surprise, like you weren’t the one with absurd and crazy preconceived notions.

“I don’t know! Normally when someone reaches out to me via a third party it’s to date me for like one or two weeks before we break up so they can get a boost in their career.”

Natasha almost flinched hearing the word date, seemingly more uncomfortable as you rambled on. She didn’t want the image in her head, you and the idea of romance just unsettled her.

“You thought this was a date?” She asks, undoubtedly intrigued and leaning further across the table.

X

You pause your reading to look back up at the other woman, practically balking at the accusation, cheeks tinted an unflattering shade of pink.

Were you being too presumptuous? Well, what were you supposed to think?

“What? No!” Your thoughts were spiraling, “I said normally. I’ve never been involved with someone like you.” Crap. You didn’t mean it like that, and judging from the widow’s deepening scowl, she heard some sort of subtle insult.

“Someone like me?”

A woman. You have to bite your tongue not to say it out loud.

“A superhero,” You offer instead, “Sure, Johnny Storm flirted with me once, but he’s not exactly my type and-”

You hear the scraping of the metal chair in front of you as Natasha gets up, clearly in a hurry to be anywhere but with you.

“I knew this was a dumb idea.” She’s already starting to gather herself before you can even reply, getting ready to collect her documents and leave, only stopping once you slam a hand over the papers.

“Wha- hold on!” She’s undeterred, abandoning the files in an effort to get out of there as fast as she can. For an assassin, she sure is jumpy.

“I’m sure SHIELD will compensate for your time, have a nice day.”

You chalk it up to panic, because there’s no way you would normally be so bold as to reach over and grab the other woman’s wrist, but that’s exactly what you do. It almost gives you whiplash just how fast her head snaps back to look at you, something unreadable in those green eyes.

With your mouth suddenly as dry as the sahara, it’s an eternity before you can remember yourself, too focused on the way her skin feels in your hand and the rush it sends down your spine.

“Will you sit back down? I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you out.” You release her hand like it’s about to burn you, more color rising to your cheeks as you choke down the sudden embarrassment.

Time seems to drag as you watch the widow make a decision, watching as the woman in front of you levels you with an unamused stare that makes you feel guilty for wasting her time. With a roll of her eyes, she eases back into her chair, perched at the edge like she’s about to bolt again.

There’s something irritating about this whole charade. It’s hard to label what you feel, almost disappointment? Not to say that you went and got your hopes up because that would be admitting to having any hopes at all, but there’s a tad bit of bitterness that cuts through the sweet practiced act of yours.

“Clearly I must’ve gotten the wrong impression, and for that I apologize.” You say, shaking your head. You calmly close the folder in front of you and desperately try to resume your initial attempt at stoic composure.

Internally you’re still reeling from the revelation that all your preparation, all your blundering and striving to make a good impression was unwarranted. You suppose it made more sense though, why else would someone like Natasha want to meet with you.

“Look, those guys in the photos? Yeah, I knew them. Nice people too, helped me practice some of my stunt choreography.” There’s a bit of edge there you don’t try to hide. You purposefully keep your answer clipped. You’re embarrassed, the only thing keeping you seated being the familiar names and faces in front of you.

“They’re dead.” The widow is quick to inform, and your shoulders slacken, not at all surprised.

The information wasn’t new, but it certainly wasn’t any easier to hear, or to have to explain why you weren’t teary eyed. Sure you expressed your condolences through a heavily edited social media post like everyone else, but you weren’t falling apart. Honestly if it weren’t for the pictures in front of you, you don’t think you’d be able to recall their faces.

“Yeah, I heard. I wasn’t close with any of them, but we went to the same parties, same casting calls,” you can’t look at her, ashamed at your lack of a reaction, “Everyone knows everyone here.”

The Russian hums, as if she’s only just now invested in what you have to say and you can’t help the blistering exasperation that worms its way into your chest. Was that all your time was worth to her? The least you could do was match her in terms of pleasantries.

“So that’s all this is then? This deal of ours? It’s about some mission?” You make sure to express your displeasure at the idea, not that you wouldn’t cooperate, but you didn’t have to be nice about it. The shitty cafe she chose was starting to make a lot more sense. Wait a minute… did- did that waiter just make direct eye contact with you and flinch?

“Correct,” Natasha has your attention again, and you notice for the first time she doesn’t look perpetually pissed off, “Everything detailed in those files has to do with SHIELD’s latest operation…” There’s a pause, and something cold settles in her stare, no doubt meant to be intimidating, yet there’s something thrilling about it too. “I’ve been tasked with recruiting you as an informant.”

Huh?

It takes a moment for you to process her words, failing in keeping your face at a neutral expression. “An informant? Like a spy?” Maybe it’s ill conceived, but the thought excites you. Probably the closest you’ll get to playing in a Bond film.

“No. At most, you’ll be no contact. Simply observation.” From her stance, you can tell that it’s a non-negotiable.

While it doesn’t make up for the lack of civility on the widow’s part, you listen intently as the agent in front of you dives further into your proposed assignment. You surprisingly uncover a new side of the woman as she tackles the debriefing with surgical precision and the eloquence of a seasoned professional.

You find yourself nodding along, grimacing as she brushes over some of the more unsavory details regarding some of the victims and their fatal last days on set. You digest the information like you would a monologue, making rapid connections in your head to names and places. It’s with the pieces put together that you can visualize the scene— your coworkers, no, your peers, most of them just like you but not half as lucky, looking for the miracle that will push them into stardom. For you it was that lucky commercial, but for them, maybe it’s a magic drug.

You’re brought back to the set of your last movie, to Peter, pushing himself and his body beyond what you knew was healthy to keep up with the absurd number of stunts his role was asking for. Was it possible that- no, Peter would never… right?

You’re forced back into reality when you realize Natasha had asked you a question.

“You’re an actress, right? How familiar are you with action movies and stunt work?” She says, almost worried.

Your face shuffles through about five different emotions before you break. You can’t help it, the question sounds so ludicrous to you that you outright laugh. Not the dampened girlish giggle you usually let out, no, this was a bark, a full gut busting cackle, and right in the widow’s face. In fact, you almost grow teary eyed, and it takes several long drawn out moments before you look across from you to see a baffled look from the other woman and that only makes you laugh even harder.

“I’m- gosh, I’m sorry! I just- oh my god!” You’re having serious trouble reigning it in and the irritated frown from the other woman does nothing to help. It takes a moment for you to finally settle yourself, but you’re left brandishing your first genuine smile.

“You…” Your head tilted to the side, joyfully puzzled, “-don’t know who I am, do you?”

For the first time, the novelty of it all isn’t as damaging to your ego, but instead somewhat refreshing. You can tell Natasha is trying her best to bluff her way out of it, squaring her shoulders and deepening her look of displeasure.

“I have an… idea.” No she didn’t. Honestly you should’ve seen it the moment she remained seated to greet you, she truly had no clue.

You chuckle, “No, no you don’t. If you did, well, you wouldn’t have asked that question.” It’s obvious the concept of not knowing something annoys her, enough to where she almost pouts like a child.

Easing up on her, you relax into your chair with a sudden smugness, “Yes, I’m pretty familiar with action movies.”

Satisfied with your vague answer, the widow reaches over and flips to a page in the very back of the folder, one you somehow missed.

You’re greeted with a face you know all too well, one that’s spawned plenty of nightmares, and now directly in front of you bearing a smile of pearly white veneers, that face inspires an instinctual reaction of dread deep in your gut and the immediate response to jerk back in your chair.

You can’t look at the other woman as shame threads itself around your ribs, but even as you stare holes into your lap, you know just how obvious your response was.

It doesn’t seem to deter Natasha, as she barrels on in spite of how you’ve withdrawn, “You’ve worked closely with him, right?”

It’s with a great amount of effort that you close your eyes, counting out your breaths. What follows is a visual full body reset, as you seemingly retreat back to your professionally charming self, a forced smile creasing your lips.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding, you actually have no clue who I am!” You know you’re not fooling the widow, but you appreciate the unaddressed change.

“Should I?” She asks in what you suspect is an attempt to be distractingly playful based on the small ease of her brows. Regardless of her intentions, you welcome the shift.

“No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that, it's just… Well, that’s a first for me.” You find yourself smiling, intent on avoiding looking back down at the table. Natasha’s quick to pick up on it, choosing to close the folder without any further comment.

In your appreciation, you decide to be honest. “Yes, I am… unfortunately familiar with Beck.”

“There’s a story there you’re not telling me.” It isn’t said to be accusatory, just factual, and for that you’re grateful.

“Sorry, you aren’t the only one with NDA’s.” Voicing it aloud starts another wave of dread, but perhaps it’s something in the way the Russian is looking at you, with a clear understanding and patience, that has you confiding in her. “What I can say is this; I wouldn’t put it past Quentin to take whatever shortcuts he could to get ahead.”

“I know the type.”

You’re sat there for what must only be a few moments, but feels almost serene compared to the tension you felt earlier. It’s enough to make you comfortable with teasing the other woman.