Everyone Natasha has ever known: everyone who matters, every grudge and every non-SHIELD-approved connection, everyone is dead. The slate is clean. The world spins beneath her and she has been dubbed adequately sane to aim and fire in the service of those she once aimed for.
She has frayed edges now, despite having slept for twenty hours sleep and nascent trust she decides not to dwell upon too heavily at the moment. Barton won't kill her: in her best judgement, Natasha thinks that he won't allow her to be killed, either. At least not while he's watching.
She glares when he calls her by a too-familiar form of her name, hates (less than she did) that he says 'you' like he means 'ты'. Takes her badge from his hands without comment, and heads downstairs to reclaim her own weapons as if she'd only dropped them off for repair too delicate to complete herself. As much of a lie as any she's ever told.
The entire situation is still very strange.
Barton awaits her when she gets out, a grin on his face and keys dangling from his fingertips. He says, "Congratulations, Probationary Agent Romanoff, we've had our home base relocated to Buffalo for the indeterminate future, and I'm pretty sure it's Agent Coulson's way of punishing me."
She knows one person, standing beside her, two inches shorter than she is because of her heels (steel stilettos which please her so, so much to have back). Everyone else is casualty or collateral damage.
"Buffalo," she says, and starts walking. Smoke under her tongue; gravel under her feet. The cast-concrete illusion of bedrock below that. Barton has to jog to catch up; Natasha lengthens her stride.
"The facility's in a converted grocery store," he says. "The heat goes out three or four times every winter. It's where they send naughty agents who need a time out, and I think that if you don't hate it, we'll know for sure that you're actually a robot."
"I think I've just decided that I'll enjoy my stay in ... Buffalo ... specifically to spite you."
Barton laughs; Natasha tips her head toward him, raises one brow. He's caught the humor in her tone: that's unexpected. He matches her stride, now, and presses the keys into the palm of her hand. It's the same move he used in Caracas, such that no one who doesn't know to look would notice the exchange.
"If that's the case," he says, "then you're driving."