Chapter Text
Life had stopped moving in a straight line a long time ago, far enough back that trying to trace it to a single moment never really worked. It didn’t move forward cleanly anymore, one year stacking neatly on top of the next. It overlapped in ways that blurred the edges, years bleeding into each other until it became difficult to tell where anything actually ended.
Even the 1700s didn’t feel as long ago as they were; the memories still not gone, not entirely. Rather, set somewhere it didn’t quite belong anymore, close enough that sometimes it felt like you could go back if you tried hard enough, even knowing there’d be nothing there when you did.
New York helped with that.
The city moved too fast for anything to linger, too fast for anyone to look too closely at what didn’t quite fit. People didn’t look twice, not because they didn’t notice, but because they didn’t have time to care. Everyone was already moving toward something else, pulled forward by things that mattered more than a stranger passing through their periphery.
It made slipping into the background easier than it had any right to be. Rotting away into the mundane nature that 21st-century lifestyles offered.
The bookstore was your saving grace; it sat where it always had, tucked neatly between places that demanded more attention without ever trying to compete for it. You’d watched it being built in the 80s, and the way it changed with time was never too different, but equally never the same. From the outside, it was easy to overlook, the kind of place you stepped into on impulse and forgot just as quickly once you left.
Inside, it followed the same logic, the store divided into the original bookstore and an added cafe extension.
It was warm, but not inviting enough to hold you there. Comfortable, but not distinct enough to linger in memory. People liked it, stayed a while, came back sometimes, but rarely thought about it when they weren’t there.
Perfect.
You had just finished restocking one of the shelves when the bell above the door rang, the soft chime threading easily through the low hum of the store without disturbing it.
“Be right with you,” you called automatically, not looking up straight away.
This time, something about the moment that followed made you pause.
Not silence. Not really. The store still moved around you, unchanged on the surface, but something underneath it had shifted, subtle but easy enough to catch for someone who was always on the lookout.
The feeling of being watched.
You glanced up, feeling a weight immediately settle in your chest.
Natasha Romanoff herself was stood just inside the doorway scanning the shop.
For a second, you didn’t move. Not outwardly, not in any way that would draw attention, but something in you sharpened anyway, focus narrowing as instincts stirred awake with a familiarity that hadn’t dulled, no matter how long they’d been dormant. For a second, something cold slipped down your spine.
Recognition came fast; her face one of the many you kept on your wall, one of the people you kept tabs on and made a mission of pointedly avoiding. It seemed purely by accident as well, since she seemed to be a little confused.
Black Widow.
Of all the people to walk in…You gave her a brief smile, schooling your expression to act like you didn’t know who she was. The shift stayed internal, sharp and immediate, your focus narrowing as instincts rose to meet it, quiet but fully awake now.
Your expression settled easily into something polite, something unremarkable, a small smile that didn’t invite anything more than necessary, forcing the anxiety that spiked immediately to ease.
“Hi,” you said, light, easy - reminding yourself to keep your eyes relaxed and fake a consistent breathing pace. “Feel free to look around, or I can help if you’re after something specific.”
Her gaze had already passed over you once, quick and efficient, taking in the space before circling back. When it landed on you again, it stayed, just long enough to feel deliberate.
“I’m looking for something specific,” she said, stepping closer to the counter.
Her voice was even, controlled, not unfriendly, but precise in a way that suggested every word had already been weighed before she’d said it.
You leaned your hip lightly against the counter, folding your arms loosely, posture relaxed in a way that didn’t quite match the hundreds of warning alarms screaming in your mind, nodding at her to continue.
Her eyes flashed with the faintest flicker of something that almost resembled amusement or mild confusion, though it didn’t quite reach her expression.
She reached into her jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and smoothing it flat against the counter between you, her movements precise yet unobtrusive.
The title wasn’t one most people would recognise, nor request. The kind of thing buried deep in a very particular corner of academic writing that only a handful of people ever bothered to dig through.
Your eyes lingered a second longer than they should have.
When you looked back up, she was watching you expectantly.
You picked the paper up, tilting it slightly, as if you were just making sure you’d read it correctly.
“Wow,” you said lightly, glancing back at her. “Obscure topic.”
“Not a common read?” she asked, her head tilting just slightly, the movement small but intentional.
“Not unless you’re either incredibly bored,” you replied, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips, “or you know exactly what you’re looking for.”
A pause settled between you, quiet but not empty.
You handed the paper back to her. “I’ve got it. It’s not out front, though.”
“Of course it isn’t,” she murmured, more to herself than you.
You pushed off the counter, already turning. “Follow me.”
You could feel her behind you as you walked, not close enough to crowd, not far enough to breathe properly. The distance was intentional, measured in a way most people never thought about.
You stopped at one of the back shelves, letting your fingers drift along the spines as if you were searching, even though you already knew exactly where it was. The book came free easily when you reached it, sliding loose without resistance.
You turned, holding it out slightly.
“This one?”
Her eyes dropped to it, scanning quickly before lifting back to your face.
“Yes. That’s the one.”
You handed it over, watching the way she took it, careful, but not delicate, like she knew exactly how much attention it required and no more.
“Fair warning,” you added, leaning your shoulder lightly against the shelf, “it’s a bit of a slog. First few chapters are basically just context, and not the fun kind.”
Her thumb brushed the edge of the page as she flipped it open.
“We’ll manage. A friend of mine needs it for some experiment, anything too dry, and I’ll leave it to him."
You smiled, laughing politely, “Fair enough, can I help you with anything else?”
She shook her head, following as you walked back toward the counter. You watched in your peripherals as she hesitated, her head turning at a particular book that caught her eye.
“Actually… can I get a coffee too?”
The request came just as you were about to step away. You glanced back at her, just briefly, before nodding. “Yeah, of course.”
You glanced up at her whilst making it half with a subtle fear of the threat she technically represented, she appeared to be entirely transfixed with the book she had found still stood near the shelf, eyes now skimming the pages.
You finished her drink and handed it over without comment. She thanked you, just as easily.
And then she stayed.
She ended up sitting by the window, the same table people tended to gravitate toward without thinking, drawn in by the light as it shifted through the afternoon. You noticed it without meaning to, the way you noticed most things, automatically, without needing to look for them.
The book was open in front of her, and she did read, at least some of the time, her eyes moving steadily across the page, posture relaxed enough to pass for casual. But it didn’t hold. Not fully.
Her attention drifted.
You caught it in small moments, the kind most people would miss if they weren’t equally paying close attention. A glance up when you moved past her table, brief but precise. A pause when the door opened, her focus shifting before returning to the page like nothing had happened. The way her gaze scanned everything, even you, just often enough to feel deliberate, even if it never lingered long enough to be obvious.
She wasn’t just reading.
You worked like you normally would, moving through the space with the same steady rhythm, taking orders, making drinks, organising books, wiping down surfaces that didn’t really need it yet. Nothing rushed. Nothing out of place. If she was watching for something, anything at all, you weren’t going to be the one to give it to her.
Let her look, you were far more practiced in faking normalcy than she was at detecting it.
The afternoon thinned gradually into evening, light shifting through the windows until it softened, stretched, and finally began to fade. The store followed with it, the energy slowing, conversations lowering, the steady flow of people tapering off until it became something easier to manage.
One by one, they filtered out.
Empty cups were left behind, chairs pushed back just slightly out of place, the faint warmth of conversation lingering in the air without quite holding onto anything solid.
Eventually, it was just the two of you.
She closed the book at some point, slipping something between the pages to mark her place before standing, the movement unhurried as she made her way back up to the counter.
You were already there, wiping down the surface, finishing up the last of what needed doing before closing.
“You seemed awfully transfixed, what was it that you found?” you asked, glancing briefly at the book.
“The Master and Margarita,” she said, setting it down. “I haven’t read it since I was a teenager; it’s Russian.”
You nodded, “mm, I must say I'm more partial to Dostoyevsky than Bulgakov, but I’m glad you enjoyed.” You turned to ring it up, fingers moving automatically over the register.
“Actually,” she spoke, making you pause, “I was wondering if it would be possible to leave this here? I’ll pay for it if that’s an issue, but time pauses in that corner. It would be nice to preserve that for next time.”
You nodded, smiling lightly, ignoring the dread that flooded you at the promise of her return, “Of course, don’t worry about paying - I'll leave it behind the counter. So just the other book and the coffee then?”
She picked up the other book, "I'm Natasha, by the way." She hesitated ever so slightly, like there was something else she was considering saying, before paying in cash and turning toward the door instead.
“Y/N,” you called out, watching her leave.
The bell rang softly as she left, the sound lingering for just a second longer than it needed to.
The store felt different once she was gone. Quieter, but not in a way that felt settled.
You locked the door, flipped the sign, and moved through, closing the way you always did, muscle memory carrying you through each step without needing to think about it. Lights dimmed. Chairs straightened. Surfaces cleared and reset until everything looked exactly the way it was supposed to.
Still, your thoughts raced, an unease resting in your stomach.
The book. The question. The way she’d watched you, not constantly, not obviously, but enough to feel intentional. Like she’d been waiting for something to slip, something small, something easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
You were definitely paranoid, but it still didn’t sit right. The reality of her presence hitting you.
Your phone buzzed against the counter, a familiar contact flashing across the screen.
A quiet breath left you, somewhere between a sigh and something closer to a laugh.
“Yeah,” you murmured under your breath. “I gathered that.”
Another message came through almost immediately.
Your thumb lingered for half a second longer than necessary before you had answered. Fine was enough, it always had been.
You set the phone back down, your gaze drifting toward the door again, toward the space the Avenger herself had occupied not that long ago.
Sharon’s messages were never random. They never had been, not in all the time you’d known her, and that stretched further back than most people would believe, back to the 40s, back to Peggy.
You could still remember the day she found you, even if the details had softened with time: the aftermath of a HYDRA raid, smoke thick in the air, the sense that you hadn’t been meant to survive it, and her, somehow, finding you anyway. It had been early days then, before anything was fully formed, when everything they were building still felt fragile, and HYDRA hadn’t disappeared so much as gone underground, a constant presence to be aware of.
Peggy had taken you in regardless, not publicly, not in any way that could be traced, but enough that you became something like a quiet constant threaded through the Carter family, a secret passed carefully from one generation to the next, each of them knowing just enough. Sharon simply the most recent in this chain.
If she were warning you now. Then whatever Natasha had been looking for wasn’t just some obscure book pulled from the wrong shelf.
And if it tied back to HYDRA? Then this wasn’t going to stay quiet for long.
You exhaled slowly, pushing yourself off the counter, the sound soft in the otherwise empty space.
“Great,” you muttered. “Just when things were getting perfectly boring.”