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Natasha had been the one to break the ‘Robot’ — Clint made sure she was aware of that.
The woman who had such a reputation in Shield for being this blank slate, void of emotion, with a stare that could make grown men shudder— Shield's top agent. Any time she was involved in a mission, everyone knew it was extremely serious. In the two years she had been at Shield before Natasha arrived, no one had seen her express anything that could hint at her humanity. There are no files on where she came from; Fury had simply turned up with her and made no further comment. Of course, most genuinely believed rumours that she was some sort of robot— Clint had been convinced of it; he had watched her get shot without even a glimpse of pain on her face.
Those rumours were instantly flattened the moment Natasha joined Shield. It had been a day after Clint recruited her, when Natasha instantly began reporting directly to Fury. He had set up a meeting with their top agents and executives to introduce Natasha- well, ‘The Black Widow’ was the name Fury used. But that doesn't quite matter; no one remembers any of the words from that meeting. All people remember was how the supposed ‘robot’ eyes widened the moment Natasha walked in, how the skin of her cheeks went a soft rosy pink, how she blinked stupidly at Fury when he asked for her to introduce herself, as if he had just spoken to her in code, taking a few moments for her brain to process spitting out a few words which only manifested as an incoherent mess, needing multiple tries to produce her name. Natasha had made the ‘robot’ blue screen—she had proved this woman's humanity by simply standing there. Oh, and it only became more obvious after that. The rest of that meeting, she just stared at Natasha in marvel. She didn't even seem to realise how obvious it was either, as if her brain had just shut off completely. Maria later joked that she had the kind of face you would imagine an Ancient Greek would've made upon first seeing a statue of one of their Gods. Natasha had been confused and even slightly weirded out at the time. She had no context for why everyone seemed shell-shocked at this agent's stutter. The staring was definitely weird, too, even if Natasha could tell it was harmless. The cherry on top of a memorable meeting was that, after it all, Fury decided to make the two roommates— an impulsive decision made to humour himself more than anything.
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Shields' 60th anniversary wasn't too spectacular, just a calm get-together at the HQ with a bar, food and soft jazz in the background. Natasha had been at the agency for just over two years now. The “party,” if you could call it that, was well put together, suitable for both the current and retired agents of the company. A way to catch up and talk about Shield and what it's done over the years, for veterans to share their memories over whiskey and a game of snooker. Clint is loudly retelling the story of Natasha's introductory meeting for the fourth time this night, this time his victims being a mixture of shield retirees and just-qualified agents. Natasha is sitting at the other end of the worn leather couch, her hand cupped around a crystal martini glass. She hasn't strayed from Clints side the entire evening — bar retrieving numerous different cocktails — she should be sick of this story by now; she could've wandered off hours ago. Yet the assassin still sits there, a soft smile plastered across her face. The story Clint relayed became progressively exaggerated the more bourbon he got into his system. Natasha listened as he went from describing her now girlfriend's ‘subtle widening of the eyes’ to his now slurred speech, making it seem as though she was drooling like a bitch in heat. Perhaps it was that being entertaining enough to keep Natasha there… Perhaps.
Now, where was this woman, the centre of the archers' conversations? Well, on another conveniently taken mission, of course. Natasha and her had been growing distant over the past few weeks, and it hadn’t helped that her girlfriend had started filling her schedule with missions and training. Whenever Natasha finally saw her, she started rambling on about the missions and all the training, missing no detail on everything she had done. That was the part that got to Natasha the most— it’s like her girlfriend is just bragging about her time without her. Was it a weird, petty way of getting back at Natasha for doing something? Rubbing salt in the wound?
The thoughts had throbbed persistently at the back of Natasha's mind for weeks now. She was analysing every twitch of her girlfriend's face… she had never been able to quite read her, never quite read you. That thought used to bring warm comfort, a lack of the usual guilt that came with being able to read everyone like a book; it was evidence to Natasha that what she had with you was real, not manipulated. Now it came with uncertainty. She couldn't understand you, and that left her in the dark, left her to worry if you even loved her. The oh mighty black widow had been trained from a toddler to recognise every nuance and subtle tell of a human being, every shift of the body and every type of twitching of the eye. But you seemed to go against everything she knew; the tells of each emotion seemed like a jumbled mess around her girlfriend, especially when Natasha was there. Natasha's jaw clenched ever so slightly at the thought of how her girlfriend could look at her with absolute devotion and yet wouldn't hold her hand.
—
“Why would we hold each other's hands? We need our hands to carry things.” Natasha had almost laughed as her girlfriend shied away from the offer. She had thought you were joking, but then you continued walking in the bitter cold that day with your hand in your pocket. You kept saying something along those lines every time Natasha offered you her hand.
—
It was silly, really. Natasha was a trained assassin. Why was this bothering her so much? It's trivial if it were an isolated thing. But it isn't; you never initiate any physical contact, sitting next to her, pin straight for an hour during a movie night until Natasha's soft hands coax you to melt into her lap. You also didn't celebrate anything. You had given her a confused look when she told you it was her birthday, responding with a short ‘oh nice’ as if you lacked the concept of the importance of birthdays. And maybe you had, at least you pulled yourself together after Maria completely chewed you out for that one, getting her a cake from the local bakery and some new earrings. Something similar had happened on Valentine's Day and your first anniversary. It bothered Natasha far more than she'd ever admit. Maybe her girlfriend was just that clueless, but how? There was no way someone could be over the age of twenty and not know what a birthday was, or Valentine's Day, right? It was more likely the case that her girlfriend just didn't care. At least that had been Natasha's logic. All the cocktails didn’t dampen her worries at all.
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The engine of the Quinjet produced a constant quiet hum, sending small vibrations through the soles of your feet as it flew you back to the compound. You lean back into your seat, watching the outline of each cloud, the ones distant enough to be unblurred from the speed of the jet. It had been another successful mission. Good, everything was always good when you did your job well. The scientists always used to give extra food in the facility where you grew up. Now, Shield agents would pat you on the shoulder, and Fury would give a bonus. It was the only way you knew to make someone happy, the best way to say sorry instead of expressing the weakness that is remorse. All these missions lately have been for Natasha. She had been distant, she stopped instantly taking you into her arms each time you'd sit next to her on the couch. The thought of having disappointed her had created an unfamiliar twisting feeling in your stomach and a heaviness in your chest that wouldn't leave. At times like this, it felt lighter, a successful mission you can relay to Natasha to fix whatever you had done, make her happy with your work.
The Quinjet lands at the compound with a soft jolt, the time read to be 2 a.m. You swiftly run through the standard post-mission procedure, accounting for all items, declaring any injuries, the time of arrival and flight path. Making your way back to your and Natasha's shared living quarters, eager to slip into Natasha's warm bed. Your warm bed.
-
It had been something Natasha was firm about after she learned about the night terrors a few weeks into the relationship. You had never asked her, never talked about it outside those long nights, no, that would be admitting to weakness. But it helped that she did; it helped that she insisted you sleep in her bed after realising the storm thrashing through your head would cease the moment she took you into her arms. You don't wake up screaming when she's there. It's a vulnerability you shouldn't have. But no matter how many times you tell yourself that, you can't escape the feeling of nausea at the thought of her not being there.
-
You slip on one of Natasha's shirts—likely one of Clints old ones—after a quick shower. Then going straight to the soft, warm bed where Natasha lay, tangled in the sheets, fast asleep. As you carefully climb in, the usual routine of your girlfriend briefly waking up to take you into her arms doesn't happen. Natasha does wake up, of course, but she turns the other way, taking the duvet with her. You freeze, halfway between sitting and lying down on the cold, now bare side of the mattress. That sinking feeling in your chest comes back at full force, heavier than ever before. It's as though your heart suddenly weighs as much as a cannonball.
There's not the slightest clue what to do, what Natasha was trying to say. She had never done this before. You remain stuck there, waiting for sunrise.