Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 2010

𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐡𝐢𝐚 𝐀𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭

The setting sun was an anomaly.

The fact that the sky turned pinkish in the leave of the brightest star should be an appropriate cause for question.

When the moon left, the hue of the deepest ocean colored the sky, making way for the magnificent blue that would later grace the day.

But when the sun left, the sky said its farewells in pinks and oranges.

They named the event a sunset. And its unique coloring was given its place within the millions of colors already discovered by the human race.

It was evident that there was a science to this, as there was for most things. But, as Truth Castello gazed out of the window of her small, borrowed car, she thought that the sunset was kind of weird.

Weird in a beautiful way, she thought. The best kind of weird.

Her foot eased onto the gas pedal, just to edge a little closer as she waited with growing impatience for the car in front of her to move.

While there was a science to most things, Truth Castello was not one of those things. People—scientists, those who claimed to be scientists, or even those who thought themselves above the limitations of science—had tried to understand her her entire life, and they all came up with various, complex, superfluous explanations as to why she was the way that she was.

Truth Castello, like the sunset, was an anomaly. The best kind of weird.

And so, in a moment of kinship, Truth watched the sunset while the driver and officer ahead of her argued. While his delivery was rude, the officer's accusation was correct—the driver was under the slight influence of alcohol.

Truth and alcohol had never been the best of friends.

Because alcohol bred liars.

She shouldn't have, especially when she was still working on schooling herself in the art of self-restraint, but Truth Castello was tired, and the tension inside of her was building and building and building, and she had a ride waiting for her.

So she turned towards the driver, her eyes aimed at the back of his head despite the headrest blocking him from her vision.

Diga-lhe a verdade.
Tell him the truth.

The driver didn't lie this time.

"Eu estou bêbado," he said. "Tenho uma garrafa de uísque no compartimento de luvas."
I am drunk. I have a bottle of whiskey in the glove compartment.

And so, the liar paid for his lies and the truth won yet again. Triumphant, Truth flashed her I.D. at the officer and passed through the gate without an issue. It was a false, but not everyone played by their own rules.

The jet procured for her extraction was a small thing—not like S.H.I.E.L.D.'s usual quinjets. Grabbing her bag from the passenger seat—not even a quarter of all that she had acquired in Salvador—, she walked towards the agent waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

"Nunca pensei que diria isso a um superior," she said, a small smile on her lips, "mas é bom ver o seu rosto."
I never thought I'd say this to a superior, but it is good to see your face.

Agent Phil Coulson furrowed his eyebrows and Truth's smile grew as she chuckled.

"Sorry, Coulson. The Portuguese is going to be a little hard to shake."

Agent Coulson returned her smile, stepping aside for her to walk up the stairs.

"So long as I get a few translations here and there, I think we'll manage."

After putting away her luggage, Truth plopped into the co-pilot seat beside Coulson with a pillow and a blanket, getting comfortable as he prepared the jet for take off.

"Congrats, by the way."

Truth raised an eyebrow at him.

"All anyone talks about back home is how you successfully turned the Nove Vidas, Brazil's most infamous mafia, into a ghost story single-handedly in under five months."

Truth gave him a little shrug.

"Technically, it was Brazil's only mafia. And, I didn't feel like overstaying my welcome. The eight months the Director gave me was generous, at least."

Coulson stared at her, and she stared back, her face showing hints of amusement. Then he snorted, shaking his head as his attention returned to the control panel.

"If that's what you call it, kid."

Truth's amusement quickly turned impassive.

"Don't you think I grew out of that five years ago?"

Coulson shook his head again as he started the engine and answered honestly.

"Not at all."

Truth rolled her eyes and shifted in her seat, leaning her head sideways to lay on her pillow.

"Why'd you sit up here if you were just going to go to sleep?"

Truth shrugged, her mind already shutting down, the soft hum of Coulson's mind lulling her into slumber.

"Thought I'd keep you company," she mumbled.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧

There was no sunset in D.C.

The sky was a midnight color, the moon hiding behind its blackness. Light came from the city—little balls of color, little balls of hope.

The Triskelion, the place Truth had called home for the past five years, was one of those little balls of color. Like the city, it didn't sleep. Agents still walked down the halls with purpose, interns shadowing their idols, scientists speaking to each other excitedly in hushed tones. This was the night shift. The world never slept, and so S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't either.

Truth didn't pay attention to the hustle as she walked to her apartment by memory alone. It was intentional, the way she withdrew into herself, reducing the thrum of mental voices to a muffled murmur. In her exhausted state, it was harder to stay within herself. Her mind wanted to jump to the first thing that caught her attention, and giving in would only make it more difficult to push the rest out.

She stumbled into her living room with a lack of grace, throwing her bag somewhere off to the right and into the darkness. She didn't bother turning on the light because she didn't intend to stay up long enough to need it.

Even her tired ears picked up the soft patter of paws, and Truth managed a small smile as something pressed against her leg and meowed.

"Aw," Truth cooed. She crouched to meet her large Savannah cat at eye level, rubbing her ears affectionately.

"Yia sou, agápi mou...mou élipses polí."
Hello, my love...I missed you very much.

Truth yawned as Heidi licked her hands and cheek in welcome and petted her fine, spotted fur for a second longer before standing and ridding her body of its clothing. She threw them in a pile somewhere in a similar vicinity to her bag, knowing some future version of herself would be more than capable of handling the mess later.

It was routine for Truth to take a shower when she returned from a mission. It didn't matter if she was only gone for a few hours or five months. The hot water rushing down her skin washed away everything that wasn't Truth Castello. Every alias she'd used, every persona she had to dress herself in to survive, every sin committed as a means to an end left with the water, leaving her raw and whole.

Leaving the bathroom, Heidi at her heels, she had enough wherewithal to throw on a shirt and underwear before she fell on her bed and surrendered herself to her body.

It felt like only a second had passed when she heard the creak of a door. There was the familiar hum of a shielded mind, the loudness of steps trying to be quiet, followed by the ruffle of sheets as someone sneaked under the covers. Though unalarmed, Truth frowned at the disruption, drifting somewhere in the in-betweens of asleep and awake.

"Aren't you too old to be sneaking into my bed?" she mumbled.

There was a snort.

"Aren't you too old to cuddle with your cat?"

With a deeper frown, Truth buried her face further into Heidi's fur.

"Unless you're here to purposely annoy me, you should start making me breakfast, adelphós (brother)."

She could almost hear him roll his eyes.

"And," she added once she felt the bed dip, "feel free to take as long as you'd like, so long as I get to sleep for at least five more minutes."

She got in a fitful ten minutes before she could no longer stay in bed. It was something about having someone else in the apartment, someone who's mind was already functioning on a decent level, that kept her own from fully resting. And by the time she began to smell the bacon, the battle had already been lost.

From the doorway, Truth observed her brother's progress, watching as he navigated her cabinets with ease and confidently adjusted the fire to keep the eggs from cooking too fast. Truth guessed that Maria Hill, along with returning Heidi to her apartment, had also stocked her kitchen for her impending arrival. She fought back a smile, knowing that she'd get hell if she even so much as tried to thank the older agent for her thoughtfulness.

"Five months ago, you didn't know how to cook this well," she commented.

Michael shrugged.

"Practice."

Ah. But Truth knew it was more than that. A tingle formed in her gut, a build up of energy that responded to her faint curiosity before she forced it to disperse down to the tips of her fingers, making a gesture to open the cabinet by Michael's head and bring two plates floating carefully into his waiting hand. It was a trick she had learned over the years—so far, the key to control was the allowance of release.

She respected her brother's privacy enough to quell the urge to pry. The twins knew everything about each other—while it was only a matter of time before Michael did confide in her, sometimes they needed the time to keep things to themselves for just a bit longer.

As they ate, Michael caught her up with the last five months. She had missed Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year all in one go. It wasn't the first time she'd missed the holidays, and neither was it uncommon for Michael to be away for a few, but Michael had managed to make them enjoyable in her absence with a few agents he considered to be friends. Truth never interrupted and Michael never checked if she was listening because he knew she was, even as she cleaned the kitchen, addressed the mess left by her past self, changed into the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, and reviewed her file for her debrief with the Director.

He'd just about made it to the end of his recap when Truth opened the door for them to exit the apartment. However, at the sound of his gasp in the middle of his conclusion, Truth raised an eyebrow at him.

"I can't believe I almost forgot. We have a new agent!"

Truth emphasized the raised eyebrow with a repeat of the motion as they made their way to the elevator.

"If S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to continue its existence well into the future, I'd sure hope we'd have a few new agents by now."

The elevator had been waiting for them when they arrived. Stepping inside, Truth gave a command and they began to ascend.

"But," Michael said, "this agent is just about as interesting as your recent mission, which everyone is talking about, by the way."

"So I've heard," she said dryly.

And so she continued to hear when they reached their floor and weaved through the moderately packed corridor. It was hard to ignore the thoughts around her when they were all centralized around herself. It seemed as though the news of her success had further solidified the heightened respect and admiration her fellow coworkers already had of her, but there were some who came off a little bit...wary of her return.

Not "wary" in a bad way, because no one at the Triskelion had been afraid or mistrustful of her in years, a fact that she had worked hard to ensure the moment she first stepped into her role as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. when she had turned eighteen.

Rather, it was a wary that had them burning with anticipation. Suspicious, Truth stopped at a corner to face her brother, who no doubt knew what was up.

Michael smirked at her puzzled expression. "I tried to tell you. You might have some competition."

"For what?"

"For being the 'Scariest Agent'. She's giving you a run for your money."

Truth tilted her head curiously.

"Have you met her?"

"Not yet. She spends most of her time with Barton. Doesn't talk or interact with anyone else. I've heard it's like she communicates through glares. Kind of like you, sometimes."

Truth gave him a pointed look, and he raised his hands as if saying, "See?"

"So, you're jealous," she concluded.

Michael was taken aback, and Truth fought back a teasing smile.

"What?! No. Why—"

"I thought Clint was your best friend."

Now he scoffed.

"Well, yeah. Some intimidating, new agent won't change that."

A small smile slipped through her facade.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Michael. It sounds more like she's your competition, but if you need some backup, I'd be glad to have a little talk with her."

Michael sighed, leaning against the wall to shield their conversation from the nosy agents passing by.

"Aftí ínai i Mávri Khíra."
This is the Black Widow.

Truth Castello straightened, her full attention gained just at the name.

The Black Widow was a master spy and assassin. She inspired fear in her prey—when someone told you that the Black Widow was on your tail, there was no time to run. She was ruthless when she needed to be, but practical without overkill. Her skill was an art in the espionage world—anyone in the business knew who she was and just what she was capable of. The redness of her hair was a signature, her body capable of innocence, power, and pleasure.

She always got what she wanted. Never anything less.

She never failed.

Truth had never met her before, but since the first time she'd heard of the Black Widow, she knew one thing:

This woman was her greatest adversary.

And she knew that, should they meet, that only one of two things would happen:

They'd either become enemies—a chaotic clash of matched abilities that spurred endless strife and competition.

Or they'd become partners—a duo so powerful they could bring a king down on his knees.

Of this, Truth was sure. The Black Widow would change her life.

"Ísai sígouros?"
Are you sure?

Michael raised a brow. He didn't have to confirm that for her.

Truth sighed, turning to study Director Nick Fury's office across the hall.

"Polí kalá," she said.
Very well.

Then she turned back to her brother. "How do you feel about lunch?" Before he could start, she gave him a pointed glare. "Not the Canteen."

Michael visibly deflated. "I guess we can go outside then."

With a smile growing on her lips, she patted his cheek affectionately.

"Don't worry, brother. My treat."

As she walked away and knocked on Fury's door, she turned back with a smirk.

"Who knows? You might just remember something else you 'forgot' to tell me."

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

The idea of designating a space for people who worked together—most of which being strangers—to eat as a collective was an odd thing, even for Americans.

Dining rooms and kitchens were understandable for the universal tradition of eating meals with family. Friends could also be an exception, but only if these friends were true and not just out of convenience.

Eating was a private thing. To eat meant to allow yourself to relax, to fulfill the beckonings of your stomach and support the functions of your body. Eating was just as sacred as sleeping, yet the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to think nothing of it.

A few months ago, Natasha Romanoff would rather commit a felony than be forced to sit with her "coworkers" and eat in front of each other as if they enjoyed each other's company.

Well...Natasha Romanoff already had an extensive list of felonies she was responsible for, all for various reasons, but it wasn't like she wanted to be a felon. It was more of a means to an end—the end being her life if she so much as made a false step in the field.

That was another odd thing—the idea that, now, Natasha Romanoff did not have to fight to live. That she could sit at a circular table surrounded by other circular tables occupied by people who laughed and joked in front of other people who laughed and joked and not have to look over her shoulder.

But not having to didn't mean that she didn't. Because trust was not something Natasha Romanoff gave out freely, let alone completely. It had taken her months to get used to the Canteen, and only just recently became comfortable enough to eat there. She never had the food that was served—and, Natasha didn't think she'd ever reach the point where she would ever be fully comfortable eating food she hadn't seen prepared—, but neither did Clint Barton, her only friend.

The only reason she ever came to the Canteen was because of him. Everyday he insisted that she get out of her apartment or give the training room a break in favor of getting something to eat with him. The first time he had suggested it, Natasha had stared at him as though he were speaking one of the few languages she didn't know. Now, it was a tradition: everyday Clint would drag Natasha to his apartment where he would make them lunch (sometimes breakfast if he managed to find her in time), and everyday he would ask Natasha what she wanted even though her answer had been the same for the past two weeks, and everyday they would walk into the Canteen and pick the same table in the upper right corner that was always empty when they got there.

The table had been her pick, as she had insisted that if she had to be tortured in such a way that she at least pick the vantage point. It had become her favorite pastime to people watch, taking the time to examine the other agents she may work with in the future—find out their connections, the way they held themselves, how they interacted with others. The best part was when they'd feel her stare. She could see the moment when they debated turning to meet her head on. She would guess at how long they'd last, and then they would meet her eyes and she would smirk at being right.

She was just about to get the attention of an Agent Kirk when something shifted in her peripheral. Without so much as a glance, Natasha slapped Clint's hand when it got too close to her sandwich and frowned at his shout of surprise. For good measure, she picked the sandwich up swiftly and glared as she took a possessive bite.

Amused, Clint shook his head.

"Are you ever gonna get sick of peanut butter?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow and took another pointed bite before putting the rest of her sandwich down.

"You ever gonna give up your chicken tenders?"

Before he could reply, she moved, reducing his plate to only four, sad nuggets. Clint glared at her as she smirked in triumph, though he was far from upset—in fact, he was more than a little satisfied because at least now she was eating.

Footsteps, which Natasha had expected to walk past them since no one ever dared approach her, came to a stop on Clint's right. Agent Maria Hill, without so much as a greeting, placed her bowl of salad on the table and sat down.

Agent Maria Hill was a woman Natasha respected. Anyone else would've thought twice before sitting with the Black Widow, yet Hill didn't even hesitate. When she passed the other woman in the halls, Hill never lowered her gaze or cowered in Natasha's presence, even going so far as to acknowledge her from time to time.

It wasn't that Natasha didn't like the collective fear the other agents had of her—and she didn't exactly make it easy for them to gather the confidence to stand up to her—but it was nice to know that some people didn't only see Natasha as the Black Widow.

And also, Natasha liked a strong woman, no matter the circumstances.

Clint glanced around curiously before steeling his gaze on Maria, who hurriedly consumed her meal as though she thought it would run away.

"What happened to your shadow?" he asked.

Hill made a noise of annoyance at the reminder. Natasha raised a brow, and Clint addressed her unspoken question.

"You know Agent Castello? Dark hair, odd eyes? I think I told you about that mission we had in London."

Natasha nodded for him to continue, recalling the agent who was also a close friend of Clint's. From what Clint had told her, Agent Castello was an exceptional interrogator and infiltrator. Natasha hadn't seen him yet, but she knew of his code name: Silver Tongue. An enhanced who could force people to do whatever he wanted—a master manipulator with enough high end assassinations under his belt to be considered a threat.

"Yeah," Hill confirmed before turning to Clint. "Now that he can't bother you, he's been tailing me for the last three months. I swear Fury pairs us on missions together just to spite me.

"But," she continued with a sigh, "now that his sister is here, I can get my alone time back. I'm not even sorry for her."

At one point, Clint paused to look at Hill with pure surprise.

"She's back already?"

"What, do you live under a rock?" Hill retorted. "I can't go anywhere in this building without hearing about it. Apparently the Nove Vidas weren't as invincible as they seemed."

At that, Natasha's interest in the conversation peaked, and she turned from where she was watching a poor intern scramble to get the coffee stain off his shirt after he caught her staring to focus more on the two agents at her table.

The Nove Vidas was a dangerous mafia stationed in Salvador, Brazil, with their members almost impossible to identify and even more difficult to gain information from. They were loyal to the bone—interrogation was useless because they'd rather commit suicide or give out a false lead before betraying their "family". Taking them down was doable, but even Natasha would struggle to accomplish it on her own, let alone in such a short amount of time.

"And she did this all on her own?" Natasha questioned.

Hill hummed. "If she's not with her brother, Truth Castello prefers to work alone. You probably know her better as the Siren."

The Siren.

An even better, more well respected spy than Silver Tongue. Natasha had never even realized that they were related, but it made sense in a way.

The Siren inspired just as much fear as the Black Widow, if not more. Her name, like her brother's, came from her...unique ability.

The Siren could reveal any man's deepest, darkest secrets with as little as a friendly smile. No one knew how she did it, but there was simply no resisting her—those who've tried weren't fully sane to tell the tale, if they even survived the effort.

Even without her powers, she was a formidable martial artist. Her knives never missed their mark, and the signature whip she carried, a difficult weapon to master, left little hope for those who opposed her.

When Natasha was younger, better known then as Natalia Romanova, she had heard stories of the Siren. They were a common topic for the Red Room, where surviving was a daily mission, where one mistake could warrant your death.

The Siren had been a potential enemy. If none of Madame B's students could do something as simple as assassinate a president or withstand every interrogation method there is, what hope would they have against the Siren?

Natalia didn't want to die. And so, even an utter of the other little girl who carried out vengeance like the good, silent assassin she was spurred Natalia Romanova to be better than her best.

Because if she wasn't better, the day the Black Widow and the Siren crossed paths would be the day Natalia lost.

And Natalia never lost.

What a coincidence, then, that the two most dangerous assassins in the world would end up pledging themselves to the same government intelligence.

What were the chances that both sinners were saved?

"Maria!"

Natasha came back to herself at the sound of Hill's groan and watched as a young man sat across from her on Hill's left with a bright smile. Their table had never been so crowded.

The man nudged Hill with his shoulder. "Did you hear—"

"Yes," she answered. "Your sister is here and you haven't seen her in months, hence why you should be bothering her instead of me right now."

He sighed and slouched in his seat.

"She had to debrief with Fury..."

It was only then that he noticed Clint at the table, and when his eyes fell on Natasha, he gaped and quickly sat up to extend a hand.

"I'm, uh, Agent Michael Castello."

Natasha glanced at his hand, then studied his face carefully. He was good, she'd give him that, but the reaction of the man in front of her was not the reaction of someone who was the brother of the Siren. He had been aware of her presence since before he sat down, and he knew exactly who she was. He was playing an act, but Natasha did not know what his goal was.

And Natasha didn't like not knowing things.

After a few seconds, Natasha accepted his hand, firmly to get her message across, and held his stare.

"Natasha Romanoff."

Castello raised an eyebrow, and, with an impressed smirk, he let go. Natasha felt as though she'd passed some sort of test.

"Yeah, I heard a lot about you," he said. "You and Clint are like the new duo, right?" Then, gesturing between himself and Clint he added, "He and I are like besties."

Natasha looked at Clint, who faced Castello with a deadpan stare.

Castello shrugged, leaning back to cross his arms. "That's kind of his normal face anyway. He doesn't like to admit it, but he misses me."

Clint only shook his head in exasperation before returning his attention to his food. Satisfied, Castello then moved forward to put his elbow on the table as he whispered to Natasha.

"You know, between us? I don't think you're as scary as they say you are."

Natasha tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she sized him up.

Clint, seeing her look, chuckled.

"Oh, you shouldn't have said that."

"What?" Castello questioned. "She can't be worse than—"

When he turned to look at her again, she was leaning against the table, hands clasped beneath her chin as she fixed her eyes on him in a silent challenge. This close, she could see what Clint meant by his odd eyes, shielded behind curled, dark hair. They almost looked...purple.

Though a minuscule movement, it was hard to miss Castello's flinch at her sudden closeness before he subtly leaned away from her gaze.

She smirked as he began to nod his head.

"Okay," he said. "Eleven out of ten."

Good. That was what Natasha liked to hear.

Having made her point, she got up swiftly with her plate in hand and left. As much as she respected Clint, she felt as though she'd done her duties as a friend by keeping him company for a time.

When it was just the two of them, it was easier. But after a while, she needed a little break from people.

Now it was just her and her sandwich.

𝐅𝐮𝐫𝐲'𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞

"At ease, soldier."

As though released from invisible binds, Truth's muscles eased at the command. With one blink, she came back to herself, full attention on the man in front of her. Keeping her mask in place was second nature, easily shaking off the remnant of the past that had slipped into the present.

After spending five months in relative solitude, reverting back to American society left her feeling slightly disoriented.

It wasn't always easy to be Truth Castello.

Even for Truth Castello herself.

Unclasping her hands from behind her, she crossed the room to sit in one of the armchairs facing the desk, giving her a view of the bustling city, the sun gleaming overhead.

Pity—she'd missed the sunrise.

"Director Fury."

Director Fury's office was a welcome reprieve. She'd spent a lot of time there, whether it was sucking up to the man in charge to prove her loyalty or ripping a new one into him because she was probably the only one in the damn building willing to give Fury crap for the shit he pulled, whether the ends justified the means or not.

Then again, she was also possibly the only one who could do it and not get fired.

Win win.

"Siren," Fury greeted with a steely gaze.

As always, his thoughts were firmly secure behind a reinforced wall, never revealing even a gleam of emotion or a whisper of a fleeting thought. When they'd first met, the discipline had challenged her—she'd wanted to push just to see if she could. Now, it was out of mutual respect that she didn't. Truthfully, such mental barriers in a man who was just that—a man—was remarkable enough to give him that courtesy.

Besides, she didn't need telepathy to tell if someone was lying.

Leaning forward, Truth dropped her file onto his desk. Keeping eye contact, Fury slid the orange folder closer.

"Report."

"The Nove Vidas were a prestigious Brazilian mob operating in the heart of Salvador," she began, "known for their hostility against the government and ill regard for abiding by Brazilian laws or moral aptitude. Police corruption was verified upon arrival. Intel connects the Nove Vidas to drug trafficking, money laundering, a series of bomb attacks, extortion, and human trafficking. Recruitment tactics included forced labor and blackmailing men to work for them by threatening their wives and children. Many had their families kidnapped to heighten the bargain."

Fury's cool professionalism never faltered—he listened to every detail with a calculated assessment. Never in her seven years of knowing him had he ever allowed emotion to get the best of him. He was a steady point, immovable—but, what separated him from her previous handlers was his morality. While he would always understand the necessity of a hard call, the impact of that call wasn't an afterthought nor his first choice of action.

Eventually, Fury began to skim through her file as she continued.

"Upon deployment, the goal was to eliminate the threat. I concluded that the best course of action was subtle infiltration—playing the long-game. Mireia Escobedo made contact with several lower members and worked her way up the hierarchy. In that file, there's a list of every active member I could find, and a separate list of the blackmailed victims. I had gathered intel for three months before I discovered their trafficking system. Women and children, separated from their families, kept in secure warehouses with lack of nutrition, hygiene, and medical care. Many were physically abused. I shut down all five of these sites. Ten small-scale businesses, four corporations, all infiltrated. Two hundred men imprisoned, a hundred dead—either for their lack of humanity or inherit ability to bail out of the justice system—, less than one-fifty men free of servitude, and more than a hundred women and children accounted for. Though I've destroyed their base of operations, there are plenty of other members in several countries conducting the same horrors. Lucky for them, various government agencies have received anonymous tips about these other members, but I wouldn't mind overseeing the cleanup if I have to."

A beat passed, and Fury slowly raised a brow.

"Is that it?" he drawled. "Sure you didn't solve world hunger while you were at it?"

Truth held back a smile.

"If you count the victims I fed and sheltered, then I suppose I did play a small part in that solution."

Fury nodded thoughtfully. He glanced at the paperwork once more before closing it and meeting her eyes.

"And you did all of that in five months?"

Truth tilted her head.

"I'm beginning to feel insulted with this line of questioning, Joseph. I've been working for you for five years, and you've known me for seven—I'd hate for you to start doubting me now."

"Well, you likely just lowered the percentage of crime in Salvador by about ten percent. Every time I think you can't impress me anymore than you have, you go and do it again."

At that, Truth allowed a small smirk, masking the feeling of pride flowing through her at the statement. Impressed wasn't a word she'd heard often.

"Good to know I can still impress you, Boss. Though, your admittance to being wrong about something is concerning. I'd hope you aren't coming down with something." Then, before he could respond, she added, "Do you even get sick? Or is that something else that can't kill you?"

"Ha ha," Fury deadpanned.

When Truth added nothing more and made no move to leave, simply staring at Fury, he raised a brow.

"Got something else to say?"

Truth wasn't one to back down from a challenge.

"I wasn't aware you were looking to recruit the Black Widow."

He didn't ask how she found out.

He didn't even bat an eye.

"Neither was I."

Truth's eye twitched and she regarded the Director curiously.

"Maybe not, but you don't send Hawkeye to kill the Black Widow unless you never wanted to take her off the board."

"You doubting Barton's capabilities?"

"Not at all, Boss," she replied smoothly. "He's an excellent agent, and I've learned a lot from him. But, when you want to kill someone who is unkillable, you go with the course of action that would guarantee success, not simply what's available."

"In other words—"

Truth leaned forward.

"If you wanted to kill the Black Widow, you would have sent me."

It had happened more than once over the last few years. Once word spread that the Black Widow was no longer protected by the KGB, the price for her assassination had skyrocketed. Truth had had multiple offers, not with a small amount of gratuity, and she had to eventually put her foot down. Out of professional respect, she was not interested in ruining whatever element of freedom the red-haired assassin had procured for herself.

More so, her work since then had been impeccable. The men she ruined more than deserved it. Less work for Truth, in her opinion.

"While you're not wrong, it's true I wasn't exactly...excited to hear that the Black Widow had been sitting in a holding cell at one of our European bases. She's caused me one hell of a headache."

Truth let out a small smile.

"At least you can appreciate the fact that I was worse."

"Again...you're not wrong." Then, Fury leaned forward on the desk and clasped his hands. "Is this going to be a problem for you?"

"Not necessarily."

She didn't bring up the competition for her title. That might be a problem.

"Good."

Satisfied with his explanation—if you could call it that, but Truth was skilled in reading between the lines—, she settled into a less formal tone. "You getting soft on the Widow, Joseph? Maybe you have a penchant for taking in wayward assassins."

"Well, how about you tell all of your friends that S.H.I.E.L.D. is not interested in anymore 'wayward assassins'."

"Assassins don't have friends," she chided. "Rather, we have civil colleagues and brutal enemies."

"You gonna make that into a t-shirt?"

Truth thought about it.

"It might fit on a mug."

Fury settled back into his chair. "I'll quote you on it." Then, he lifted up her file in acknowledgment. "Good work, Castello. Think you're ready for Greece yet?"

She had expected this question. Though her mission had finished early, it had been the longest undercover op she'd ever had as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. For her, too much work could be taxing and the Director was well aware of her limits.

"Not the right time of year," she answered. "Though, I'd appreciate it if my next assignment was a bit more local."

Fury gave her a sly smile.

"That I can do. We've also got a new batch of graduates, if you're interested."

Truth leveled him with a look.

"You know I don't like the interns."

"They aren't necessarily 'interns'. And, if you recall, I promised myself to never give you the interns again after they came crying to me after your lessons."

"Oh, they weren't crying. Perhaps mildly unsettled."

"Whatever you want to call it, I didn't like it. Just take the class, Castello, I don't have all day."

Truth pretended to think about for just a moment longer.

"I think I could sit here all day," she commented.

Then Fury leveled her with a glare.

"Get out of my office, Castello. And tell your brother to stop harassing my deputy."

With a satisfied curve of her lips, Truth stood.

"I can tell him, but I can't guarantee he will listen. As you like to say—"

"You Castello's like to do whatever the hell you want," Fury finished. "And whatever the hell you want typically ends with me getting a headache."

"Those headaches are sounding like a problem. Maybe you should see someone for that."

He didn't bother replying, and Truth's grin grew as she headed for the door.

Before she left, she turned to look over her shoulder.

"Word of advice?"

She waited until she was sure she had his attention.

"Don't be the people she ran away from. No one deserves that."

𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Natasha Romanoff couldn't sleep. Again.

Tonight, her body was too awake to sit down for more than five minutes. She had already walked through her apartment seven times, fiddling with the few things she'd left lying around. It was beginning to feel a lot more like her space—she was comfortable here, and comfort wasn't an easy thing for someone like her to find.

She took care of it well. When she'd been cleared to live at the Triskelion, the first thing she'd done was sweep the place for bugs. It had already been furnished—probably a good thing because Natasha didn't know the first thing about decorating—, it had its own laundry machines in the closet across the bathroom, a television she's never used, and a kitchen that was also painfully empty. Three months, and she still hadn't gone to the grocery store. Mostly because she wasn't off her probation yet and she wasn't all that keen on dragging Clint with her while she struggled to accomplish such a mundane task.

Besides, she spent most of her time at his apartment, anyway. She could probably live off of his sandwiches for a little while longer.

By the time she'd made it to ten laps, she'd still found nothing to do and it was only three in the morning.

At that point, sleeping would simply be a waste of time.

Already dressed in leggings and a tank top, Natasha grabbed the hair tie on the counter to contain her curls in a low ponytail and walked out the front door.

Though she wasn't permitted to go outside without Clint, who acted as her probationary agent, she could travel through the building on her own. Any room or floor she wasn't cleared for were restricted to a voice print, and she'd already played her part in cementing her defection to S.H.I.E.L.D. to Director Fury's satisfaction. The rest were mostly formalities according to Clint, though she wasn't too worried.

What S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her in the last few months was more freedom than she'd had her entire life. Even after she'd escaped the Red Room, survival was all she'd ever known.

Of the places she had access to in the building, she only frequented three—the training room, the gym, and the library.

The gym was where she went during the day if she was with Clint. It was usually crowded, and she didn't always fancy the mixed stares sent her way, but Clint insisted she integrate into more public spaces. ("You don't have to actually talk to anyone," he'd say to her complaints, "just don't be a hermit.")

She didn't usually linger in the library—only long enough to brush up on her literature or study new material while Clint filed reports. The training room was her favorite—unlike the gym, it was spacious with padded floors and walls, and it was mostly used to host combat classes for the trainees.

Past midnight, all three were usually empty.

So, whenever Natasha couldn't sleep, she'd pick one of the three.

Tonight, her goal was the training room. She clearly needed to burn off some steam.

Tonight, she walked down the dark hall with a purpose.

Tonight, when she opened the door, she was greeted by a knife hurtling toward her face.

Natasha dodged, turning her head as she caught the knife by its hilt before it could impale the door.

Then there was stillness. Natasha's heart had picked up a bit, because she would be lying if she'd said she wasn't at least a little surprised by the turn of events.

Turning to find the culprit, her gaze met the bright eyes of a dark-haired woman who stood in front of a rack holding various blades.

Truth Castello, as well, would be lying if she'd said she hadn't been caught off guard. Standing there as she fiddled with the knives, testing their weight and the sharpness of the blade, she hadn't noticed the silent hum growing closer. She was used to being the only one roaming their floor at such a late hour. To say she hadn't expected the red-haired woman in front of her was an understatement, and her training had her moving without a second thought.

With less than twenty feet between them, it wasn't hard for either party to recognize the other.

The redness of the Black Widow's hair was unmistakable. It was rich, not like a ginger, but like the finest rose. Her body was muscular—Truth could almost see the pure strength she carried, and she had just witnessed how the Black Widow moved with the speed and grace of someone in perfect control. Even the wisps of her mind were beautiful and intriguing, with not a single stray thought or hint as to what she was feeling reaching Truth's additional senses.

And when she had turned, Truth had to hold her breath, as she had been failed to be informed that the Black Widow was more stunning than she had imagined.

For Natasha, the Siren looked a lot like her brother, after all—or maybe Silver Tongue looked a lot like his sister, because Natasha was sure the woman set the standard for beauty. Pitch black hair ran down her back in waves, her bodysuit accentuating her curves, her light brown skin littered with blemishes in a way that seemed almost purposeful.

And her eyes.

If Silver Tongue's eyes were an almost purple, then the eyes of the Siren were a vibrant violet. Natasha was enraptured, and she wasn't sure how long she would have stared if the other woman didn't break the silence.

"Good catch."

American. But the Black Widow knew that a spy as renowned as the Siren would have mastered several accents, not unlike herself.

A beat passed before the Widow took a step further inside, letting the door close behind her.

"Good throw."

Also American, the Siren noted. But, again, it wasn't hard to shake an accent. The Siren found that she hung onto the Widow's every word, waiting to be graced by the sound of her husky voice again.

The Widow then tilted her head with a little shrug.

"But, you missed."

At that, the Siren relaxed, releasing the tension from her body. Then she raised an eyebrow at the Black Widow.

"Maybe that was the plan."

The Widow took another step forward and held out a hand. Resting on her palm was the knife, handle facing the Siren. The dark-haired assassin studied the Widow closely before taking the blade, careful to not graze skin, and yet the Widow still swore she felt a ghost of a touch brush her hand.

An offering. An acceptance.

Studying the knife before returning it to its rightful place, the Siren said, "I see why you threaten my title."

The Black Widow raised a brow.

"What title?"

"You wouldn't be a good spy if you didn't know what everyone was saying about you."

"I'm not the only person people talk about."

The Black Widow moved now to examine the unloaded guns showcased on the wall to her left, her back now facing the Siren.

"The Siren has a reputation in every country she visits. They say she's a woman who gets what she wants."

"The Black Widow," the Siren began, "is said to prey on her victims in broad daylight, unafraid. She gets in close, strikes where they are most vulnerable."

"The Siren is a shadow—a whisper. She leaves her victims none the wiser."

The Widow turned, eyes once again drawn to the other woman.

"She's efficient—always in control, always finishes with perfection. The world only knows as much about her as she lets it."

A beat passed where they took the opportunity to stare at each other for just a moment longer.

A small smile grew on the Siren's lips.

"You flatter me." Finally, she moved from her spot, taking a few steps to the side as the Widow trailed her every movement. "How did you know?"

The Black Widow smirked.

"You look a lot like your brother."

And just like that, the spell was broken, the tension dispersed—a truce. The Black Widow was once again Natasha Romanoff and the Siren, Truth Castello.

Truth chuckled and lowered her head.

"I take it you met him, then. Tell me, is he anything like the ruthless Silver Tongue?"

Natasha shrugged. "I'm sure it's in there somewhere."

Truth hummed and studied the other woman's face thoughtfully.

"I should've known it was you. Really, there's only one other person besides myself who could rightfully be the 'Scariest Agent'."

"Your brother wasn't yet convinced."

Truth smirked. "I'm sure you set him straight."

"I did."

Silence fell between them, as though they both recognized the weight of the past five minutes. Here, met the Black Widow and the Siren.

Here, their lives were changed.

"What do I call you?" Truth asked.

Here, they were no longer just stories.

"Natasha Romanoff."

Here, they were real.

The day the Black Widow and the Siren met, they met in shadows. And when they stared at each other for the first time, they saw themselves reflected.

A meeting marked by a thrown knife and shared smiles. And their story had only just begun.

Chapter Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

Michael Castello loved the mornings.

A lot of people didn't believe this about him, but it was true.

Michael liked waking up and feeling calm, knowing that the sun was right outside his window should he need a little warmth on a cold day.

Michael liked breakfast—it was his favorite meal of the day because breakfast foods were special. The world said that you couldn't have breakfast any other time of the day. In a way, they were forbidden—and Michael loved forbidden things.

Michael also liked to socialize. Casual conversation and companionship were things he valued, especially when he was surrounded by some of his favorite people.

So, waking up, making breakfast, and eating in the Canteen with a few of his colleagues was one of the best ways he would like to spend his mornings.

It was not, however, the way Truth Castello liked to spend her mornings.

Don't get it wrong—Truth loved the mornings as well. She liked waking up next to her cat, relishing in the silence as she put on a good playlist and prepared a meal for one. Breakfast was also one of her favorite meals, which Michael liked to say was because of his influence.

But, Truth Castello did not like to socialize. She was happier alone, with a couple exceptions, and, granted, her reasoning for wanting to be alone was understandable when you were privy to the thoughts and emotions of everyone within a certain radius.

Because of this, Michael never pushed her too much to go to the Canteen with him. He knew enough people to fulfill his want for casual conversation, and he would usually break into his sister's apartment to see her sometime later in the day anyway.

So, one could imagine Michael Castello's surprise when he saw his sister sitting alone at a table in the Canteen, her feet propped up on the edge. In fact, he did a double take. She was already staring at him with a hint of a smile on her face and gestured with a finger for him to come over.

He set his plate of pancakes on the table and sat on his sister's left before facing her head on.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Truth, undisturbed by his tone of voice, studied the contents of his plate. She picked up his fork to take a bite of his side of eggs.

"Good morning to you, too," she said.

But Michael wasn't going to be easily deterred.

"I thought you didn't like the Canteen."

"I don't," she answered. Taking another bite, she nodded and set the fork down. "This is good."

"Yeah," Michael said, staring at his sister as if she'd lost her mind. "And it's mine."

Truth tilted her head with a pout.

"Don't be like that. I was just making sure it wasn't poisoned."

Needless to say, Michael wasn't very convinced.

At his continued confusion, Truth rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

"If you want it for yourself, maybe you should stop staring at me and eat it before I do."

For good measure, he studied her once more before he took his first bite.

She was right—it was good.

"If you're hungry," Michael said, "why didn't you get yourself something to eat?"

She shook her head, her eyes searching the room now. "I don't intend to stay here that long. I just have some business to address."

Her brother wasn't wrong—she truly didn't like the Canteen. It was too loud, too disruptive of whatever peace she'd had when she'd woken. When she ate, she liked to do it without knowing what Agents Garrett and Braun got up to last night.

Today, though, those thoughts didn't matter. As more people filed in, gaping when they saw her, her smile grew.

Her plan was working perfectly.

"You do know what table we're sitting at, right?" Michael asked in between bites. "Let alone who's seat you're sitting in?"

But then his sister was telling him to shush as she schooled her face, staring down the double doors marking the Canteen's entrance. A second passed, and they opened to reveal the new popular duo.

Agents Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff were in deep discussion about breakfast foods. Natasha didn't want chocolate chips in her pancakes because it was messy, but Clint understood that sometimes messy was worth it. Natasha thought it was better to agree to disagree, but Clint apparently needed to make a point.

Clint, surprisingly, was the first of the two to notice that their table—the table Natasha had picked specifically because she liked it—wasn't empty like it was every other morning. Taken aback, he paused, and then Natasha too followed the trajectory of his gaze to meet a pair of stunning eyes she had met just a day prior. Natasha was positive that the woman somehow looked more perfect sitting in her chair, feet resting on her table with an air of dominance, than she had last night.

"Huh," Clint said. Glancing around, he spotted another empty table not too far away. "I mean, I guess we could sit—"

Natasha handed him her plate without a backwards glance, throwing over her shoulder a command to "keep walking" as she sauntered toward her table.

Clint watched in surprise at first before nodding to himself.

"So, this is happening."

Then he followed behind.

Every agent, intern, scientist, and paper pusher watched as the two agents approached the twins, both eager and nervous to see what would happen. To their knowledge, this would be the first time that the Black Widow and the Siren met, and they wanted to be the one to tell the tale years down the line to their children and grandchildren.

The Black Widow stopped in front of the Siren, and the room waited with bated breath.

A lifetime seemed to have passed by, during which the Siren stared up at the Black Widow with a serene gaze. The Widow's face could only be described as steely.

"You're in my seat."

There was a sharp gasp somewhere in the room. Even Michael Castello looked worriedly at his sister, wondering what she was going to say.

"It doesn't have your name on it," the Siren replied calmly.

"It doesn't have yours either."

Somehow, the tension in the room rose. Clint, close behind Natasha, looked over the redhead's shoulder to give Truth a look of pure confusion, which she ignored.

"Well," the Siren said, lazily trailing her gaze along the Black Widow's form. She looked hot in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, but the Siren was sure that was true for all articles of clothing the Widow wore. "It's under my ass, not yours."

The Black Widow raised an eyebrow.

"For now."

The Siren shrugged.

"For now, you can sit in this one."

With a slight jerk of her foot, the Siren pushed the empty seat beside her in front of the Widow and challenged her with a pointed look.

"Well," Clint said, breaking another lapse of silence, "technically, that's my—"

At the Siren's glare, the archer closed his mouth.

The Black Widow barely glanced at the offering.

"I don't like this one," she said.

The Siren shrugged once more.

"Don't have to."

The Siren hardly finished her sentence when the Widow kicked the chair back, sending it falling on its side with a loud crack. The entire Canteen jumped, save for the Siren.

"I don't want it," the Siren protested calmly.

The Widow nodded towards the chair the Siren sat in.

"I like that one."

"I like this one too."

Then the Widow stepped forward and the Siren lifted her feet from the table to plant them on the floor.

"So," the Widow said in a lower voice, and everyone leaned closer to hear. "What are we going to do about it?"

One.

Two.

The Siren rose. There they stood, only inches apart. Everyone noted that the Siren was slightly taller than the Widow, but was too invested in the scene to study the fact much more.

The Siren then raised a hand, and the room held its breath.

The second plate in Clint Barton's hand flew into the Siren's palm, stirring the Widow's hair. Not a piece of food was disturbed, and the Black Widow never flinched.

And then the spell was broken. Truth took the bacon off the plate before putting it down on the table. She looked at Natasha with a smirk as she took a bite.

"Fair trade," said the woman with the pretty violet eyes.

Natasha glared at her figure as she walked away.

Two could play that game.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦

Truth loved training.

A lot of her free time was dedicated to learning a new martial arts technique, mastering a new weapon, or freestyling. It wasn't necessary for her to refresh what she already knew, and so she mostly sought for ways to improve and expand her skill set.

In addition to training herself, she also enjoyed training others.

It had started with her brother, who didn't have her gift of an exceptional memory. His was better than most, but he still ran the risk of growing rusty. In the years before their careers as agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., they would go to the training room every day and Truth would teach him all that she knew.

Next was Clint Barton. She had caught him practicing archery in the gun range and approached him about a technique she'd learned recently regarding the bow. He didn't believe her at first—because, in his words, "I know every technique there is"—but she had shown him, and he had demanded she teach it to him then and there.

From there, Maria Hill had found out and soon Director Fury visited the training room to watch the twins spar. This was early on in Truth's career as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and she had been very shocked to have gained the Director's attention. He had complimented her skill, and it was then that he had realized that she was more than just her gifts.

Fury told her that he was running short of teachers.

Truth hadn't said no.

And so, that was how Truth came to hosting martial arts classes. She preferred teaching her more experienced colleagues, but sometimes she offered to take on a couple of trainees and teach them the basics. It was the only kind of public service she did, and the trainees always scrambled to get a spot in one of her classes. They didn't usually know who she really was because the other agents only ever told them that she was hot and good at her job.

Let's just say that Truth wasn't the only one in the building who liked giving the trainees a hard time.

In fact, Michael was probably the one who had started the whole movement.

Dressed in the bodysuit she usually wore for training, Truth was busy pulling on her finger-less gloves when the doors opened.

She smirked. Speak of the devil.

"How was breakfast?" she asked without looking up as her brother walked up to her, his footsteps silent in the empty room.

"Awkward," Michael answered. "And that's coming from someone who can charm his way out of any situation."

"I'd beg to differ," Truth muttered under her breath before taking a hair tie off her wrist and handing it to her brother. She moved to sit down in a discarded chair, leaning back so he could begin braiding. "Why awkward?"

Michael scoffed.

"Awkward because Natasha Romanoff glared at me until I left. She probably thinks I was in on it, which I wasn't."

To emphasize this, he tugged on her hair, making her head jerk back. Offended, Truth clenched her jaw and turned to glare at her brother.

"Try that again, and I'll drop your ass on the mat in front of my class."

"Oh," Michael said. He straightened her head so he could continue his work. "So, you're feisty today. Speaking of feisty, seriously, what was up this morning? Are you trying to piss her off?"

Truth shrugged, feigning innocence. "I just wanted to have a little talk." Then she tilted her head back to smirk at her brother. "Can't just let her take my title without defending it, can I?"

"Wow." He pushed her head back down with a hand, and she rolled her eyes. He was having a little too much fun doing that. "You're a worse sore loser than I am."

"I hardly lose. You almost always do. Maybe that's your problem."

"You cheat! Like, more than I do."

Truth laughed, her entire face brightening with the size of her smile.

"And when you cheat you still lose," she sang.

Luckily, Michael had just tied off the end of her braid, giving her the freedom to duck beneath his swat, stand up, turn, and kick her chair into his leg with another laugh.

"Get out of my training room," she demanded, though the amusement in her voice lessened the strength of the command. "How am I supposed to scare the new kids if you keep making me laugh?"

"Come on, I'm five months behind," he complained, though he did begin to back away towards the exit. "I bet that was the first time you laughed this year."

Truth gave him a look. "One, that's not true, and two, even if it was, we're only three weeks into the year so far. I'm not that bad."

Michael raised his hands in surrender.

"If you insist."

Truth made sure to throw a blue stress ball at him on his way out.

As the trainees began to file in, Truth watched from one of the overhead metal beams that ran across the room about twenty feet off the ground. This was her usual method of starting her classes, especially if she had never taught anyone in the group before.

Her students came in little cliques of two or three, suggesting that they had all been accepted from the same program. They were familiar with one another, which meant she'd have to be stricter for them to be quiet and pay attention.

The class, overall, consisted of twelve students. Not too big, which was good because Truth noted that they'd need more one-on-one attention. Eight males, four females. As usual, the young men were rowdy, teasing the women with flirtatious jokes, which were staved off with eye rolls and playful shoves. It was easy to spot the bad boy, the studious girl, the jokesters, the secluded. It took her less than a minute to profile all of her students, and by the time she was done, a smirk had settled on her face.

This was going to be fun.

She dropped down into the middle of the makeshift circle they had created, and their conversations cut off with sharp gasps and even a few stumbles as a few of the young men jumped back at the sudden sight of her.

Unimpressed, she raised an eyebrow.

"If this were the real deal, you'd all be dead," she informed them as she straightened out of her crouch. She turned to meet every set of eyes, projecting her voice to make sure it was heard.

"It doesn't matter where you are, or who you're with..."

Her gaze stopped on Mr. Troublemaker, who had quite the smirk on his face for someone who was still sitting flat on his ass. Giving him an apologetic smile, Truth offered him a hand.

"...your guard always stays up."

He was only halfway up when she let go and swiped a leg at his feet, landing him on his back.

"You're not here to make friends, Lawson. Get off your ass and get to your spot."

The goal of the day was defense. Basic defense. Unfortunately, basic wasn't basic enough for all of her students, so Truth had to break it down.

She walked them through the three-step rule: seize, control, disarm. It was easier in theory than in practice, so she focused specifically on the push-pull principle. Pull on the wrist, push on the weapon.

Lawson scoffed.

"That doesn't sound too hard."

Famous last words.

For the second time that day, Lawson fell on his ass.

"Anyone else want to try?"

No one volunteered.

"Romanoff?" she questioned, and her students followed her gaze to the redhead who leaned against the wall by the door, watching with interest. Truth had known the moment she had slipped into the room not ten minutes ago, though the same couldn't be said for her students. "Anything you'd like to add?"

Natasha did, in fact, have something to add. At the opening, a half-smile formed on her lips as she sauntered into the lower, padded area, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room with every sway of her hips.

"Push-pull is good, Castello," she said, grabbing one of the wooden poles leaning against the wall with a shrug. "I just always consider the thumb technique to be more...efficient."

Truth raised an eyebrow. "I don't disagree, but it's not the easiest to grasp for a beginner."

"Oh, come on," Natasha drawled, before turning to face the class with a sultry wink. "Give them a little credit."

Natasha could feel Truth's hard stare settled on the side of her face and smirked.

Truth knew what the redhead was doing—she wasn't stupid, after all. From what Natasha had already observed, the dark-haired agent preferred to play the role of "hard ass" in front of her students (and looked hot while doing it too). Add in a little good cop into the scene, and Natasha would already be a fan favorite.

Now, Natasha had no interest in stealing Truth's place as a teacher, but she just thought she'd make things a little bit difficult for her. After all, she didn't get to eat her bacon that morning.

Debating her choices, glancing at her class who already watched Natasha with sparkling eyes, Truth clenched her jaw and threw her pole aside.

"Fine," she said before she addressed the trainees. "For those of you interested, Romanoff and I will teach you the thumb technique. The rest of you, I want you practicing against each other. I will be assessing you one-on-one before the end of class."

Truth demonstrated the new technique a few times on Natasha before instructing them to walk through the moves a few times on themselves. The two older agents observed as the trainees stumbled over themselves. They called out their mistakes until they were few and far in between.

"They're still a little sloppy," Truth commented to the agent beside her. Natasha shrugged.

"Not perfect, no. That's why they practice."

Truth's eyes were drawn to a duo attempting Natasha's technique. Wells and Harris, two females she believed had promise. Still, Wells, couldn't quite seem to get Harris' weapon out of her hands.

Nodding toward them, Truth said, "Still think it's better?"

Following her gaze, Natasha shrugged again.

"I never said it was easier than push-pull. I just said efficient."

"Efficient: 'performing or functioning in the best possible manner with the least waste of time and effort,'" Truth quoted. "Easy: 'causing or involving little difficulty or discomfort'. Relatively the same thing."

Natasha's eyebrows furrowed and she turned, but Truth continued to stare at the students.

Did she just—

A hint of a smile pressed at Truth's lips.

"Yeah, I did."

Then, she turned to face Natasha.

"How do you feel about a little more competition?"

That was how Natasha and Truth ended up standing in the center of twelve trainees, both women armed with a wooden staff.

The rules were simple: each trainee had to pick an agent to spar against using the technique that respective agent had coined. Truth was push-pull, Natasha was thumb. Whoever disarmed one of the agents first would get a free one-on-one lesson with Truth in the future. They had been a little disappointed when no lessons were offered with Natasha, to Truth's displeasure, but had nevertheless been motivated to do their best.

However, unbeknownst to the students, Truth and Natasha had an alternative goal between them:

One assassin had to beat all of her opponents before the other.

They had planned it so they'd each have six students between them, and they had even given the students the added "advantage" of teaming up and continuously jumping into the fight so long as they could still get up.

Let's just say that they all thought their odds were pretty good.

How very wrong they were.

Because Truth had knocked each of her opponents down at least three times within the first minute, and the young men fighting Natasha had to take a few beatings before realizing that they couldn't both stare at her breasts and stay on their feet.

The first one out fell face first on the mat when Truth sidestepped his overconfident tackle. When he didn't get up within five seconds, Truth called it out.

"Ruiz!" Duck, trip, throw. Two more fell down but quickly got back up. "You're dismissed."

Next were two trainees who thought they could surprise Natasha from behind. She quickly put that notion to rest when they fell on top of each other in a heap on the mat.

"Walsh, Martinez! Out!"

As she defended herself against three on her left, someone pulled Truth's wrist. Truth twisted, using the momentum to swing the end of her pole and sweep her offender off their feet.

"Gotta work on your guard, Wilkinson."

After sending three students stumbling, another grabbed Natasha's armed hand and attempted to press down hard on her thumb. The redhead gave the young woman a second before switching the pole to her left and knocking the student down breathless.

"Nice try, Wells."

Lawson got up, heaving as he stared Truth down before running at her with a battle cry. Truth dropped down to a knee, holding her pole horizontally over her head and using it to send Mr. Troublemaker tumbling over her shoulder. In the same move, she made a sharp turn left, sending her pole into the gut of another student aiming to run at her while she was distracted.

"I'm surprised you lasted this long, Lawson," she commented before glancing at her other victim. "Sorry, Sutton. I'd put some ice on that."

As of now, Truth was down to two and Nastasha to three. Less than three minutes had passed since they had started, and neither assassin was breaking a sweat.

"McCall! I'd leave while you still can."

"Walk it off, Campbell."

"Hodge, you're done. Your Bambi legs aren't going to get you anywhere."

And then, both were down to one.

Harris' dark hair was plastered to her face, and Miller wasn't looking all too hot either. Still, they got up one last time.

"Guard your left, Harris," Truth instructed. "Elbows down."

Nastasha ducked under Miller's punch, feeling the whoosh of air at the force behind it.

"Nice swing, Miller..."

Sliding on her knees, she twisted to the left, swinging her pole around to trip him. He hit the mat with a thud, and she shrugged.

"...but, next time, don't miss."

Within two more seconds, Truth had Harris on her back. Both agents waited, but when neither got up, they gave each other a look of puzzlement.

Then Natasha threw her pole aside.

"Mine fell first," she answered for the both of them. Then she walked out of the room, Truth's gaze glued to the movement of her hips.

Looking down at what was the remainder of her students, she sighed.

Damn. Now they were tied.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦

That same night, Natasha walked into the training room.

This time, she wasn't greeted by a knife, but the scene she'd walked in on didn't exactly put her at ease.

Because, laying on the mats they had fought on earlier, was Truth. Throwing knives again, yes, but at herself.

Natasha took a sharp breath as the dark-haired assassin tossed a six-inch blade up into the air and watched as it fell back down, point aimed straight at the middle of her stomach. But, last minute, when Natasha thought that maybe she'd have to see the death of yet someone else she was beginning to see as more than just a rival, a mistake she had made with too many of the other girls she'd been forced to kill, Truth made a gesture with her hand and the knife flew back up into the air without a single touch.

Truth knew she had messed up the second she felt the fear from the other woman, fear so powerful that Truth had almost taken her eyes off the knife she had been practicing with. In the several hours since she'd met Natasha, Truth had never felt a single inkling of her mind until now. Stunned, Truth quickly stopped herself before she could look further into the origin of the redhead's fear, allowing Natasha the time to throw up her usual mental walls and regain her composure.

Truth knew trauma when she felt it, and she had never expected Natasha Romanoff, a graduate of the Red Room, to be free of it. Though Truth had never felt the effects of those walls first-hand, Natasha wasn't the first KGB assassin she'd known.

She'd been caught up in her thoughts again. Even with their encounter the previous night, Truth was just so used to being alone at this time that she didn't think anything of what she was doing. She had complete trust in her abilities to do what she just did and feel completely safe, but she wouldn't even have done that in front of her brother.

Using her telekinesis, she picked up the other knives she had discarded around her and directed them, slowly, to their places on the rack. Natasha watched, her body tense, and Truth feared that she had ruined something that had hardly began.

"I..." Natasha licked her lips, her voice hoarse. "I didn't know you could do that."

Standing, feeling uncomfortable at the idea of practicing with her abilities now, Truth hid her hands in the thin pockets of her leggings.

"Not many people do."

Natasha closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to control her racing heart. Truth waited patiently, standing completely still until the other woman raised her head, her green eyes hiding a history of horrors, and spoke again.

"Do you come here every night to train?"

Truth shrugged.

"Not always to train. And there are a few other places I like to go to, depending on my mood."

Natasha wanted to hear more about these other places, but Truth was already saying something else.

"I didn't take you for a teacher."

A brief flicker of a smile.

"I don't take myself for one, either. Today was more of a means to an end."

Truth tilted her head, her lips curving up at the corners.

"Sorry about your bacon."

Natasha shrugged, moving now to one of the storage closets that sat at the back of the room.

"'Sorry' doesn't bring it back."

"Never does," Truth replied easily. "But, I'll make it up to you."

Studying the assortment of weaponry, Natasha debated.

"Should I take your word for it?"

"People usually do."

While Natasha rummaged through the choices, Truth decided she'd spend the rest of her night working on her core and settled into a headstand.

When Natasha walked into her field of view a few moments later, Truth raised a brow.

"A kusarigama? Never thought you'd be into chains."

Natasha smirked as she began to swing the weighted chain lightly to test its weight, the sickle end in her right hand before switching it to her left.

"I wouldn't use one in the field, but they're fun to play with."

Truth forced back a smile, moving from a headstand into a handstand without issue.

Turns out they both loved a good double entendre.

"You know," Natasha started after a few minutes. By then, Truth was still in her handstand with her legs split evenly in a line. "There's something I've always been meaning to ask you, even before we met."

Truth was curious. People hardly asked her questions, mostly out of fear rather than respect, and when they did, it was almost always about what she could and couldn't do. And, especially when it was about her powers, it was like most people didn't know how to ask things the right way.

But, when Natasha Romanoff admitted to wanting to ask Truth Castello a question, she didn't even hesitate when she said yes. Because she knew the other woman would be nothing but respectful, just as they had respectfully approached each other the night before despite the rocky beginning.

It was like, although they'd known each other for barely a full day, they understood one another like they understood themselves.

Two broken assassins looking for forgiveness.

"Ask me."

"What made you pick the whip?"

Caught off guard, Truth tilted her legs down in a slant until her left foot touched the mat, alleviating some weight off her arms, and glanced at Natasha.

She was beautiful with the kusarigama. She moved with grace and power with every swing of her arm, the way she twirled the chain over her leg and caught it with her other hand in fluid movement. It was then that Truth realized the Black Widow didn't have a signature weapon. She was fluent in all instruments of death.

Why did she pick the whip? Truth had to shift through her memories to find the answer because, to her, there was no question for the feeling of rightness that engulfed her every time she picked up her weapon of choice.

Because it had been just that. Her weapon of choice.

"It was the first thing I'd ever decided for myself."

The clean slices through the air slowed until they stopped, descending the room into silence. Truth brought her legs up again before completing a half-cartwheel and landing on her feet, the blood rushing down from her head.

"I like knives a lot, but you can only throw so many before you run out," she explained, "so I had to pick something else. Now, don't get me wrong, I can fight with anything, but everyone has their preferences. My brother likes guns. For me, they're too noisy, too...distant, and I'm a sucker for a good martial arts technique. The whip compliments my preferred style—latigo y daga—as well as my abilities. Not many people know that it's a decent weapon for combat."

Natasha listened intently. It was, so far, the longest she's heard Truth talk about something, let alone so passionately.

She hadn't meant for her question to delve into something so personal, however. They had done a good job avoiding most personal things already, but it seemed that Natasha had to mess it up, just as she had feared.

But...Truth never would have answered if she didn't want to.

"I think," Natasha said, "that if I had had the choice, I would've picked...well, I have a few favorites. Baton, bo staff, spear."

Truth hummed.

"You like the option of range as well, then."

"I suppose I do."

The quiet they fell into this time was thoughtful. Truth longed to know more and Natasha debated if she'd gone too far.

"I can leave."

With how often Natasha Romanoff seemed to catch Truth Castello by surprise, you'd wonder if the latter were even a telepath.

"You can stay."

"This is your space," Natasha argued. "I shouldn't have came back."

"If I didn't want you here, I would've thrown another knife at you when you came through the door, and I wouldn't have missed."

Natasha tried. But, she couldn't hold back a smile.

"So, you admit that you missed?"

Truth ducked her head as her lips, too, began to curve of their own accord.

"How else were you supposed to come back?"

Chapter Text

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Truth woke up at three a.m. feeling a little hungry and perhaps too energized for someone who only slept four hours.

Though, four hours were not only a sign of a good night's sleep, but also a rather healthy amount for someone like her. Truth only relied on sleep to heal either mentally or physically, the latter being uncommon and the former only if she pushed the usage of her gifts too much.

It was why she was always too bored to stay in her apartment past a certain time, and it was why she and Natasha continued to see each other every night without fail.

Today, Truth decided to start her night with a little mental exercise, humming to herself as invisible tendrils rummaged through her kitchen to prepare a bowl of cereal.

Telekinesis was the most difficult to master, unlike her other abilities. She was a natural with her telepathy, having developed techniques to keep the voices out of her head and done enough research on the brain to navigate one as fluently as she would the halls of the Triskelion.

Her more unique ability, known formally as truth inducement, was more instinctive. For the most part, it remained dormant until it flared up in response to a falsity. The strength of the lie played a factor in the strength of her response: little fibs and half-truths wouldn't so much as tickle her, but being lied to directly, especially if she had asked a question and expected an answer, would result in a buildup of energy that was difficult to disperse if she didn't want to injure the liar. Sometimes the little lies stacked up over time like paper cuts, and the energy would begin to surge over her like a second skin, bubbling and ready to boil over.

This energy, when released, was what caused the "inducing" effect. Most people couldn't resist it if they tried. And, if they did, they would choke on the words caught in their throat.

Truth had techniques to control this as well, but sometimes the inevitable happened. She had options for when it got particularly bad.

The problem with her telekinesis, however, was that it didn't always emerge as boldly as her other powers. When she was younger, she hadn't even known she'd been capable of it until her uncle had pointed it out to her after one of her bad days. It certainly explained the amount of damage she could inflict under emotional distress.

And, when Truth Castello didn't know how to control something, she practiced until it was perfect. It had been difficult at first, but now telekinesis came almost as easily to her as her own telepathy.

But, ease didn't mean she'd mastered it. Telekinesis required a concentration that was different from her other abilities. If something was particularly heavy, it weighed on her mentally. Moving too many things at once sometimes gave her migraines. Her goal was to build her mental strength enough to surpass these limitations and eventually reach new ones.

Usually, she'd train her telekinesis during her daily midnight visits to the training room, but the continued appearance of Natasha Romanoff had decidedly cut down a lot of Truth's training. Truth normally refrained from using her powers in front of the other agents, but now she was particularly careful in front of Natasha ever since their second midnight encounter. She didn't want to make the redhead uncomfortable, especially with how close they'd grown in the past few weeks.

Besides, she also considered her gifts a private thing. She only ever used them casually around a select amount of people, and she was most comfortable using them in secluded places.

So, now that she had less time to practice, she tried to use her telekinesis as much as possible inside her apartment. That included cleaning, cooking, or whatever hobby she'd recently taken up. She usually did this while doing other things, teaching herself to multitask with perfection.

Tonight was no different. So, while she mentally walked through the motions of taking the milk out of the fridge and pulling the cereal box out of the cupboard, she strolled aimlessly through her apartment, stopping to browse through her overcrowded bookshelf as she thought about her task for the night.

Truth and Natasha would always go to the Training Room with their own goals in mind. Sometimes they were so caught up in their tasks that they didn't even utter more than a few words to one another.

Other times, they'd talk for hours.

"What language was that?" Natasha had asked one night. Truth had been polishing a few of her favorite combat knives when she'd accidentally poured too much of the metal polish on a blade while watching the redhead walk through moves with a katana. Irritated, Truth had muttered a curse in Greek and Natasha had overheard.

They'd broached the topic of languages once before. Natasha often cursed in Russian, and Truth would reply with something sassy in response:

"Moči perhoti!"
dandruff urine

"Hm. Skažite mne èto po-anglijski."
say it to me in English

"Zatknisʹ."
shut up

This had been the first time the roles were reversed, but Natasha had found to her surprise that she hadn't recognized the language spoken.

"It was Greek. Russian and English aren't the only languages I'm fluent in."

"And how does one find the need to be fluent in Greek?"

"I was born in Greece," Truth had revealed. "It's one of the first languages I learned."

Natasha had hummed thoughtfully.

"Tiếng Nga và tiếng Anh cũng không phải là những ngôn ngữ duy nhất mà tôi biết."
Russian and English aren't the only two languages I know, either.

Vietnamese.

"To kan spille det spillet, Widow."
Two can play that game, Widow.

Norwegian.

Turned out Truth was fluent in three more languages than Natasha—not including Malay, which Natasha had protested that she knew enough to handle herself in a conversation—while Natasha was fluent in Farsi and Truth was not. This put their tally for their little competitive games at two to one, to Truth's satisfaction.

Smiling fondly at the memory, Truth's gaze fell on one of her Greek books. Most of it was in English, detailing the sites and histories of her country, but there was a lot of Greek vocabulary sprinkled inside its pages. An idea flitted through her mind, and without debate, she picked up the aging volume and grabbed her cereal on her way out the door.

Truth always found herself in the training room before Natasha. At first it wasn't on purpose, but then Natasha had pointed it out and Truth had made an effort to do it just to get under the other assassin's skin.

Once, Truth had left a note for Natasha in the Training Room. Natasha had picked it up with a frown.

Come find me :)

Thinking, Natasha had remembered one of their earlier conversations in this room:

"Do you come here every night to train?"

Truth shrugged.

"Not always to train. And there are a few other places I like to go to, depending on my mood."

Natasha had started with the library and the gym before she walked aimlessly around the floor, knowing the other woman wouldn't have gone far. She'd almost walked right pass the laboratory when she had heard movement within. She'd stepped inside to find Truth working diligently on an item on the desk in front of her.

"Well, this certainly wasn't my first guess."

Truth had given her a small smile, though she didn't look away from her task.

"I'm only ever here for personal projects. I'd list it as my...fourth favorite place in the building."

Natasha had stepped closer, looking over Truth's shoulder to see what she was doing.

"What's all this?"

"New whip I'm working on."

She had pressed a button on the metal cylinder she had been fiddling with, and a braided, leather rope extended out one side. Natasha had stepped around Truth to stand on her left and observe.

"It's beautiful," Natasha had commented truthfully. She had been careful not to touch, but she could tell that the material was expensive. "What leather is this?"

"Custom kangaroo hide. The inside belly I made out of metal links. Don't ask how, but I managed to get enough vibranium to make it. I've tried making it with other metals, but it was too heavy to be as flexible as it needed to be."

Truth had picked up the leather end and bent it in a couple directions for Natasha to hear the faint clicks of vibranium metal. The hide was so tightly braided that she wouldn't have known the metal was there otherwise.

"This workmanship is perfect," Natasha had admired. "Did you braid it yourself? Must've taken a while."

Truth had shrugged and given Natasha one of her sly smiles.

"Well, I had five months of free time on my hands," she'd admitted. "I didn't spend all of it hunting the mafia."

Natasha had shaken her head in amusement. Only Truth Castello would get bored hunting the Brazilian mafia.

"So, what are the vibranium links for?" Natasha had asked. "Not just for the satisfying clicks it makes, I hope."

Truth had lightly hit Natasha's hand with the thin end of the whip. It was so gentle that Natasha had hardly felt it, and she'd wondered at the complex duality of Truth Castello, the gentle assassin.

"No," Truth had said. "I had this idea of different uses of whips, right? Your regular snake whip could cause some flesh wounds with the right amount of speed and force, but other times it works better with a stun or blunt attack. Perfect if you only want to incapacitate your opponent, but what if you didn't?"

Natasha had raised a brow.

"Isn't that why you have a knife as your second weapon? Incapacitate, then go in for the kill."

"And what if my knife is dislodged in the limb of some other idiot who decided to attack? Sure, I usually have five more, but if I'm fighting a lot of people at once and I run out, what then?"

Natasha had held back a smile.

"Alright," she'd given in. "What then?"

Then Truth had flashed her a brilliant grin, one that Natasha had become quite addicted to during their midnight hang outs. It was one that never failed to make Natasha smile, too, despite herself.

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Romanoff. Watch and learn. You might also want to step back, because I don't want to be responsible for any injuries."

Natasha had done as she'd been told, and Truth had pressed the button on the metallic handle once more. Suddenly, sharp, little blades shot out of the leather braid, creating what looked like a barbed tail. Natasha's brows had risen in surprise.

"I'm impressed," she had admitted. "Unsuspecting, but deadly. My favorite combination." Then she had looked up at the other agent. "I never took you to be an engineer."

Truth had chuckled.

"I'm no Tony Stark. I know enough to get by, but only enough to suit my own needs." She'd looked down and placed her hand on the handle of the whip. "This, after all, took me about six months and I'm still not done. I'm looking into adjusting the length for different purposes and I'm still thinking about adding an optional extension to the handle to make a dual weapon of a whip and a baton."

Natasha had hummed, watching Truth closely as she spoke. The redhead truly admired the woman beside her. She had a passion for what she did, and an intellect that made her so much more than just a trained killer.

Natasha wondered what it was like, to have another purpose in life. She could only ever imagine herself being what she always was. The Red Room had stripped her bare, taking away her choices, her wishes and hopes.

And even now, Natasha couldn't bring herself to entertain such thoughts about choices. She couldn't wonder because she had too much to atone for before she could ever be someone else.

Natasha Romanoff could do a lot of things, but she could and would not pretend her past was behind her. The least she could do for the multitude of innocent lives she'd ended was live with the guilt and regret and work to hopefully save enough lives to flush out the red in her ledger.

Truth Castello wouldn't have been a very good spy if she hadn't noticed how quiet Natasha had grown. She had been despondent, lost in her thoughts, only replying to Truth with nods or hums, and Truth thought that she'd never seen more of herself in the woman beside her than in that moment.

Truth wasn't the type of person to share. In fact, she was quite particular about who handled her things, and that was even more true for her weapons. And, although a ball of unease had formed in her gut at what she was about to do, she had only thought about how she didn't ever want to see the haunted look that had graced Natasha Romanoff's face that night again. It had reminded her of that second meeting, when she'd stared at Truth, locked in place by her fear. It had reminded her of when she was sixteen and had just escaped the clutches of an organization she'd known for the majority of her life, too caught in between worlds to ever believe she'd be truly free.

In that moment, Truth Castello's heart had ached for Natasha Romanoff and she couldn't even have stopped herself from moving if she had tried.

Careful not to touch the other woman, Truth had placed the silver handle of her whip in Natasha's palm, the coldness of the metal jolting her enough to bring focus to her stunning green eyes.

"You wanna test it out?" Truth had offered. Natasha had stared at her, confused because she knew firsthand how important a weapon was to its owner.

"Why would you—"

"Romanoff," Truth had interrupted, voice serious to make her point. "I wouldn't have asked."

And Natasha had continued to stare at her. Truth Castello, the gentle assassin.

What an oxymoron, she'd thought. The woman beside her was a mystery—a complete, riveting mystery—and Natasha didn't think she'd ever want to know one person as much as she wanted to know Truth Castello.

And so, that night, Natasha had taken her offering. An offering and an acceptance, much like the first night they'd met.

However, on this particular night, lost in memories, Truth Castello was surprised to find that Natasha had beat her to the training room.

"Did you even sleep?" Truth questioned, slightly miffed that they were tied again in their little games as she laid down on her stomach beside Natasha, who was skimming through a S.H.I.E.L.D. manual.

"I got a few hours," the redhead mumbled distantly, her blue ink pen resting on the corner of her lips, her brows slightly furrowed in thought. Truth watched, wondering how one person could be so stunning without even trying. "Clint said I needed to familiarize myself with S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols, but I think I underestimated how much of a headache this would be. What is it with S.H.I.E.L.D. and their acronyms?"

Truth leaned over her bowl of cereal to see what Natasha was looking at, careful not to hover too closely to the other woman.

"Oh, P.A.N.C.A.K.E.S. is my favorite. It's 'Persuasive Authority Needed for Cause and Armed with Knowledge of Extraction Strategy.'"

"No," Natasha said sarcastically. "I thought it was 'Promptly Abort, Nauseated Condition, Absolve Killing Essential Suspect.'"

Truth laughed.

"Yeah, I'm sure that assumption had you stumped for an hour or two."

Natasha hit her with her pen.

"I still don't believe that you didn't make yours up. What does that even mean?"

"Basically, send someone in to recruit a possible ally and devise an extraction plan. I'm pretty sure the only time it was ever used was when S.H.I.E.L.D. took me and Michael in."

At that Natasha raised a brow, not particularly because of the information itself, but rather that Truth had even mentioned it. Natasha felt as though Truth and Michael's defection to S.H.I.E.L.D. had been just as lovely as her own.

Budapest had truly been a hot mess.

"Hm," Natasha said, looking back at the manual as Truth continued eating her Lucky Charms. "Wonder if Clint ever used it."

She didn't have to say for me. Truth heard it anyway.

"I doubt it," she replied, her voice softer as though afraid of breaking the fragile topic. "One, he doesn't like extraction plans, and two, he tends to be pretty persuasive all on his own."

That, Natasha could agree with. She still wondered how he got her out, how he managed to break through every lesson she'd had drilled into her head and convince her to leave her country willingly. She wondered if, maybe, she'd already had her doubts and Clint had only said everything she had already known deep down.

Regardless, she owed Clint Barton her life. Because, that's what he did that day—he'd saved her, and she would spend every day after the fact paying her unending debt to him.

Natasha nodded to the graying green book laying on Truth's right.

"What's that?"

Truth smiled, grabbing the book and handing it to Natasha.

"Your first lesson in Greek."

When Natasha didn't take it from her, instead fighting to hold back an amused smile, Truth raised a brow at her.

"Come on," she goaded, shaking the book in front of her. "You know you want to."

With an attempt to look annoyed, Natasha grabbed it.

"Whatever. Does this mean I get one-on-one lessons with Ms. Castello?"

Truth scrunched her nose, and Natasha thought it was pretty cute.

"Ew. Don't call me that."

"Then what do I call you, Professor?"

Truth threw Natasha's pen at her head.

"Ow," Natasha complained.

"You're fine, Widow. Now, if you ever hope to have a full conversation with me in Greek, you'd better get to work."

"Yes, ma'am."

The second pen throw was expected.

Truth was a good teacher. Natasha had already known that, of course, but it was different when she was the budding student. For the most part, Natasha read to herself until Truth described the pictures of artifacts, their histories and their connection to the modern Greek language that was used today. Natasha listened intently, repeating the words Truth taught her with ease.

When Truth left in between their lesson to get a second bowl of cereal ("the lack of marshmallows in this serving could only be forgiven with another offering from the leprechaun," whatever that meant) and came back, Natasha broached a topic she'd been wondering for a few days now.

"I haven't seen you in the Canteen. Not since that first day."

Truth shrugged.

"Too loud."

Natasha tilted her head in acquiesce.

"Touché."

The only reason Natasha still went was because of Clint. But, lately, Michael Castello and Maria Hill came by to sit at their table to talk as if they were like all the other agents laughing and joking with each other.

Almost like they were...friends.

After a while, Natasha found that she kind of liked the feeling, and after their supposed "first meeting" in the Canteen, Natasha had been rather disappointed that Truth Castello hadn't shown herself since then. She'd only ever seen the other assassin during their little midnight hang outs.

One time she had asked at breakfast, and Michael had given her the same answer as Truth had given her just then. But, if Natasha had to sit through it, she didn't see why she couldn't at least endure it with someone she wanted to get to know better.

And, maybe she didn't want the other assassin to be left out. That was nice, right?

"Still," Natasha said. "I think we can only deal with your brother by ourselves for but so long."

Truth thought about it, though she was sure that her own reasons for wanting to avoid the Canteen were a little different than Natasha's. Stopping by once or twice was okay, but after a while it got overwhelming. Because, while Truth was good at blocking out the thoughts around her, it was a little more difficult to do so in a small, crowded room where everyone was already talking over each other.

But...Natasha Romanoff was practically asking her to go. And Truth didn't see the harm, especially when she hadn't had a bad day in months.

"I suppose I could be there," Truth replied.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

Natasha was the only one at the table when Michael Castello walked in.

"Morning, Natasha," he greeted with a knowing smirk.

This was something he did almost every morning.

"That's Romanoff to you," she corrected impassively, watching Clint as he walked back to the table—he'd, unfortunately, forgotten the syrup.

"Natasha," Clint greeted, holding up his prize as though it was an offering. Natasha quirked her lips and took the bottle.

"Thank you."

"So, he can call you Natasha," Michael said, "but I can't?"

"Clint is my friend," she explained. "And he made me waffles."

"We're not even friends?!" He shook his head. "And all this time I thought we were overcoming our differences."

"I don't even know how we're friends," Clint admitted, gesturing between himself and Michael. "It's like you grow on people. Like a fungus."

"That kind of hurts. I'd like to think that I'm, like, the dog you never wanted to have but secretly adore. Or like—"

"How about moss?" Natasha suggested. "Or a weed?"

"...No, I was thinking more like—"

The voices in the room died down, almost as if they were silently announcing the presence of Truth Castello. They were shocked, muttering to themselves because this was the second time that the dark-haired agent had graced the Canteen with her presence in two weeks.

That had to be a new record.

She walked over to their table, eyeing the chair Natasha had her feet propped up on, the challenging look on Natasha's face an invitation. However, Truth decided she wasn't in the mood to start anything that morning and sat on her brother's left.

"Romanoff," she greeted curtly. "Clint."

"Castello," Natasha returned in the same tone. After all, they had roles to play in the eyes of the many, though Natasha would miss their shared smiles for a time.

"Ha," Michael said to his sister. "You're not her friend."

Truth raised a brow.

"What makes you say that?"

"Only her friends get to call her Natasha."

Truth wrinkled her nose at him as she picked at her eggs with a fork.

"I've told you to stop calling people on a first-name basis. It's weird. Not everyone likes you."

"You like me."

"I'm forced to like you. To everyone else, you're like...a mold that grows on them."

Clint laughed, and even Natasha ducked her head to hide her smile.

"Mold is a good one," Clint said. "I called him a fungus."

"Oh, come on, guys," Michael complained. "Maria lets me call her Maria."

"No, she doesn't," Clint corrected. "Every time she tells you to stop, you just keep doing it anyway."

"Truth calls her Maria."

She waved a hand at him dismissively.

"Don't bring me into—what the hell?!"

In a fluid movement, Truth sat up in her seat and pulled on her brother's arm, which was blocking her view of his plate.

More specifically, what was on his plate.

"Tú pinche estúpido," she cursed. "You broke into my apartment. Again. And you stole my french toast. ¿Sabes cuánto tiempo busqué eso esta mañana?"
You fucking idiot...Do you know how long I looked for that this morning?

Michael didn't say anything. In fact, he was maybe a little bit scared because his sister only spoke in Spanish when she was particularly angry.

And now that Michael thought about it, she hadn't been in a good mood not two minutes ago when she had walked in. Her voice had been particularly uninterested, she had played with her food (which she never does because if she wasn't hungry she wouldn't have made it in the first place), and though they had been joking, Truth had been distracted because she hadn't noticed Michael's plate at all, something she would've picked up immediately on a good day.

Whatever was causing this emotional response, it certainly wasn't the french toast. Truth's anger was misplaced. Where the origin lied was what he had to figure out.

Fuck. Michael was usually better at picking up on these things, but she hadn't had a bad day for a good while now, and she had been perfectly fine the day before.

But, sometimes, all it took was a moment for Truth Castello to have a bad day.

Thankfully, Michael had noticed it, in the very least before it could get too bad. Because at too bad, Truth's eyes would be unfocused, things would start to move around on their own, and Michael would feel the telltale signs of her inducement bubbling beneath her skin, her temperature surpassing that of a normal human's. As of now, she only fiddled, pinching herself discreetly under the table to stay within herself, a good sign only because it meant she was also self-aware of her actions at this point.

To keep up appearances, Michael pouted at her words, leaning forward to try to regain her attention, which looked stonily into the distance.

"Éi. Kítaxé me."
Hey. Look at me.

She probably didn't process his words, too lost in the thoughts of someone else, but she released a breath. While Spanish was for her anger, Greek would always bring her down, reminding her of home.

Slowly, he turned her chair with his foot to have it face him and grabbed both of her hands. A bit warm, but not abnormally so, meaning it had little to do with her inducement. To anyone else, it would look like he was asking her to forgive him.

He opened his mind to her, lowering his mental defenses in invitation.

Look at me, he thought to her. Look at our hands.

Out loud he said: "Prépi na xanaphtiáxis ta níkhia sou."
You should do your nails again.

Together, both methods worked. She couldn't ignore his thoughts, not with the added factor of both physical contact and purposely thinking toward her, and once he had her attention mentally, she finally listened and turned, looking down at their hands.

"Den xéro ti khróma," she mumbled.
I don't know what color.

Sorry, came her mental voice, soft, almost like a whisper.

"Tha to dialéxo egó yia séna."
I'll pick it for you.

Don't be, he told her. It was a mistake.

Her lips twitched. Michael's fingers began to move, controlled by an invisible force.

"An prépi," she said. "To roz ítan apaísio tin teleftaía phorá."
If you must. The pink was horrible last time.

I can't make mistakes.

"Aftó ítan piramatikó! Tha kánoume káti állo aftí ti phorá."
That was experimental! We'll just do something else this time.

I make mistakes, he admitted.

At that, her lips curled up even further, and she looked up, her violet, adorned with blue today under the artificial light, meeting his gray.

That's a first, she said.

And the last, he joked.

Truth was calm now. Her hands were still, her body relaxed, her eyes focused. She breathed in deeply and exhaled before turning to glance at her plate solemnly, her hands still in his.

"I really didn't want eggs this morning," she said.

Michael rolled his eyes fondly.

"Fine. You can have the french toast."

Truth's smile came back, and she discreetly used her telekinesis to switch their plates, only witnessed by the two agents at their table who looked at them now that they began speaking in English.

Natasha had grown tense when she'd heard Truth raise her voice. Never had she seen or heard the woman show such emotion. Truth Castello was always calm, always in control, and always careful.

But this was a Truth Castello that Natasha had not seen before.

"How often does this happen?" she asked, her voice too low and her posture too focused somewhere on her left to even suggest she was talking to the man on her right.

"Lately, not so much," he answered in the same tone. "Believe it or not, but Truth Castello wasn't the best at handling her emotions when she was eighteen."

Natasha could believe it. She was twenty-five, and she had only just begun to acknowledge her own complicated emotions. She still couldn't process the idea that she was free. Because, what was freedom to the bird who had never flown a day in its life?

"I shouldn't have asked."

Clint knew what she was talking about. That morning as she had watched him make breakfast ("Waffles again?" she'd asked with a smirk, and he'd said with a sigh, "Yes, you were right, I made too much batter yesterday.") she'd told him.

Because, after Budapest, she told him everything.

He didn't know the full story. Hell, the last time to his knowledge that Truth and Natasha had been together was when they'd been teaching the trainees. That had been the ongoing story of the day. It had also been about two weeks ago.

But, when she'd said, "I asked her to join us today," he knew exactly who she had been talking about. And he'd been proud because he knew how difficult it would've been for Natasha to work herself up to the point to ask anyone for anything. It had taken weeks for her to do the same for him.

That's when he knew there was something else between the two assassins that he hadn't seen before. This show that they put on for the world, it was a cover for the way they danced around each other, scared of reaching out and breaking something they both wanted to have.

And so, when Natasha had told him, he'd said, "Then she will."

"It would've happened regardless," he assured her now. "Whether that would've been today, tomorrow, or next week, it would've."

"But she told me," Natasha said. "She told me it was...too loud."

She didn't exactly know what Truth meant by it, but she knew it had been something significant. Even now, Natasha did not know the full extent of Truth Castello's abilities, nor the burdens that came with them.

What Natasha did know was that Truth Castello did not like physical contact. Like Natasha, she avoided it when she could, but Truth's aversion could also be seen in the clothing she wore. So far, Natasha has not seen Truth in so much as a short-sleeved shirt, even during their midnight visits, and when she trained she wore thin, fingerless gloves and a body suit to limit skin contact as much as possible.

Natasha also knew that Truth Castello did not ask questions. It was an incredibly subtle tell, one Natasha only noticed because she would see Truth grow curious about something she said, only to not ask whatever had been on her mind. She didn't mind answering Natasha's questions, invited them most of the time, truly, but she did not ask questions of her own no matter how much she may want to know the answer.

And lastly, Truth Castello did not like crowds. Natasha had known this, but she had still suggested that the other woman come to the Canteen today because Natasha had wanted to see her at their table, making jokes and laughing like they were friends.

Because, Natasha Romanoff wanted to be friends with Truth Castello.

The next time Clint spoke, Truth's lips had twitched at something her brother had said.

"She never would've come down here if she didn't think she could handle it," Clint assured Natasha. "While, yes, this hasn't happened in a while to my knowledge, this is by far the tamest reaction she's ever had. I promise you, she's perfectly fine. And if you don't believe me, you can ask her and she'll tell you the truth."

But, Natasha pursed her lips. Because now she was hesitant. Hesitant to ask Truth Castello a question because the last time she'd "asked", Truth had said yes and now Natasha felt guilty.

Guilt. It wasn't a new emotion by far. Natasha Romanoff felt guilty for a lot of things.

"I want to believe you," Natasha admitted. "I want to try."

"Trying is sometimes the best thing you can do."

And so they watched as the twins interacted with each other like they were the only two people in the room. They watched as Michael made Truth smile a real smile, and Natasha's heart ached in a different way.

Natalia Romanova used to have a sister. She hadn't seen her in over a decade.

She didn't even know if she was alive.

But watching the twins, Natasha was reminded of the time when she had been a big sister, comforting Yelena Belova when she had fallen and scraped her knee. Natasha remembered when she'd made her sister smile a real smile, and her heart ached.

Sometimes Natasha Romanoff hated her emotions.

"It makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Clint asked softly.

Budapest. The place where secrets were told, hidden memories revealed, and it was all somehow okay.

"Yeah," Natasha said, her voice thick. "Yeah, it does."

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦

"No."

"Clint."

"No."

"Clint."

"No!" Clint exclaimed. "I'm not doing it, Truth."

Truth Castello stood across the mat from Clint Barton with her hands on her hips like a disappointed mother.

"You'll only be an inch or two off the floor," she assured. "That's all I'm asking."

Clint groaned, but nevertheless picked up his bow and moved to stand a few feet in front of her.

"If this was what you meant by wanting to train, why didn't you ask Michael?"

After the sad fest that was breakfast, the four agents had gone their separate ways—Natasha leaving quickly to go to an evaluation meeting with Fury, and Michael too had disappeared to get ready for a "lunch date," whatever that was code for. Clint had left to consult with Coulson on an upcoming mission, and Truth had gone back to her apartment to cuddle with her cat and recuperate.

As was usual after one of her episodes—or, almost episode, because nothing had really happened before Michael had stepped in—Clint and Michael left her alone for as long as she needed. They knew better than to coddle her. It would only annoy her, especially because no one would know what she needed more than herself.

The point was that just because she had reached a low that morning didn't mean she couldn't pick herself up and try again.

And that was what she's been telling herself for the past five years. The words had never failed her. Not even when the thought of giving up would've ended in punishment.

First, she had analyzed her morning to find her stressor. She'd already been annoyed when she'd left her apartment due to her lack of french toast, but Truth's irritation seemed to have stemmed not only from herself but also her surroundings. Her mind had picked out all the little things around her, latching onto the lingering morning aggravation left behind by other sleep deprived agents and tracking the aggravated conversations around her.

From there, it had been easy to tell what she needed: something to focus on. Her mind was too awake to sit still, and in turn rendered it difficult to block out the world. She was feeding off of other people, and it was growing difficult to recognize her own thoughts and emotions over everyone else's.

So, what better was there to do than to try to get a little telekinesis practice in, something that required perfect concentration and could also release some pent-up energy?

Two birds. One stone.

Truth and Clint hadn't talked much in the last two weeks—what with him being preoccupied as Natasha's probationary agent and Truth being, well, Truth. However, with Natasha still in her meeting, Truth had found Clint dropping off some paperwork to Maria's vacant office and the opportunity had been too good to ignore.

Because, while their friendship wasn't as prominent as his and Michael's—because, despite what Clint had said that morning, he did appreciate Michael as a friend—, Truth and Clint had their own bonding activity.

"Just because I have a brother doesn't mean I want to see him all the time," Truth argued. "I've seen his face almost every day since before we were born."

Clint sighed and began to shake out his arms, bouncing on the balls of his feet to get the blood flowing. Truth held back a smile, because Clint could act nervous all he wanted, but she knew deep down that he wanted to see where this would go. Clint was one of the only people who was enthusiastic about her powers—and, the best part was that it wasn't about what he could profit from it, but rather giving Truth the courage to test her limits. He was like a little kid on Christmas whenever she came to him about a new training idea.

"Okay," Clint said. "Okay. Just do it. Don't drop me, okay?"

"Promise," Truth said with a smile, her own excitement showing. "I'm always true to my word."

Clint snorted.

"I told you to stop making those jokes. They aren't that funny."

"Neither are your dad jokes, but here we are, old man."

Clint raised a finger and pointed at her.

"See, you think you're funny, but you're not the one with a quiver full of arrows right now, are you?"

Truth shrugged, taking his threat in stride.

"And I'm not the one doing a trust fall."

Then, without warning, she extended her hand, imagining an invisible force stretching and stretching and stretching until it cupped the bottom of Clint's shoes and climbed up to his knees. With a grunt, Truth pushed up, straining to use enough force to lift him off the ground.

"Shit," Clint said once he started to feel his feet shifting. In an effort to stay balanced, he flailed his arms.

"Stop...doing that," Truth grounded out, fighting to extend her reach up to his torso to keep him up straight. "You're going to—"

Sure enough, Clint tipped over with an alarming shriek, and Truth made another motion with her hands in a last-ditch effort to keep him from face-planting on the mat.

A second passed, during which the both of them were stunned into silence. Truth stared with wide eyes before letting out an exhilarated laugh.

"See!" she exclaimed, motioning to turn a floating Clint around so that he was facing her and laughing at the deadpan expression staring up at her. "I told you I wouldn't let you fall!"

"Truth," Clint said calmly. Or, at least as calm as one could be when they were hanging upside down by an invisible force. "Could you, maybe, put me right-side up?"

She pouted.

"Oh, you're no fun."

"Truth, I am upside down. All I feel is the blood rushing to my brain, and this is really not fun."

"Come on," Truth drawled. "Don't you wanna see if the famous Hawkeye can shoot a target upside down?"

Clint gave her a stony look before lifting his bow and grabbing an arrow out of his quiver, which was also disobeying the laws of gravity, curtesy of Truth.

"Oh, I'll show you a target," he said, lining up his aim. In an act of defense, Truth released her hold on him for a split second, dropping him an inch before catching him, and he let out a shriek at an even higher pitch than his last one when his hair just barely brushed against the mat.

"Whoops," Truth said. "Did I do that? Must be what happens when someone threatens to shoot me with an arrow."

The glare Clint gave her was impressive as she slowly increased his elevation so he wasn't so close to the ground. Now that she had him in the air, it wasn't as hard to keep him up.

"The second I'm on solid ground again, you're gonna get it, Castello."

Lowering her hands, Truth ensured she had a good grip on him before dragging over the bin they'd filled with tennis balls beforehand.

"Let's see how many balls you can hit, Hawkeye."

By the time Maria Hill and Natasha Romanoff entered the training room, the room was littered with discarded tennis balls and Clint and Truth were sparring in the air.

"Clint," Truth panted as she ducked under a jab, swiping him off his feet with her leg and planting a kick to his gut, the force buoyed by her telekinesis to put some distance between them. What had been fun for the first five minutes had quickly turned tiring as Clint gave her challenge after challenge.

Okay, now that we know you can do this, can you hold me up and give me moving targets? Or move me around while you move the targets? Think you can stay focused if I shot at you too? How about lifting yourself up? Could you keep us up even with a couple of distractions?

In other words, as Truth had predicted, Clint had gotten excited. Only, now her head was pounding trying to keep up with both herself and Clint, the weight of them falling on the invisible threads of the makeshift platform she'd made taking a toll as they felt like sharp blows to her head.

"Clint," she repeated, her head pounding as fast as her heart and her feet shifting on the weakening platform. "Maybe we should—"

An arrow hurtled toward her, and before she could knock it aside, a knife sliced through the shaft and embedded itself into the padded wall, the two halves of the arrow falling to the mat with a soft thud.

When Maria had offered Natasha help to find Clint, who hadn't been in his apartment, she hadn't expected to find him levitating at least ten feet off the ground. She'd watched apprehensively and silently, concerned for her partner and also shocked at the level of trust between him and Truth. Clint never hesitated once, confident in Truth's ability to hold him up and predict his movements, and Natasha's worry soon grew into curiosity.

They were closer than she'd thought.

However, it didn't take a genius to see Truth's movements slowing, blocking Clint's attacks almost a second too late, their feet shifting uneasily beneath them, and Natasha could respect Clint's trust in the other assassin but she herself wasn't all too keen to leave things up to chance.

So by the time Clint had knocked the arrow, the knife had already been in her hand.

Maria raised a brow at the damage.

"Fury won't like that."

Taking the distraction as an opportunity, Truth advanced, knocking the bow out of Clint's hand and wrestling with him until he was pinned underneath her before releasing her hold, letting the invisible threads unravel and send them falling to the mat, Clint taking the brute of the fall.

Groaning in relief at the feeling of her mind snapping back into one piece, she rolled off of Clint, who was still trying to catch his breath, and stumbled over to the bench where she had left her thermos as Natasha strolled toward her fallen partner.

"Is this you cheating on me?" the redhead questioned. At his glare, Natasha smirked and offered him a hand.

Truth, however, laughed despite the migraine.

"If it makes you feel any better, you can have him back. He's gotten soft."

As though trying to defend his dignity, Clint attacked Natasha with a discarded arrow, only for her to block his arm, disarm him, and flip him on his ass in the same move.

To Truth, Natasha shrugged.

"No fault on my part."

Clint didn't even attempt to get up this time. He just sat there, staring at the ceiling as he tried to gather his bearings as though he was the one to haul two grown adults into the air for the last hour.

"Okay," he said, breathless. "In my defense, I was held upside down for at least fifteen minutes before you guys got here."

"I think it was well deserved considering you started attacking me when I righted you," Truth defended, lowering herself to sit on the floor as she pressed a bag of ice to her still-throbbing head and sighing as the coolness spread across her forehead. "Oh, this feels great."

Clint tilted his head back to glance at her.

"Where'd you even get that from?"

Truth nodded toward Maria, who came back to throw another bag at Clint, which he caught.

"For your ass," she quipped. The other two women chuckled as Clint groaned in complaint.

"Why do you all bond over teasing me?"

Truth sighed again as she leaned back to stare at the ceiling with a look of bliss.

"It's just so...easy."

Then there was a chime, and Maria glanced at her phone. A second later, her eyes locked onto Truth, her unreadable expression making the assassin tense in anticipation.

It's Clarke, Maria thought toward her.

And it was all she had to say for Truth to drop her ice and leave the room in a rush.

Natasha watched curiously, but she knew when a situation called for her to mind her own and instead walked over to the wall to yank out the knife she'd thrown.

Returning to Clint, who had an arm thrown over his eyes, she nudged him with a foot.

"You ready for round two?"

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧

Truth knocked on the door to announce herself, then opened it without invitation, knowing the room was empty save for the man she wanted to see.

The same man who would only tolerate that kind of behavior from a handful of people.

"He's in his office," Director Fury informed without looking up from the file he was inspecting. "I'm surprised that wasn't your first stop."

Truth shrugged despite the fact he couldn't see it. She was certain his sixth sense could feel it, though. She and Michael had always suspected that Fury had more than a few tricks up his sleeve.

"Thought it wouldn't hurt to say hi," she replied. "Make sure you're still alive in here."

"That's what Agent Hill is for. You Castelloes need to leave me alone and let me do my job."

Truth grinned.

"And, leaving you alone is not in our job description. See you later, boss."

"Hopefully not too soon."

A moment later, Truth found herself in front of yet another office, only this time labeled as the office of Dr. Clarke Castello. She did their knock—three slow, three fast—and let herself in.

Dr. Castello looked up from his tablet, face mirroring the large grin spreading across Truth's face. They didn't look much alike in the moment, what with the older Castello still undercover, but Truth always recognized him—her savior, the one who had taught her that pain and suffering wasn't all there was in the world—no matter what face he wore.

"Ah," Clarke said with delight as he stood to give her a hug, one she accepted without hesitation. "My favorite."

Truth perked up at those words.

"Can I tell Michael you said—"

"No," he chided gently. "You're my favorite niece and he's my favorite nephew. So—"

"We're both your favorites," Truth finished with an eye roll. She withdrew from their hug to level him with her frown. "You're no fun."

Clarke patted her shoulder affectionately.

"So you say, kamári mou (my pride). I heard about your op in Brazil. Absolutely flawless."

Truth smiled proudly under the praise, leaning on her toes for a moment like a child. She'd never heard such words growing up, but her uncle had worked hard to rectify that the last seven years. And still, it made her giddy when he did.

"Thank you, Thíos (uncle). Didn't even break a sweat."

Clarke laughed.

"You say that now, but I already know that you're not going to want to do anything more than a few local ops for the next couple of weeks."

Truth ducked her head to try to hide her sheepish smile.

"I...may have already told Fury exactly that," she admitted. Brazil had been fun, but she needed some time to decompress before her next big undercover mission.

"See? You're predictable, maïmoudáki (little monkey)."

Truth gave him a look, to which he chuckled, satisfied he'd proven his point. She shook her head fondly.

"Whatever. How was Germany?"

"The usual," he replied, but all signs of humor faded away with the answer. His body tensed, and he moved away from her to sit on the corner of his desk. He made a point to focus his thoughts on how unorganized he was, of how he needed to get his paperwork into some semblance of order—

Truth was used to her uncle keeping the details of his missions to himself. He was Level 8 in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s clearance system, one level above herself, and so she knew when there was classified information not to be touched. Even more so, she'd asked him personally to keep anything he learned pertaining to her past under wraps unless it was absolutely necessary for her to know.

Seven years later, and she still wanted nothing to do with HYDRA.

And yet, her uncle had something to tell her but didn't know how to say it. There was only one thing it could mean.

"Tell me," she said, steeling herself for what she was about to hear.

"Are you sure you don't want—"

"Uncle."

Clarke pursed his lips before looking away with a sigh. If it were Michael, he may have pushed, but pushing was not an option with Truth Castello. Her self-control was extraordinary compared to two, three years ago, but pushing her in any state would unnecessarily make any situation worse.

"It was...her division," he said. "They're starting to...experiment again."

Truth was utterly disgusted. Because it had been almost a decade now, and HYDRA could never accept loss. No, they would always be driven by the need to succeed despite any and all setbacks.

She would always be driven by that need. Because perfection and success and power were all she'd ever wanted, and it was everything she had forced Truth—and, indirectly, Michael—to be.

The escape of the Siren and Silver Tongue had been more than a setback. It had been a loss of more than fifteen years of research and experimentation, of more than twenty years of careful planning. HYDRA had placed all their bets on Project Olympus, only to lose two of its only survivors.

This was the first time S.H.I.E.L.D. found any signs of the program being continued since 2003.

The realization filled Truth with dread. How many people would be subject to the new efforts to replace the infamous Siren and Silver Tongue? How many would die with the hopes that they could be HYDRA's new weapon?

The answer would always be too many.

"I..."

Truth took a few deep breaths, working to stave off the numbness that wanted to spread across her body, to shield her from the memories, the voices, her.

"I want to know everything," she said, keeping her head raised high. Truth refused to cower. They didn't deserve that power. Not then, and certainly not now.

"Truth..."

"No," she said. "You'll need my help. I can—"

"Alethea."

She stopped. Her mind snapped to attention even in its fatigue, her fingers stilling where it had been pinching at the bodysuit she still wore from training, her eyes meeting a flicker of the familiar grey of her uncle, the one she remembered during a time of love, safety, and promise, before it returned to the cerulean blue of Dr. Clarke Castello.

Because that's what that name meant to her: Alethea. It meant that she was safe, that she was in control, and that she was nowhere near the mad scientists scrambling to understand and better her, soldiers who liked to ruff her up while she was high on drugs that kept her from thinking straight, the lightning that fought to scramble her brain into complacency, voices that yelled at her to be better, do better, or else.

It meant that she was far, far away—too far to ever get her hands on her again.

"Alethea," her uncle repeated softly, and she stared at him even as her eyes glistened. He came closer, putting his hands on her arms, giving her an anchor. "If you and Michael take on HYDRA and they get to you, then what?"

She gripped his arm tight at the words with a strength that could leave bruises. Because she never, ever wanted to think about the possibility of being back there. Never again.

"I know you want to help," Clarke continued. "But, it's better if you keep doing what you're doing. They don't know where you are, and we should keep it that way. I've been chasing HYDRA since before you were born. Trust me to make sure they don't get that far."

Truth did trust him. After all, his skill set was best for any undercover operation, and he'd have the best chance out of everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. to bring down HYDRA from the inside.

The twins weren't the only ones who were enhanced. It kind of ran in the family.

She gave a shaky sigh and wiped her eyes.

"Okay, then," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm going to go to my apartment. And I'm going to get a glass of water, maybe a bag of ice if my head doesn't stop pounding in the next hour. And then I'll pretend I can get some sleep."

Clarke gave her a sympathetic look.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."

She nodded. She knew. But...this was one of those things that she had to know, and she respected that.

"Are you sure you don't want to spend the night with Michael?"

"Yeah," she answered softly. "It's okay. I've got Heidi, if anything."

"Okay," her uncle said, letting her go. He could respect her assessment—only she knew what she needed in the moment. "I'll be here for the next few days if you need me."

Truth nodded and turned to head for the door.

"Hey," Clarke called before she could leave. He waited for her to turn back to him. "I love you."

Truth managed to muster a small smile. She loved I love you's. Something else she nor Michael had never heard enough of.

"I love you too, Uncle. And I'm glad you're back."

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Truth stood in the doorway to her bedroom, leaning against the door frame with a tiredness she hadn't felt since she'd come home from Brazil.

Maybe she shouldn't have pushed herself so hard with Clint.

"I shouldn't even try, should I?"

Truth glanced down at Heidi, who sat next to her. Yellow eyes stared up at her, then the cat rubbed her face against Truth's leg.

Truth sighed.

"Yeah. Alright."

It was only twelve a.m. when Truth walked into the training room. Far earlier than usual. Curfew hadn't even set in yet, but the room was still empty, which was all she needed.

It was two a.m. when Natasha walked into the training room. She'd managed to get a few hours of sleep after dinner with Clint, and she wanted to test her luck at getting there before Truth twice in a row.

And when she closed the doors behind her and did a cursory glance around the room, she thought she had.

At least until she heard a soft voice coming from above. With furrowed brows, Natasha looked up toward her right, and the sight she found was as surprising as it was slightly concerning.

Truth Castello laid on one of the metal beams that ran across the room, almost twenty feet in the air. Her dark hair dangled, along with a leg that moved to a rhythm Natasha couldn't hear. More perplexing, on top of Truth was a very large cat, it's tail also hanging over the side of the beam. Truth was oblivious to the world, lightly singing along to a familiar tune as she scrolled through her phone with one hand and absently stroked the cat's head where it lay on her chest.

It was the most relaxed Natasha had ever seen her. She drunk in the sight of Truth's body in nothing but sweats and a baggy shirt, committing it to memory in case it was the last time she'd witness it, and she stood there enraptured as she listened to her melodious voice, following the calming tilt of her words:

reaching out
to touch a stranger
electric eyes are everywhere

Natasha had never been so captivated. And, right then and there, she would make it her mission to find out what Truth Castello could not do.

Because, turns out, Truth Castello could sing. And, maybe it was another reason they had nicknamed her the Siren.

see that girl
she knows I'm watching
she likes the way I stare

Natasha didn't know how long she stared for, didn't know why it took so long to get her feet to move from where they'd planted themselves.

if they say why
why?
tell them that it's human nature
why?
why...does he do me that way?

When Natasha did move—closer because there was no ignoring the pull between them right now in the darkness, no ignoring human nature—the spell was broken when the cat lifted its head in her direction. Unsure, Natasha paused.

The singing stopped.

"It's okay," Truth assured the cat in a low voice, still focused on her device. "She can stay."

Natasha Romanoff prided herself on being good at reading people. If it hadn't been obvious earlier, it was now that she heard Truth speak. It was low, an appropriate volume for the time of night, but it had wavered.

Natasha had never heard Truth Castello's voice waver. She was always sure, confident, charming.

This was the Truth she had seen that morning in the Canteen. This was the Truth who was more than the "scary" agent everyone else saw. This was the Truth who allowed herself to be vulnerable.

And Natasha admired her for it. Because Natasha Romanoff did not know how to allow herself vulnerability. She did not know how to open herself up, how to share her space with a stranger, or how to willingly trust.

She didn't know how to comfort.

Truth had almost expected Natasha to leave. She wouldn't have blamed her for it—while she felt better than she had two hours ago, Truth was probably not the best person to be around right now. She didn't even have the sociability to greet Natasha when she had walked in or throw out a joke about how she'd beat her after last time.

She just...didn't have the energy to pretend tonight. Not even for Natasha, who undoubtedly had her own troubles to worry about than someone else's.

And, it was a testament to how tired Truth was when she didn't notice what Natasha had been doing until she did it. Stunned, Truth turned to her right where she caught Natasha pulling herself up onto the metal beam beside her and pulled out her headphones.

"Huh," Natasha said as she took in the new vantage point. Clint was always taking about an elevated point of view. "This is different."

Truth had been speechless for a moment.

"Yeah," she replied before clearing her throat. "That's, uh, what happens when you're twenty feet off the ground."

Natasha hummed thoughtfully, leaning back on her hand as she let her left leg hang like Truth's. Then the redhead nodded at Heidi.

"What's up with the tiger?"

Truth's sudden burst of laughter scared both herself and her cat, and she had to wrap an arm around Heidi to ensure that she stayed in place. Irritated, Heidi gave Natasha a very judgmental look that translated very well.

"Oh my God," Truth said in between her gasps, trying to catch her breath. It hadn't really been that funny, but the question coupled with the way Natasha just casually delivered it and her nonplussed reaction to the entire situation had made it so. Natasha watched Truth with amusement in her eyes, proud of having elicited such a response.

"You almost made me fall," Truth complained, now in better control of herself as she turned to look at Natasha. "She's a cat, Romanoff."

"A very big cat," she commented. "You sure she's legal? She's almost your size."

Another laugh vibrated through Truth's body, and she put her phone down to take her cat's grumpy face between her hands and give her an affectionate kiss.

"She doesn't mean it, love. She's just messing with you."

Then Truth turned back to Natasha, who watched the interaction with something akin to fondness.

"You should probably apologize," Truth suggested. "She can hold a grudge like nobody's business."

Natasha gave her one of her small smiles, reaching out to see if Heidi would sniff her hand.

"What's her name?"

"Heidi," Truth answered, watching as the cat eyed Natasha's offering. "My uncle gave her to me after I started here at S.H.I.E.L.D. five years ago. He found her in Germany, but Michael likes to joke that she's Greek because of how attentive she was as a kitten when we spoke the language."

When Heidi still made no movement, Truth rubbed her side with the order to "be nice".

"Bet you were surprised when she grew up to be the size of a dog," Natasha said, turning her hand to give Heidi full access to her palm.

"Michael and I made bets on how big she'd grow when we found out she was a Savannah breed. I think she's stopped, but Michael still insists that she'll break a world record."

Natasha waited patiently as Heidi took her time assessing her. It was only until Heidi nudged her hand that the redhead began to pet her.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I've always wanted a cat. A black cat."

Truth smiled at her.

"Yeah? What would you name it?"

Natasha glanced at her with a mischievous smirk.

"Liho."

The Russian embodiment of evil fate and misfortune. Truth shook her head fondly. Only Natasha.

"How creative," Truth commented. Then she turned away to pick up her phone again, recalling what she'd been doing before Natasha had climbed up.

"Since we're still on the topic of cats, do you want to find out what kind of cat you are, Natasha Romanoff?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow at the odd question, only to chuckle when Truth showed her her screen.

Buzzfeed quizzes. Only Truth.

"Okay," Natasha said, taking the phone and shifting so Truth could see as she answered the questions. "Let's see. 'Which career would you like to have?' My skill set would be more useful if I were a dancer, but I think I'm interested in owning a business."

"Yeah?" Truth said, slightly surprised. "What would you sell?"

"Knives...gear...books."

Truth chuckled.

"Nothing like buying knives and reading books."

Natasha smirked, glad Truth agreed with her.

"Hence my next answer for 'most appealing hobby' being reading." Then she scrolled down, looking at her options for vacation. "New York or Boston?"

"It's supposed to be your pick," Truth chastised. "I already did my quiz."

"Ugh, fine," Natasha complained, her lips forming a pout as she debated. "I've never actually been to New York."

"I love it there," Truth said. "Michael and I like to make the trip for Christmas if we're ever both free for it."

Taking that into consideration, Natasha went with New York.

"A night off?" Natasha had to think about that one. Her choices were between seeing a play, going to a jazz club, a river cruise, family game night, hanging out with friends, and stand-up comedy. "I don't really like any of these. I guess I'd 'hang out' with Clint."

She continued on.

"'What would I not want to do on a day off?' Well, whitewater rafting is pretty random, so I'll have to go with that. 'Favorite subject in school?' Never been, but I like history."

Interesting, Truth thought. She was learning a lot about Natasha tonight.

"I actually went to college for a semester," Truth admitted, and Natasha turned to her, surprised.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was seventeen, wanted to see what it was like. High school was out of the question, and I was smart enough to get into Georgetown. Michael didn't have the patience for it, so it was just me."

"What did you study?"

Truth smirked.

"Engineering."

Natasha's lips curved up.

"So that's where your little tinkering hobby comes from."

Truth returned her smile and shrugged, then gestured for Natasha to continue her quiz.

The last question was about T.V. shows.

"I don't know any of these," Natasha admitted. Truth gasped.

"Not even Glee? Okay, let me see. You might like The West Wing since you're into history."

"I'll take your word for it," Natasha said. They waited a moment for the page to load her results, and the redhead furrowed her brows when it appeared.

"A tuxedo cat?" she questioned. "Is that even a breed?"

She tilted the phone to show Truth, and the other woman had to fight to hold in her laugh at Natasha's reaction. It only got worse when the redhead saw what the description was for the cat.

"Friendly, affectionate...," she listed off incredulously before shaking her head and giving Truth the phone back. "I don't like it. It's not even accurate."

Truth laughed as she read through the rest of it.

"Really?" she said. "Because, I think you are pretty stubborn."

Natasha faced Truth with a glare, her green eyes sharp in the dark room.

"Yeah?" she challenged. "Well, what did you get?"

At that, Truth pouted.

"It said I was one of those naked cats. And that I was 'sociable and entertaining'."

Then it was Natasha's turn to laugh, not only at the idea of Truth Castello being 'sociable' but also at the cute face she sported at the thought.

Truth tried to frown at her reaction but sorely failed. Instead, she turned back to her phone with an air of determination.

"You know what? You're right, let's pick a different one."

And so they found another quiz to find out what cat they were. This one was based off of foods.

"Wait," Natasha said, gesturing to Truth with grabby hands. "I want to go first."

Truth hid a smile as she gave her the phone without complaint and watched to see her choices.

Fruit for breakfast. Pretzel for a snack. Sandwich for lunch. Steak for dinner. Fruit again for—

"Wait a minute," Truth said. "You don't like any of those desserts?"

"Not much of a 'sweets' person," Natasha admitted absently, then picked her answer for a midnight snack.

Truth gasped.

"And you're picking cheese over popcorn?"

"To be honest," Natasha said in a calm tone, "I didn't like any of those, and I can't remember the last time I had popcorn."

"Well, we'll have to fix that."

In the end, Natasha was an Orange Tabby, "notoriously friendly and chill." Truth was a Siamese cat, "elegant and doesn't associate with peasants."

Truth laughed at her own results and kicked at Natasha's leg, careful not to jostle Heidi too much. She was almost certain the cat was sleeping, or trying to, at this point.

"Ha," Truth said. "Back away, peasant."

"Wow," Natasha replied as she nodded. "That's how it is? I still don't like my result, by the way."

"Yeah, maybe it's because you picked fruit as a dessert and cheese as a midnight snack, you weirdo. I mean, fruit is a good dessert sometimes, but not when you've already had fruit for breakfast."

"Okay, but are we going to pretend that you didn't pick a banana for lunch?"

"That's reasonable!"

"That's not lunch, it's a snack."

"Well, then it's the quiz's fault for putting it as an option for lunch."

Natasha perked up.

"So, you agree that it's not accurate, then?"

Truth gave her a look.

"No. Accept it, Romanoff, you're an orange tabby."

"No."

Truth shook her head, feigning sympathy.

"It's too late. It's set in stone now. That orange tabby matches your soul. You could probably name it 'Cheese'."

With a vocal laugh, Natasha kicked at Truth, only to have the other woman shush her in fear of waking up Heidi, as though they hadn't already caused enough racket for the last ten minutes.

They shared another chuckle and then fell into silence, both assassins still staring at the other with smiles lingering on their lips.

I missed that smile, Natasha thought. Then she was reminded of Truth's state when she'd walked in, connecting it to the almost-incident in the Canteen, and her own smile faltered.

"I'm sorry."

Truth searched Natasha's face, confused by the faint touch of guilt she could feel from the other woman.

"For what?"

"I shouldn't have asked you," Natasha whispered.

Truth pursed her lips and shook her head. She knew what Natasha was referring to, although that morning felt so far away now.

"Technically, you didn't explicitly ask. It was more of an open invitation, which I did appreciate."

"Castello."

"I wouldn't have gone if I didn't want to, Romanoff," she amended in a softer tone. "Besides, if it wasn't then, it would've been somewhere else. It happens."

It was almost exactly what Clint had told her, and still Natasha didn't feel too convinced. Truth reached out, her hand open in invitation. Unlike Heidi, Natasha only looked at it for a second before giving her her hand.

Truth's hand was soft despite the calluses gained from training. Natasha's was a little cold, and Truth rubbed a thumb over her fingers in an attempt to warm them as she actively avoided looking into Natasha's thoughts with the new physical connection.

"Thank you," Truth said, violet eyes staring straight into green. "For coming back."

"This is your space," Natasha argued. "I shouldn't have come back."

"If I didn't want you here, I would've thrown another knife at you when you came through the door, and I wouldn't have missed."

Natasha tried. But, she couldn't hold back her smile.

"So, you admit that you missed?"

"How else were you supposed to come back?"

Natasha gently squeezed her hand before letting go. Then she pursed her lips in thought.

"It's Natasha."

"What?"

Only her friends get to call her Natasha.

The redhead gave Truth another of her small smiles.

"Call me Natasha."

Chapter Text

𝐅𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 2010

𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Natasha stood in front of her open fridge. With a frown, she closed it.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

She opened it again.

Still empty.

Maybe she couldn't live on sandwiches forever.

It was the second week of February and Natasha was now four months into her probation. And, apparently, Fury was satisfied with her progress.

Enough to send Clint on a mission without her.

Clint had told her about it that morning when she'd met him for breakfast. He'd been quick to assure her that this was a good thing—it meant she could leave the building and go about her day without him there constantly monitoring her progress.

And, maybe Natasha should've been excited at the idea.

But, she wasn't.

She didn't really know the "why" yet.

Maybe it was because Clint was off somewhere without her for backup.

Or perhaps it was because it meant Clint would be leaving her to fend for herself for at least five days with an empty fridge and a cold apartment.

She really hardly spent any time here. Clint was always there, forcing her to go out and do something, keeping her mind preoccupied before it could spiral, making sure she didn't push herself too hard in the training room, and reminding her that mealtimes weren't a luxury but a right.

And now she had to spend five days without him.

Doing what, exactly?

Maybe if she had a mission, a task to set her mind to, the amount of time ahead of her wouldn't feel so daunting.

Maybe she wouldn't be left standing there in her kitchen feeling as though Clint had left her.

He's coming back, Natasha reminded herself. Five days.

Her main concern for now should be the empty fridge before her. Perhaps she relied a little too much on Clint's cooking, because Natasha couldn't remember if she had ever bothered to look inside her fridge before. She'd put off grocery shopping for too long, it seemed.

But, she could blame Clint for that because why would she go grocery shopping if he continued to make food or order in?

Natasha shut the refrigerator door closed with a dull thump and pursed her lips.

Damn it, Clint.

Now, the problem here was that Natasha Romanoff had never gone grocery shopping before. Four months ago, she'd only eaten during or in-between missions—a few energy bars or the rare meal she ate while undercover. Natasha Romanoff was used to not eating frequently, and so she'd never had a need to buy groceries to stock a kitchen or with the intention to prepare a meal.

And so, she was beginning to grow annoyed with herself because it was likely the easiest thing in the world compared to what she'd been through and yet she hesitated.

Apparently, normal people could go grocery shopping.

Trained killers could not.

Natasha didn't like it when she didn't know how to do something. If she didn't know, then she was bound to fail, and failure was never an option unless she wanted to die.

Natasha didn't want to die.

But, she didn't know how to ask for...

Help.

Help was what she needed, but she couldn't just ask anyone. It had to be a friend, but she didn't have too many of those.

Of course, there was Clint—but if Clint hadn't left, she wouldn't be having this problem in the first place. Because, if Clint were there, she would've just asked him to make her a peanut butter sandwich and he would've given her that look that said "again?" but make it for her nonetheless.

As for her other options:

Maria Hill—Natasha liked her, but she didn't consider their relationship to be friendly enough to ask her for help without making it awkward for either of them.

So, that was a no.

Phil Coulson—good company, but she didn't see him much outside of an op. Maybe not the person to go grocery shopping with.

Michael Castello—the thought almost made her laugh. His ego did not have to grow any bigger, and she still liked to make the point that they were not friends.

And then there was...

Natasha sighed.

She was very new to the whole "friends" ordeal. Clint had been the first and only person she'd given that title to. Before him, friends were only an idea—impossible, improbable, and forbidden. Natasha had been taught from a young age that friends were liabilities and that attachments were what made you weak.

Love was for children. And so was making friends.

But yet, she'd never wanted to be someone's friend more than she wanted to be friends with Truth Castello. And, maybe they were ever since that night Natasha had told her to call her "Natasha".

Only her friends get to call her Natasha.

But, was it maybe too much to ask Truth Castello, as a friend, to go grocery shopping together?

Because, that's what she would really be asking. Not for help, no, because the Black Widow didn't ask for help under any circumstances. Natasha would phrase it as a simple request for company, and use the opportunity to observe and take notes.

But, sometimes the approach in general was the hard part.

Natasha opened the fridge once more. Nodding to herself, she slammed it closed and grabbed her leather jacket on her way to the door, cursing Clint Barton under her breath.

If only he hadn't left.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧

Natasha Romanoff had a plan:

Find Truth Castello.

Turned out that the plan wasn't as easy as she'd thought it would be.

Even nearing a month of knowing each other, the other assassin was almost impossible to find during the daylight hours. At best, Natasha would be lucky to see her for breakfast before she disappeared to do whatever it was she did before the clock struck midnight.

She'd been present at the Canteen that morning to say her goodbyes to Clint, along with Michael and Coulson. Natasha hadn't seen her the night before since she had just returned from a three-day mission in Vegas, and she hadn't expected to see her that morning either. Truth was even more reclusive after a mission, taking at least a day or two to re-acclimate before she was ready to venture out into the world.

So, in theory, it was easy for Natasha to guess where she would be—her apartment.

The problem?

Natasha didn't know where Truth's apartment was.

She knew that they lived on the same floor because, otherwise, Truth wouldn't be privy to the same training room as Natasha. She also knew that she wasn't in Section R because that was where she and Clint lived and she was certain they would've bumped into each other more than once if she did.

That meant she was in Section L. But, there were still a lot of apartments to choose from, and Natasha wasn't interested in playing ding-dong ditch.

She was almost ready to turn around and check her fridge again—fourth time's a charm?—when two sets of footsteps entered the corridor behind her, one gait more familiar than the other.

"Natasha!"

Natasha held back a groan. Instead, she rolled her eyes and turned around to give Michael Castello a glare.

"You're on thin ice, Castello."

Michael hesitated. Natasha smirked.

She'd made it clear that for every "Natasha" he uttered there would be a justified retaliation on her part. At first, he hadn't believed her.

That was until he'd found the spider in his weapons locker. Apparently he was terrified of them.

How fitting.

"Right," Michael said cautiously. "Any way I can take that last one back?"

Natasha shrugged.

"Depends."

The man standing slightly behind Michael watched their banter with muted interest. He was shorter than Michael, yet older. Blonde hair, average build, decent face—not someone anyone would look at twice. He seemed keen on studying Natasha as though he were trying to place her somewhere. She'd never seen him before, and she always remembered a face. But, seeing as he didn't introduce himself and Michael obviously didn't have the manners to do it either, she elected to ignore him.

Michael studied her.

"Are you lost? You're lost, aren't you?"

"I'm not lost."

"You have a pretty good poker face, Romanoff, but it doesn't work for me. Lies are one of my specialties."

Something Natasha knew of, but not completely. The twins were very vague when it came down to their abilities, though Natasha suspected that Truth would probably answer her questions if she asked.

If she ever mustered enough courage to ask, that is.

"Doesn't mean I'm lost," Natasha replied coolly. "I think it's a matter of opinion."

"Opinions can be wrong."

"That defeats the purpose—"

The older agent cleared his throat pointedly, and Natasha leveled her gaze on him.

She didn't like to be interrupted.

"Michael," the man chided as he checked his watch. "Any time now."

Natasha's attention returned to Michael, not wanting to beat around the bush any longer.

"You know where your sister is?"

The smirk he gave her fully conveyed his triumph at being right, but he didn't comment on it. Instead, he gave her the directions and let her be on her way.

"Aren't you the one who preaches the importance of patience?" Michael questioned the blonde man beside him once the redhead disappeared from sight. The older agent turned to give Michael a chiding look before turning to resume their route.

"You always did talk a lot. Even as a kid. You'd just blabber—didn't matter if it made sense to anyone but yourself."

Michael frowned.

"Are you trying to say that I only speak nonsense? That hurts, Thíos (uncle)."

"I'm only being honest." They stopped in front of the elevator. "There's a reason your sister is better at going undercover."

Michael huffed. He didn't have to be reminded of that. Truth had given him an earful on that one op in Italy, and she continued to make the point that he wasn't allowed to do any more undercover ops with her, as though it was his fault that he'd momentarily forgot a few key details of his alias in the middle of a conversation with a third-party contact.

So, maybe he made a little mistake that resulted in them fleeing from twenty something armed, trigger-happy men. Was it his best work? Probably not, but there was always room for improvement.

The elevator arrived with a ding. It was empty, and they stepped inside, turning to face the doors.

"Who was that, anyway?" Clarke asked with interest after giving the voice command. "I don't think Truth would be pleased to know you're giving away her address to just anyone."

"New transfer," Michael answered tersely. He and Truth hadn't yet discussed how they would address the topic of the Black Widow working for S.H.I.E.L.D., and Clarke would probably have more than a few things to say about it.

Especially if he knew about her weird relationship with Truth. Michael didn't even really understand it. Every time he asked, Truth would dance around the answer, but he knew that there was more between them then the supposed competition they liked to flaunt around the other agents.

Clarke hummed.

"I thought Truth didn't like having friends?"

"She has friends," Michael defended. "Maria, Phil, Clint, Melinda, Amelia..."

His uncle nodded thoughtfully.

"Haven't heard about Amelia in a while."

They both had mixed feelings about Amelia. Truth had forgiven her years ago, and, sure, they could admit that it had been for the best, but neither her brother nor her uncle could forget about the aftermath.

Amelia had been the last person Truth had opened up to.

And, maybe, they were both worried about her doing it again.

Michael sighed.

"Yeah." The elevator opened with a ding, and they stepped out into a chilly, moderately lit corridor. "But, my point is that she doesn't need us breathing down her neck. She knows and deserves to make her own choices."

Clarke watched his nephew as he spoke. Say whatever you wanted about him, but Michael Castello would always be there to defend his sister.

And that was all Clarke had ever wanted for them. To say that he was proud of how far they'd come was an understatement.

"Then, I trust your word," Clarke said as they walked further past dozens of cells, some empty, some not. "For now, we need your game face on."

Michael shook his head in amusement as they came to a stop in front of a two way mirror. Inside was a woman with dark hair obscuring her face. Yet still, from what little Michael could see, it had him drawing in a sharp breath.

"She looks just like—"

Clarke nodded.

"I know."

The woman was frail, shivering despite the blanket over her shoulders. Michael had to look away, reminding himself that Truth was just upstairs in her room where she was safe. And yet, even that distance was too great, and he was reminded of a time when he would be lucky if he had so much as heard her, let alone see her to make sure she was okay. He had to force himself not to reach out to her mentally, knowing it would only warrant her concern.

"Are you sure about this?" Michael asked. "I'm good, but if she doesn't talk, then this is more of Truth's specialty."

"I know," Clarke said again.

Then he looked at his nephew.

"But, I want to keep her as far away from this as possible."

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Truth was as far away from the world as possible.

She sat at her kitchen island with one leg bent on the stool, her mind solely focused on the task in front of her and the music that flooded her space:

i hopped off the plane at LAX
with a dream and my cardigan
welcome to the land of fame excess
woah, am i gonna fit in?

jumped in the cab, here i am for the first time
look to my right and i see the Hollywood sign
this is all so crazy
everybody seems so famous

Studying the blade in her hand, satisfied with its sharpness, she brought the small bottle of oil closer and picked up a cloth as she sang along with the lyrics.

my tummy's turnin' and i'm feelin' kinda homesick
too much pressure and i'm nervous
that's when the taxi man turned on the radio
and a jay-z song was on
and a jay-z song was on
and a jay-z song was on

so i put my—

The song abruptly changed just before the chorus. Truth frowned, but let it slide when she recognized the new song.

it's a beautiful night
we're looking for something dumb to do

hey baby
i think i wanna—

Once again, the song was skipped. Annoyed, Truth glanced up at Heidi, who stood on the island, nose hovering over her phone.

"Now you don't like Bruno Mars?"

Heidi flicked an ear. Then she skipped another three songs.

"You know," Truth said, eyes returning to the blade to inspect it. "You're the one who chose this playlist."

Truth Castello had a lot of knives. And, sure, she was an assassin, so it was expected, but even the most driven assassins didn't usually keep several cases of all the knives they've collected over the years.

Maybe Truth was a little nostalgic. Or maybe it was a result of having perfect recall, because she found it was easier to categorize her memories when she tied them to an object.

Every knife she owned had its story.

The one in her hand now had been a gift from Coulson. It was a Scottish dirk knife, its steel hilt a throwback to medieval times. He had given it to her just before her first solo mission at S.H.I.E.L.D—the last day of her probation. As her probationary agent, he had acted like a father dropping his kid off to college, and she and Michael had teased him about it for days.

But, staring at the blade, she remembered what he had said when he had handed it to her:

"You did this. All of it. You made it here. And you should be as proud of yourself as I am of you."

As much as she'd teased, the words had made her emotional once she'd boarded the jet headed toward the insertion point. She'd searched for validation her whole life, and the little girl inside of her had finally found it.

She didn't usually take the knife out on missions, but last night had been a quick infiltration with a STRIKE team on an illegal smuggling site. No causalities on either side, all stolen weapons had been accounted for, and all criminals involved in the operation were apprehended and set to stand on trial for the next few months.

Yeah. She was pretty proud of herself.

you're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset
she's going off about something that you said
'cause she doesn't get your humor like i do

With a quirk of her lips, she gently wrapped the newly sharpened knife in its leather sheath. Before she moved on to her next blade, she took a spoonful of the bowl of soup sitting away from the oils and polish. Satisfied with the temperature, she took a few more bites as she hummed along.

i'm in the room, it's your typical Tuesday night
i'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like
and she'll never know your story like i do

but she wears—

Truth dropped her spoon in the bowl with a clang to give her cat an offended glare.

"Heidi! No puedes saltarte una canción de Taylor Swift."
You can't just skip a Taylor Swift song.

Heidi responded by skipping another song.

"Heidi!"

Truth moved, intending to revoke Heidi's phone privileges when the cat laid down, curving her body around the device and out of Truth's sight.

Truth huffed.

"You hang out with Michael too much."

It took a few more minutes of arguing with her cat as she worked before she noticed someone had been standing outside her door for a while now. She had dismissed them at first, because she was used to people coming and going down the hall, most of them heading home after a long day or leaving to fulfill a mindless task. She never fretted over them because, in here, she was in her safe little bubble where she could keep the world out.

Only, the person outside her door hadn't moved. Well, they paced up and down the corridor, but they always returned, always stopped in front of her door. Mental barriers kept their exact thoughts hidden, but Truth could feel the anxiety and nerves bubbling within them even from here.

And, thoughts or not, Truth would recognize her mind anywhere. Only, Truth couldn't begin to guess why Natasha Romanoff would be standing outside of her apartment...

Glancing at the clock on the wall behind her, Truth realized it was almost noon.

Almost four hours since Clint left.

...Shit.

It wasn't so much that she'd forgotten, because she remembered her conversation with the archer quite clearly. He had been worried before he left, enough so that he had knocked on her door on his way to his jet.

"Just let yourself in, I guess," Truth had told Clint as he'd shouldered past her. Closing the door, she had turned to follow him into the kitchen. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving, like, right now?"

"Had to make a detour," had been his only response. He had stolen a glass from her cupboard and filled it with water.

"You know, I don't like how you and Michael act like my apartment is your home."

Clint had scoffed.

"Don't act like you haven't stolen stuff from us. The only difference is that you do it when we aren't looking."

Truth's lips had turned up.

"It's called being polite." She'd gotten up to grab her used weapons from her go bag still sitting on the floor and began to lay out the materials she'd need to start her cleaning ritual. "Clock's ticking, Barton. Say what you have to say before the jet leaves without you."

Clint had sighed, staring down into his cup.

"It's Natasha. I feel like I'm...leaving her."

"Well, you are. She probably feels that way too."

Clint had raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you supposed to make me feel better, not worse?"

Truth had shrugged.

"The truth isn't always sunshine and rainbows. I should know," she had added with a wink, and he had rolled his eyes.

Stopping by her bookshelf to grab her clove oil and metal polish, she set the items on the island.

"I don't think Romanoff would be ecstatic to know that you're coming to me for advice regarding her. A bit personal, don't you think?"

Clint had scoffed. Again.

"I'm not an idiot. The little show you guys put on for everyone else? Doesn't work on me. Granted, I don't know how you two became friends because I've never seen you hang out, but I know you and I know Nat."

Truth only shrugged, a sly smirk spreading across her face.

"What can I say? We have reputations."

Then, at the look on his face, she had sighed and leaned on the island to give him her full attention.

"I remember the first time Phil 'left' me," she'd started. "He had told me as soon as he'd been given his assignment. He'd been so excited for me because it meant that my probation was on its way to being lifted. That had been the goal since I had defected to S.H.I.E.L.D., and he had told me of all the places to go to in D.C.—the best cafes, restaurants, libraries...

"And then he left and I spent the rest of the week holed up in this very apartment. Michael had been cleared before me, so he was also on assignment—a whole other story—, and you know how my uncle is. It wasn't until Maria showed up at my door and told me that we were leaving that I finally got out of my funk. She took me down to the Potomac. I'd forgotten how much I missed the ocean."

Truth had sighed again and straightened, returning her gaze to Clint.

"Of course, Natasha's probation isn't the exact same as mine. From my understanding, she's left the building for missions with you before and her probation has only lasted four months. Mine lasted six, and Fury hadn't been so lenient with me as her."

Clint's eyebrows rose, because "lenient" wasn't a word he'd use to define what Natasha had to go through to get to this point. Truth had smirked.

"You forget that I was an enhanced known for making people go mad and destroying buildings when I lost control. They had a right to be cautious.

"Anyways. The point I'm trying to make is that the feeling of being saved by someone after a lifetime of never knowing the word—of connecting the person who pulled you out of hell with safety—is overwhelming. It's as powerful as love or hate. It's the feeling a child has, or should have, with their parents. And, if you ignore the fact that I am discreetly calling you a mother hen, you'll see that I mean to say that the feeling of being left behind will be inevitable. I won't guess how Natasha may feel or act, but I can tell you that that week Phil was on that mission? It was both the hardest and most uplifting part of my probation. Because it taught me how to get up and live for myself instead of relying on someone else to do it for me."

Clint had stared at her, eyes wide.

"I...you've never told me that."

Truth had shrugged.

"If you don't ask, I don't tell. I thought you knew that by now, Barton. Can't give away all my secrets."

With that, Truth had glanced at the clock behind her. Walking around the island, she had taken the glass from Clint, put it in the sink, then looped her arm through his.

"Come on, Francis, I'll escort you. And, to make you feel doubly better, Natasha won't be alone. After all, now I get to take her on my version of the Castello D.C. Tour."

Clint had groaned as she dragged him into the corridor.

"One, I hated that tour—Michael made me go to a gay bar."

"I heard you'd enjoyed it."

"Shut up," he had told her, because plausible deniability did not exist with Truth. "Two, stop calling me that."

"It's your name," she had argued.

"It's my middle name. Middle names are supposed to be forgotten, not used."

"Well, I'm not exactly used to this concept of middle names, and I find it improbable to have one and not use it."

"That may be true," Clint had allowed, "but most Americans strongly dislike their middle names."

"Aw. But Francis is cute."

"That's what every man wants to hear."

Truth had patted his arm before putting some distance between them as they stopped in front of the elevators.

"Cute is a good thing, Barton. Don't tell me you forgot everything Michael taught you."

Clint gave her a look of alarm.

"Please don't take Natasha to a gay bar."

"Mm. You may be right. Can't have her outshining me there, too. I'd never hear the end of it."

The elevator doors had opened.

"You're ridiculous, you know that, right?"

Truth had smiled.

"I try to be."

Then she'd watched as Clint stepped inside the transport.

"You were possibly the first choice she had ever made for herself," she'd said softly, and Clint had turned to listen. "She chose to trust you, and she may always wonder whether she made the right choice."

Clint had stared for a moment. He was beginning to understand that Truth's "expertise" wasn't just a spew of half-assed guesses.

"Who was yours? Your first choice?"

"I told you, our lives aren't completely the same." Those who cycled through the Red Room were often introduced from infancy. Truth at least had the opportunity to experience a semi-normal childhood, however short and fleeting it had been. "The first person I trusted, the person who was supposed to love me and protect me, became the person who hurt me the most. Just...make sure you come back. Don't let her doubt herself in choosing you."

That had been four hours ago.

Two hours before that, Truth had just returned from her op in Vegas.

Dropping the knife in her hand onto the cloth protecting the counter top, she took in the state of her apartment. As was usual post-mission, her go bag still laid discarded on the floor—containing her suit waiting to go in the wash, a few gadgets and ammunition she had yet to return to the armory, as well as her mission report that needed to be filed and handed in to Fury and the reports of the STRIKE team that she also had to review—and she still had two more blades to clean and sharpen.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to sleep. Well, she did remember, but, before last night's mission, she'd still been working on the paperwork for her last infiltration. And then she'd been teaching one of her intermediate classes, going over progress reports and assessments for field readiness, and then there were her nights with Natasha...

Truth sighed. Just thinking of it all reminded her of the exhaustion lingering in her mind. But, she'd done more on less sleep. She could do this for Natasha.

She would, for a friend.

And over the last few weeks, she'd really grown to see Natasha as a friend.

So, Truth pushed aside the fatigue, as well as the bundle of nerves that had settled in her stomach at the thought of letting someone new into her space.

Because, if she were being honest with herself—which she usually was—, she'd already let Natasha into her safe place the night she'd told her to stay. So, nudging Heidi in the direction of the front door and using her telekinesis to unlock it for the assassin still mustering up the courage to simply knock wasn't the hardest decision in the world.

Truth had already returned her attention to her food when Heidi herded the other assassin inside, who's thoughts had quickly quieted upon the sudden invitation.

remember those walls I built?
well, baby they're tumbling down
and they didn't even put up a fight
they didn't even make a sound

"Good morning," Truth greeted. "Or afternoon. I don't really know anymore. Welcome to my humble abode. We have soup and knives, but the knives aren't for sale for safety reasons."

Natasha appeared lost standing in the entryway, though she did take a moment to study Truth's mess of a living room before her gaze fell on the other assassin sitting on a stool in front of a strew of discarded oils and polishes that filled the apartment with a familiar aroma. More confusing was perhaps the bowl of soup Truth was consuming at 11:23 in the morning.

i found a way to let you in
but i never really had a doubt

"I can..." Natasha eyed the remaining two knives unsheathed on the island. "I can come back later," she finished uncertainly.

standing in the light of your halo

"But you're here and welcome to be here now."

i've got my angel now

Truth patted the seat beside her in invitation, only for Heidi to hop up and lay down on it as though it was for her.

"Hey!" Truth snapped. "Bájate. Eso era para Natasha."
Get off. That was for Natasha.

Natasha's lips threatened to curve at the exclamation, pushing aside the tumbling feeling at the sound of her name coming from the other assassin, let alone in a Mexican accent. To help settle things, she sat in the remaining stool next to Heidi and held out a hand to the feline.

it's like i've been awakened
every rule i had you breaking

"It's okay, malenʹkij tigr (little tiger), the seat's all yours."

Heidi huffed at the name, but nudged Natasha's offered hand with her nose. Natasha's sharp gaze fell on Truth, before glancing again at the mess on the island.

it's the risk that i'm taking

"You look busy."

Truth took another spoonful of soup with a shrug.

i ain't never gonna shut you out

"I can multitask."

Natasha frowned at her soup.

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"I thought people only eat soup when they're sick."

Not that Natasha would know. She'd never gotten sick. And, if she had, she doubted she would've been rewarded with soup.

"I don't really get sick," Truth admitted. "At least, not by the usual viruses. I just wanted soup."

Natasha noted the new information, piling it into the ever sparse mental profile she had regarding Truth Castello. There were bits and pieces, and none of them so much as resembled a coherent big picture, but it was one more thing she knew about the other assassin, and she'd learned to embrace what little Truth revealed about herself without complaint.

That she even trusted Natasha enough to do so was more than she could ever ask for.

That Truth was willing to let her step inside her space, to bare her side, a weakness in battle, as she reached for the whetstone across the table, to take her eyes off of Natasha long enough to give her the advantage of distraction...

It was almost too much for Natasha to comprehend.

She knew it wasn't trust—it couldn't be. Not with the life they led. Not with Natasha's lack of familiarity with the word.

With Clint, it was different. He was a spy, an assassin, just the same as her, but, for him, it was something he could turn off. On a mission, he was Hawkeye; off duty, he was Clint—at least, as much of Clint as he could be at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Natasha expected it with Clint. He saw something in her, something that sometimes had her questioning his eyesight, but she had grown to grudgingly accept the foreign, yet seemingly universal idea he had that everyone has some amount of good in them.

It wasn't that she thought it was true. Natasha had come across a many people, not all of whom she was fortunate to kill, who were a true embodiment of all that is evil in the world. And, maybe Natasha wasn't that, but she certainly wasn't good.

But, Clint believed. When Natasha had began to accept her fondness for the archer, she'd worried about his belief. After all, she'd manipulated a number of men who had thought the same thing. It was a weakness, one she didn't like Clint having.

Maybe that was why she chose to be his partner. He needed someone who had his back, someone who could cover his weaknesses instead of exploit them. It was certainly a change in her usual mode of operandi, but...she didn't want Clint to stop believing. So she'd fight to make sure he never would.

But, where Clint grew up with this notion of inherent goodness, people like the Siren and the Black Widow did not. Natasha did not know much about Truth's backstory, but she was familiar enough with HYDRA to know that they would've had similar teachings.

Love was for children, and neither of them had ever been a child. They knew better than to trust, because trust always led to betrayal.

That is to say that Natasha was...comfortable with Truth. The core of their relationship was forged with a respect they'd earned from each other after a month of navigating the same space, of working around each other and dancing around the sordid complexity of their pasts. Even their "competitions" were familiar events, with neither assassin ever grazing a boundary, skirting around each other while still somehow meeting in the middle.

It was why she had entertained the idea of seeking Truth's help. Natasha...wanted to. She wanted to ask because she knew that Truth would help, no questions asked and no judgment made.

you're the only one that i want
think i'm addicted to your light

And that was what scared her the most. Natasha wasn't allowed to want things. And that included wanting to believe that, somehow, Truth Castello trusted Natasha Romanoff.

Because, she didn't. Point blank. It was one thing Natasha was absolutely sure of regarding the other assassin. She trusted no one. Others may question the statement only because, while Truth was known for being this uptight agent who gave zero shits about anyone around her, she was also kind. She did things for people, whether they knew she was helping them or not. She did it for Natasha more than once, giving her space when she needed it or distracting her from the hauntings of the past. Natasha had seen her do it for her students, their colleagues, the staff.

But it didn't mean she trusted them. Not with the real Truth Castello.

Natasha figured that Truth could pay the price to be kind. She had these abilities that separated her from the rest of them, abilities that made her a lot more capable. Even with her back turned, Truth was not defenseless. It was nothing about trust. She simply knew Natasha wouldn't be stupid enough to attack an enhanced, distracted or not.

gravity can't forget
to pull me back to the ground again

It was nothing about trust.

Natasha looked away.

"Natasha."

you're everything i need and more

Then she was drawn back.

it's written all over your face

"This could go a lot faster if you were helping me."

Natasha paused, watching Truth's skilled hands scrape the blade across the whetstone, not quite grasping the request.

At Natasha's continued silence, Truth continued.

"If it helps, you can think of it as a debt. And, to be clear, you're welcome to ask me for favors so long as you'd welcome the same from me."

At that Natasha nodded because she understood the signs of an deal. Somehow, yet again, Truth knew exactly what to say to put her at ease.

The kind, gentle assassin.

you know you're my saving grace

"Yeah," she replied. "I can do that."

"Excellent. Now, the faster we get this done, the closer we are to leaving."

Natasha raised a brow as she grabbed the last dirty knife. She didn't recall ever voicing her dilemma, yet.

"And, where would we be going?"

Truth gave her a mischievous smile.

pray it won't fade away

"Just for a little walk."

𝐖𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧, 𝐃.𝐂.

"I thought you said we were going for a walk."

There they stood in front of a sleek black Porsche, a resplendent beauty even in the ominous shadows of the parking garage.

Truth shrugged.

"A walk to the car."

She watched as Natasha took a step closer to study the vehicle, circling its hood. She wanted to know what she thought, but Natasha's mind was somewhere Truth would never intrude in if she had any say in it.

"Doesn't the Triskelion have its own parking?" Natasha questioned distractedly. Reserved parking was expensive on a good day, but Natasha didn't miss the heavy load of security they had bypassed to enter the garage. She'd almost thought that she'd have to disarm herself before Truth had assured her it wouldn't be necessary.

"It does, but my brother is a paranoid ass when it come to his things, let alone his car."

"Paranoia keeps you alive," Natasha commented. Then she glanced up. "Does he know you plan on taking it for a joy ride? Let alone with me?"

Truth raised a brow.

"I don't recall saying that."

"You didn't have to."

There was a nervous kind of aura emanating from Natasha, almost like she was waiting for something to happen. Visually, her shoulders were tense, her fingers hovering over the hood of the car as her jaw clenched, green eyes peering through the windshield with an incisive gaze.

It was similar to how she had been in her apartment. Though it could be mistaken for being polite, Natasha hadn't touched anything unless Truth both gave the okay for it and touched the item herself. The assassin was far away from her territory, and Truth didn't like having to push her, but it was one of those situations where it had to get worse before it got better.

Truth laid a hand on the hood of the car, leaning to meet Natasha's gaze.

"Don't worry about Michael." When she was sure Natasha understood, she then stepped away. "I need to speak with the valet. It shouldn't take long, but, in the meantime, you're welcome to sweep the car if you want."

Before Natasha could protest, Truth began to walk away.

"I mean that, by the way," she tossed over her shoulder before moving out of earshot.

Natasha's brows furrowed as she looked from Truth's retreating figure to the sleek black car, unsure if the other woman was serious.

I mean that, she'd said, and Natasha's frown deepened, fingers hovering over the smooth vehicle, still hesitant to touch.

Because, confidence was one thing—blatant arrogance was another.

If Natasha didn't know her personally, she would think that Truth was a sorry excuse for someone in their line of work. She would wonder how she hadn't gotten herself killed already, and then she would count all the ways she could take advantage because it was essential to have your options readily available. She'd picture how easy it'd be to—

No. That was what Natalia would do. It was what Natalia was trained to do, the only way to stay alive in a place where everyone would kill you if you gave them the chance.

This wasn't the Red Room.

Dreykov was dead.

The Red Room no longer existed. Anything that was left of it laid in shambles.

With pursed lips, Natasha did her sweep of the vehicle. She checked for bugs, noted the weapon stashes, tested the locks, finding that Truth also left the trunk unlocked for her use. It was a standard security check—if Truth was going to be so careless around her, then Natasha would be damned if she took advantage of her for no discernible reason—but it did settle the anxiety at the idea of getting into someone else's car with an unknown destination.

"Your brother's not gonna like this," the valet told Truth as she approached.

"That is none of your concern, Viktor." She came to a stop beside him and handed him a wad of cash. The car was a favor, but her brother tended to forgo paying Viktor his dues and she owed the man after Brazil. "It'll do you good if you forgot you saw us."

He took it from her without complaint, hiding it away in the folds of his jacket.

"Sure as hell," he said. "The Widow ain't exactly cheap on the market. Be careful throwing her around."

Bounties. You wouldn't be good at the job if you didn't have one or two people putting a price on your head. Truth and Michael had more than a few, and they've also intercepted some attempts on Clint's life.

Truth had seen the ones for Natasha after she left the KGB. She wouldn't be surprised to hear that the numbers had gone up since she'd defected from Russia entirely.

"Let them come. I think she's rather capable of handling it."

Viktor gave her a look.

"My concern isn't for her."

"I didn't think it was. How are things?"

"Peachy."

Brazil is secure, he thought. Safe houses are stocked, many women and children are still in recovery but they've got access to the best healthcare available. At least fifty more men working with the Nove Vidas were convicted in Mexico and we've got the best working to make sure they don't see the light of day ever again.

"That's good to hear."

Let me know if that changes, Truth projected.

You'll be the first.

"Your pet is waiting."

"Ich würde vorsichtig sein," Truth warned.
I'd be careful.

Viktor's eyes moved, studying something unseen in the air surrounding the assassin. Truth clenched her jaw, but kept her complaints to herself as she shifted to block Natasha from his prying.

"Interesting," he muttered.

"You ever think that, perhaps, not everyone appreciates your cryptic comments?"

Viktor gave her a sly smile. "You just don't like that you can't see what I see."

While it was true that Truth wasn't privy to his unique sight, even when viewing the world through his eyes, he was wrong to think that it bothered her. It was quite the contrary—she had had enough people telling her who she was and what she was destined for. She consistently made the point to avoid reading his interpretation of her soul.

"Do me a favor," she said, "and keep an eye on those bounties for me."

Instead of another smart comment, he simply said, "You got it," and went on his way.

Truth watched for a moment before turning, briefly entertaining the thought that maybe he saw more than he was letting on.

"All good?" Truth questioned once she returned to the car. Natasha stepped out, leaving the passenger door open as she leaned against the roof.

Her only response was a nod.

"Natasha—"

"Did Clint ask you to do this?" she questioned.

"Clint didn't ask me to do anything," Truth replied. "He came to me this morning because he was worried and I helped him calm down."

Natasha straightened with a frown.

"What was he worried about?"

And why hadn't he brought it up to her? Did it have something to do with his mission? Was he—

"He was worried about you."

That had Natasha pause.

"Why?" she asked, utterly perplexed.

"It's not for me to say."

Natasha didn't let up her stare. She examined Truth, searching for a lie or a tell, and Truth let her with pursed lips. She understood Natasha's worry, but something felt off knowing that Natasha was looking at her with something akin to distrust.

Truth didn't know why it mattered. She'd never worried about people trusting her before. So long as she knew she was true to her word, it usually didn't make a difference.

"Natasha," she said, and the other assassin looked away. "Clint is okay. And, just as you are worried about him right now, he was worried about you. Sometimes that's what happens. I don't want to lie to you and I want to respect the fact that Clint came to me with his thoughts, just as I respect you coming to me today. If I don't want to answer a question, then I won't. If I can't tell you the truth, then I'll tell you that."

Natasha fiddled. It was subtle—she twisted her thumb and forefinger around her wrist this way and that before hiding her hand behind her back. At the sight, Truth continued to keep her distance.

"If not because of him, then why are you doing this?" Natasha asked eventually.

Truth thought about it.

"Do you want the most accurate answer or the one you'll believe the most?"

Natasha's brows furrowed.

"No lies."

"Never," Truth agreed easily. Then she shrugged. "It's a tradition."

"What is?"

Truth gave her a slow smirk.

"Those would be your famous last words."

Then she reached around the other assassin to hold the passenger door open and gesture for her to sit.

"Get in the car, Natasha. We're going shopping."

Chapter Text

𝐖𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧, 𝐃.𝐂.

are we an item?
girl, quit playing.
"we're just friends"
what are you saying?

said "there's another" and looked right in my eyes
my first love broke my heart for the first time,
and i was like—

"Do we have to listen to this?"

Truth took her eyes off the road for a moment to send Natasha a cursory glance.

"You don't like Bieber?"

Natasha sighed, looking out her window like a sullen teenager.

"He wouldn't be my first choice."

"Didn't we just agree that we were going to have fun for the next few days?"

"I said I'd try."

"Try to listen to Justin. It's about young love, first heartbreaks—"

"Ljubovʹ - èto dlja detej."
Love is for children.

Truth's hand tightened on the wheel. Suddenly, she was cold, the sun an absence, and a mirror of herself stood before her.

Growing up is knowing that love is for children, Alethea. You are not a child. Love makes you weak. You are the greatest weapon there is.

And then she exhaled, observing the traffic ahead of her, aware that the woman beside her had been abused in ways she would never know. Somehow, with Natasha, it was easy to recognize and forgive.

"Togda my vse deti, Nataša."
Then we are all children, Natasha.

They sat in silence for a few moments, both assassins fighting back remnants of the past. The song eventually ended, and the radio host introduced a more dated classic.

i was scared of dentists and the dark
i was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations
oh, all my friends are turning green
you're the magician's assistant in their dream

"Why don't we make a list of promises?"

Natasha looked away from the window to glance at Truth.

"I've already—"

"I know, but I mean a list of promises to have between the both of us."

"So...a set of rules?"

"Technically, yes, but...I think I've had enough rules in my life."

Natasha's eyebrows furrowed.

"They don't have to be big promises," Truth assured after some time.

"All promises are big."

Promises meant attachments—it meant giving your word to someone and keeping it under every circumstance.

Promises were important.

But, promises were also dangerous. Natasha would be compromised.

"Not if you make them reasonable. For example, I promise to go to the Canteen at least twice a week."

"Truth—"

But the other assassin held up a hand.

"And I promise to only do what I'm willing to do." She took her eyes off the road again to glance at Natasha. "And, I'm willing to do that, not only because you asked, but because I want to do it for myself."

Weak, Natalia. The weak ones will break. You must be unbreakable.

Defiance was never an option. Attachments made you breakable. And those who break, die.

But I am made of marble, Natasha reminded herself. And pain only makes you stronger.

"I promise to try," Natasha said, her voice heavy.

"I promise to be patient," Truth replied softly.

Natasha glanced at the other woman, unable to detangle the jumble of thoughts in her head.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

there's this movie that I think you'll like
this guy decides to quit his job and heads to New York City
this cowboy's running from himself
and she's been living on the highest shelf.

"What are you thanking me for?" Truth questioned.

For being you, Natasha thought.

"For this. You didn't have to. You still don't."

Then Truth smiled.

"I want to. And it's a family tradition."

"What is?"

"The Castello D.C. Tour."

Natasha raised a brow.

"What does that mean?"

Truth turned on her left blinker as she began to sing along with the radio.

lady, running down to the riptide
taken away to the dark side
i wanna be your left-hand man

"Does that mean you'll tell me where we're going?"

i love you when you're singing that song
and I got a lump in my throat
'cause you're gonna sing the words wrong

"Truth."

Truth sighed as though Natasha were being particularly difficult.

"I told you we're going shopping."

"But, where?"

"A store."

Natasha muttered a curse.

"Fine. What are we shopping for?"

Truth smirked. "Now you're getting to the real questions." She leaned over Natasha to reach into the glove department. Revealing a note pad and pencil, she dropped it in Natasha's lap. "Here. We're making a list—"

"You seem to be into those," Natasha muttered, and Truth gave her a pointed look for it.

"—you'll need pots and pans if you don't already have them, utensils, blankets—"

Pen hovering over the paper, Natasha frowned at Truth's words and slowly lowered the pen to look at her. Truth looked away from the road to return her stare.

i just wanna, i just wanna know
if you're gonna, if you're gonna stay
i just gotta, i just gotta know
i can't have it, i can't have it any other way

Breaking the moment, Truth pressed on the breaks as a car came to a sudden stop in front of them, and Natasha grabbed onto the handle above her head in surprise. At least she had good reflexes for someone who hardly kept her eyes on the road.

Natasha sighed. She did promise.

Then she began writing.

Truth had a smile on her face for the rest of the ride.

By the time they pulled up to Pentagon City, where Truth began the arduous quest for parking, Natasha was almost...excited for the first time since she had been told of Clint's mission.

Because, from what she could gather from Truth's cryptic answers, the Castello D.C. Tour would be a five day affair over which Truth would show her all that the city had to offer in celebration of her new freedom.

"It's important to celebrate the little things," Truth had told her. "Because it shows you how far you've come from the then."

Then she had given her a pointed look, and Natasha had almost rolled her eyes.

"I promise to celebrate the little things," she'd recited in a droll voice.

Their itinerary would not be revealed to Natasha, but Truth promised to fill her in every morning before they set out on the next leg of the tour.

"And, what happens when Fury grows curious to both our absences?" Natasha had asked.

"That's, actually, for neither of us to worry about. God knows I deserve a break, and if I drag you with me, then so be it."

Natasha had stared at Truth with an amused smirk.

"You're a troublemaker, aren't you?"

"I promise—"

"I don't think I need that to be a promise."

It was easy then for Natasha to carry on her promise to try. Because, she didn't need to try to have a good time at the prospect of being in the company of a friend when she had, not so long ago, battled with the knowledge that she would be alone.

And if Truth had to do only what she was willing to do for the rest of her life, she would be willing to see Natasha as she was in that moment: happy, comfortable, and free. She would be willing to do what she had to to continue to see it time and time again, and that included shouldering the more sobering parts of the outing, such as keeping them clear of cameras and diverting unwanted attention. It helped that Natasha seemed to become a shadow on instinct, naturally drifting to the most crowded areas and keeping her head down. Truth would likely never be able to rid her of those instilled teachings, but she could do her best to do the brunt of the work for her.

They managed to get majority of the items Natasha needed, as well as some things she didn't.

"Truth," Natasha chided. The more she loosened up, the more she said her name—whether it was in surprise, annoyance, or amusement—and Truth was sure she'd never grow tired of it.

"Natasha, it's February. You need a coat."

"Truth, it's twenty degrees."

"That's cold!"

"That's a hot summer day in a Russia, malenʹkaja rusalka (little rusalka)."

Truth's mind went blank. Then she turned, realizing that Natasha was already moving onto the next thing.

"Rusalka?"

But Natasha didn't answer.

"Natasha, what does that mean?!"

Other times, they simply got...distracted.

Truth crept down the vacant aisle, keeping close to the right, careful of the colorful, plush obstacles that lay scattered along her path. Her breathing slowed as she listened, her weapon at the ready.

There. Just the briefest glimpse of movement across from her. After a brief glance, she rolled swiftly across the vertical path separating the rows of aisles, bringing her closer to her target.

They mirrored each other, silent steps crawling down to the far wall on the right where they slowed. Then, as if in tandem, the combatants dove out and took their aim.

Natasha took a shot to the chest, while Truth narrowly missed the bullet to her heart where it tagged her shoulder. To secure victory, Truth shot another two bullets in quick succession.

"Ha!" she exclaimed, hoisting her nerf gun in the air.

Then a foam dart hit her square in the forehead, and another at her chest.

"...Fuck."

Eventually, they made it down to eight items left to find. By then, they had stumbled upon another competition.

"Found it," Natasha announced as she rounded the corner with two sets of twelve light bulbs in hand. "It was in aisle 5. Like I said."

Truth narrowed her eyes from where she leaned against the handhold of the shopping cart.

"You just got lucky."

Natasha balanced her conquests precariously on all the other things they'd thrown in the cart, raising an eyebrow at the woman across from her.

"Did I?"

"I bet I can find the calendar in five minutes."

"I can do it in two."

Truth found the calendar first, only because it was randomly discarded in the movie aisle, where she had been distracted by the new DVDs on sale. However, in the race to find the remaining seven items, Natasha won due to Truth finding, instead, a badminton set and a stuffed plushy of a tabby cat. Natasha was unamused at the prospects of taking the cat, but otherwise succumbed to Truth's insistence.

As the loser, Truth offered to buy Natasha a pretzel from Auntie Anne's as a snack. In other words, no—Truth was not going to forget about those Buzzfeed quizzes.

Their last stop had both assassins sobering as they stepped through the automatic doors. Natasha was ready to get the task done and over with at least so she wouldn't have to think about it for hopefully the next month, but the size of the crowd had her looking back at Truth with concern.

"Is it normally this crowded at this time?"

Truth observed the bustle of activity, trying to filter out the layer of voices both mental and verbal.

"People are getting off of work. Last minute groceries. Poor timing on our part."

Natasha looked back in time to step out of the way of woman hauling several bags to her car.

"We can do this a different day," she offered tentatively. She still didn't know the meaning behind Truth's aversion to loudness, but she didn't want the other woman to be uncomfortable at her expense.

"I can handle it," she assured, preparing to bear the inevitable light headache even as she consciously lessened her mental range to a ten-foot radius. Then she gave Natasha a small smile. "Sometimes you can't run from everything."

Both assassins were more alert, with Natasha compensating for any disturbances Truth may experience—while also mentally preparing herself for the possibility that she'd have to talk the other assassin down from an episode—and Truth working harder on keeping any stray eyes from looking too closely, specifically at any mental thought or mention of red or purple, their two most defining features. They were lucky to find a shopping cart left discarded in the middle of the walkway.

Barely two minutes had passed without a single word passing between them. The tension was strong enough that Truth couldn't stop herself from glancing at Natasha, who looked so different from the woman who had been smiling and joking around with her earlier. Instead, she was serious, focused on the task, though, perhaps not as well as she should've been because she never put a single item in the cart, and her hand twitched towards the concealed weapon in her sleeve.

Once they reached four minutes, Truth couldn't stand it anymore.

"Natasha," she called. The assassin barely turned, her eyes scanning the crowd. "Natasha, get in the cart."

That got her attention. Her hair flew with the speed of her turn.

"What?" she questioned, glancing around in alarm as she again reached for the sleeve where her knife was hidden. "Why?"

"Because I want you to have the full American experience. No one is watching us. It'll be fine."

Natasha glanced around again, this time studying the carts of other shoppers. She was aware of the traditional activity of putting toddlers in the front seat of a shopping cart, and she supposed it wouldn't be completely averse to also put a child in the bigger section of the cart.

"But..."

Truth gave her a pointed look.

"Remember what I said earlier?"

We are all children, Natasha.

Truth was attempting to prove a point.

"Get in, mikrí khíra (little widow)," she said with a smile. "Today, we are children."

In the end, Natasha ended up sitting in the empty cart with but a few complaints. Truth had folded the kid seat back to give her more room, and once the redhead was settled, Truth began to push her through the aisles.

Oddly enough, Natasha felt more at ease inside the cart. The boxy feel of it was less claustrophobic and more of a shield—if anyone made a shot at Natasha, the chances of a bullet hitting her were greatly reduced due to the design of the cart, which meant more time for a reaction on her part. She suspected that was Truth's alternative reasoning behind her insistence, and, if it was, it worked at keeping her complaints to a minimum.

"First order of business," Truth said as they made their way down the dairy aisle, "is eggs and milk. Always check the dates—you want whatever expires the latest. Over time you'll notice how often you tend to use more or less and you'll adjust your shopping to match that."

Natasha watched as Truth grabbed a carton of eggs, checking the date then looking inside to ensure each egg was in good condition.

"What do you usually get?"

"I use a lot of both, so I'd get two dozen eggs and two gallons. On the likeliness that I'll have a longer op sooner rather than later, I'd get half as much."

Natasha listened to Truth's instructions carefully, only interrupting to ask questions of her own. She was grateful to her—never once did Truth ask for her favorite brand or how much of something she wanted. It was like she understood what it was like to not know the basic things and didn't make Natasha feel lost or helpless because of it. Instead, Truth picked out the brands she herself enjoyed for Natasha to decide if she liked it or not on her own time.

"For your 'midnight snack'," Truth quipped as she threw a block of cheese into the cart, narrowly missing Natasha. In retaliation, Natasha attempted to grab a bag of chips off a shelf, nearly tipping over the cart before Truth steered her away from any and all projectiles.

Truth made sure to get a good portion of frozen foods and easily prepare-able meals like cereal and Eggos, recalling how she had relied on those like a freshman in college before she learned how to cook.

"Probably shouldn't get you ice cream," Truth muttered as they passed by the display of frozen desserts.

"I'm feeling rather judged right now," Natasha replied, reading the labels on some of the items Truth threw in. If she didn't like the sound of something, she discreetly put it back on whatever surface she could reach when Truth wasn't looking.

"I'm not judging you," Truth assured. "I just think you're really missing out."

As they left this aisle, preparing to make a right turn toward where the meats were located, Truth paused.

Natasha glanced up, muscles tensed until she realized what the other woman was looking at.

A little boy, about four years in age, holding a pack of Lunchables tightly to his chest, stood in the middle of a bustling crowd, studying each adult that passed by in the hopes of seeing a familiar face. He was a quiet thing—never once did he cry at the prospects of being lost, but rather continued on with an air of determination.

Truth must've done something because the kid's gaze passed over them several times until, suddenly, he locked onto the two women as though they'd appeared out of nowhere.

What made him run over to them specifically? Natasha didn't know. Though, Natasha wasn't surprised when he beelined straight for Truth.



Maybe she had that effect on everyone.

The little boy looked at Truth expectantly.

"Hello," she greeted calmly. "Can I help you with something?"

He nodded. Truth waited a beat.

"Can you tell me what you need help with? I can't read your mind, silly."

He smiled a shy smile, hiding behind his Lunchables.

"I'm looking for my mommy," he mumbled. Then he bounced on his toes and glanced at Natasha before looking away quickly and shuffling a bit closer to Truth, hiding his face in the collar of his jacket. Truth held back an amused smile.

"Can you tell me what she looks like?"

Then the kid shrugged.

"She looks like me."

"Yeah?" Truth questioned. Then she used a hand to measure his height. "Yay high, with light-up sneakers?"

The boy looked down at his shoes as though he'd forgotten what kind he'd put on that morning and laughed.

"No! Not my sneakers. And she's taller than me!"

"Really? Natasha, what do you think?"

Natasha was happy to watch the two with little contribution of her own, but she mustered up what she hoped was a comforting smile for the boy.

"Do you remember the last place you saw her?"

The boy thought about it, then shook his head.

"That's okay," Natasha said. "We'll help you find her."

Natasha used the whole thing as an excuse to get out of the cart, to which Truth gave her a playful glare but let her. It didn't take long to find the boy's mother—in fact, it was almost like Truth had known exactly where she'd been the whole time.

"Look," she said, crouching beside the boy to nod in the direction of a woman growing distressed at the fact she hadn't seen her child for a couple of minutes. "I think she's lost something, too."

The moment he saw her, his face lit up.

"Mommy!"

In his excitement, he dropped his Lunchables as he ran towards her. Truth picked it up and handed it to Natasha, who raised a brow at her.

Truth shrugged.

"You're closer."

Natasha barely refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Thank you so much," the mother told Natasha as she accepted the Lunchables, which the boy gratefully took from his mother's hand.

"You're welcome. He's a nice kid."

The boy blushed, then leaned to whisper in his mother's ear. At her nod, he turned to face Natasha, though he fiddled with his yellow box.

"Thank you...I really like your hair."

At that, Natasha smiled, caught by surprise by a four-year-old if all things.

"Thank you. I really like your sneakers."

When Natasha made her way back to Truth, there was a smile on the other woman's lips.

"I really like your hair."

Natasha lightly punched her arm.

"You're impossible."

"I try to be." Then she tapped the shopping cart. "You ready to hop back in?"

Natasha gave her a look.

"Don't you think I've spent enough time in the cart?"

"It's not like it's a prison sentence, Natasha. Besides, you can't deny that it was fun."

"That was before you threw a whole watermelon in there with me."

Truth hummed in acknowledgment.

"Fine. You're lucky we're almost done. What do you think about pasta for dinner?"

Natasha leaned against the cart with a mischievous look.

"Are you offering to make me something?"

"No, I just wanted to hear your hot takes on Italian cuisine."

Natasha hit her again.

"Umnik (smartass)," she said before turning and walking away. Over her shoulder she added, "That's why you're a naked cat!"

"Hey," Truth exclaimed as she hurried to follow, pushing the shopping cart with her. "I thought we agreed that that quiz was void!"

𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Natasha was beginning to feel anxious again.

They'd made it home safely with their acquisitions, with Truth playing a handful of Justin Bieber songs to fully assimilate Natasha into the American culture while Natasha endured to the best of her ability. Despite a few rough patches, it was possibly the best day she's had in a very long time.

And, that said a lot considering that they only went shopping.

But then as they grew closer to the Triskelion, it became apparent that she would have to make a fundamental decision.

They had accumulated a total of twenty-two bags, many filled to complete capacity. It was lucky that the car had a few jumbo bags for them to fill with the smaller ones, but even Natasha couldn't bring everything up to her apartment by herself.

Truth had offered to walk her to her door and make dinner at her place, being the thoughtful person she was, but, all Natasha could think about was how Truth had taken the step to invite her inside her space, and even let her handle her weapons (a second occurrence now). While she knew Truth wouldn't fault her for it, Natasha wanted to have the courage that she had.

She really wanted to try.

And so, she let Truth in.

And the first thing the other assassin did upon stepping inside Natasha's apartment was drop her bags by the door and beeline for the growing stack of books Natasha had left against the wall of the hallway.

She didn't touch anything. Instead, she crouched and tilted her head to better read the titles on the spines.

"Did you steal these?"

Natasha huffed.

"No. I got them from the library."

Truth hummed.

"But you're not gonna give them back, are you?"

At that, Natasha shrugged.

"Depends."

"On?"

"If I like the book or not."

Truth smiled as though Natasha had given her the right answer.

"Have you read any of them yet? Anything you'd recommend?"

Natasha turned thoughtful as she studied the pile. She took the question seriously, mentally running through books she thought the other woman might like before putting her own bags down next to Truth's and disappearing further down the darkened hallway.

Truth didn't have the time to wonder at her behavior when Natasha returned with an enormous hardcover protected by a sleeve and sat down cross-legged next to her.

Once she read the title, Truth laughed.

"The Lord of the Rings?"

Natasha grinned, happiness spreading along her features as she handled the book with care.

"It's the 50th Anniversary Edition. Three books in one."

"There's no way you found that in the library," Truth said. "I would've stolen that long before you did."

Then Natasha's smile turned mischievous.

"I can't reveal all my secrets, can I?"

Then she handed the book over.

Truth, ever so dramatic, scooted away.

"Absolutely not."

Natasha, a little puzzled, put the book down on the floor, about to say something until Truth jumped up to her feet.

"Natasha! That is a sacred artifact and you just put it on the floor!"

The redhead blinked.

"If you took it when I gave it to you, it wouldn't be on the floor."

"I cannot take that, Natasha. It's yours."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"I stole it."

"Therefore making it yours by thievery."

"Truth, if you won't take the book—"

"You need to put the milk up before it goes bad," Truth said matter-of-factly, leaning against the island with a hand on her hip.

Conceding her point, Natasha stood to rummage through the bags, but not before placing the volume on the counter next to Truth.

"Read," she instructed. "I'm fulfilling my debt."

"Taking you shopping is not the same as lending me your treasured 50th Anniversary Edition of the Lord of the Rings."

Natasha found the milk cartons and walked over to the fridge.

"Who says it's treasured?"

But, Truth gave her a pointed look.

"Instead of keeping it out here with the rest of your books, you kept it somewhere else. The cover isn't dusty, and you look at it like it's your treasured 50th Anniversary—"

"Truth—"

"Dios mío, Natasha—"
My God, Natasha—

"Istina."
Truth.

Truth paused in the middle of her next rant and looked at Natasha, now fully attentive.

Natasha smirked at her, then she began to load the fridge with more items.

"What?" Truth asked.

"It's funny."

"What is?"

"It's like you reset whenever I speak to you in Russian."

Truth frowned. Natasha continued to sort through the bags as the other woman debated between a playful response and a truthful one.

"Mne nravitsja, kogda vy govorite po-russki."
I like when you speak Russian.

Natasha turned to tilt her head at her.

"Počemu?"
Why?

Truth shrugged.

"It suits you. And I think it's your comfort language."

"My 'comfort language'?"

"I feel most comfortable when I speak Greek. I've only heard you speak Russian in small settings."

Natasha raised a brow.

"That could be because we only see each other in small settings."

Truth ducked her head with a sheepish smile.

"I promised I'd work on it," she mumbled, toeing the edge of her boot against the wood floor.

Natasha's lips quirked.

"I know."

Then she stepped closer to put a hand on the book, standing just across from the other woman.

"Also, you're diverting."

Truth groaned.

"I need to cook dinner!"

Natasha scoffed.

"It's pasta. That takes like ten minutes."

"Says you."

Natasha gave her a look.

"Truth. I really want you to read it."

"Why?"

"Why did you let me into your apartment? Why take me shopping? Why let me search your car?"

"Michael's car."

Natasha picked up the book.

"Don't make me hit you with this."

Truth raised her hands defensively.

"I profusely protest that action, not in concern of any injury on my part, but in concern of that aging artifact."

"You're actually ridiculous," Natasha said. "I'm trying, here."

At that, Truth quieted. Because, while Natasha had promised to try, she had promised to be patient.

Once the floor was hers, Natasha sighed and looked away. If Truth could be honest, so could she.

"You were right. This book does mean a lot to me. Just how your knives mean a lot to you. But...I was taught to not be sentimental. Things are just...things to me. I don't mind handing this to you because, one, I know you would take care of it, and two, I feel...comfortable giving it to you."

And, that last part was surprising for both assassins, but Natasha was shocked to realize that she truly meant it. Because, while moments ago she'd been worried of letting Truth in, she'd watched the other woman take one step into her painfully sparse apartment only to grow completely enraptured at the sight of Natasha's misshapen, stolen pile of dusty books.

She'd watched, and she'd wondered, what was she afraid of?

Because, she wasn't afraid of Truth Castello. How could she be? The gentle, kind assassin. The little songbird.

"So, in other words," Natasha continued, sliding the book closer to Truth, "Take it. I want you to read it."

Truth blinked, her face completely blank.

"Well—"

"Bože moj."
Oh my God.

Then Truth grinned, finally reaching out to drag the book closer.

"I'm just kidding."

"Promise me," Natasha ordered.

Truth sighed. She didn't like it when her words were used against her.

"I promise to read your treasured 50th Anniversary Edition of Lord of the Rings."

"Horošaja devočka."
Good girl.

And, boy, did that get Truth's attention.

Then Natasha smiled.

"Let's start with the first page."

"What?!" Truth exclaimed as Natasha resumed unpacking the bags. "You want me to read it now? You need help with the groceries, and I need to make—"

"I'll make dinner."

"...Am I supposed to trust that statement?"

Natasha hit her with a discarded, empty plastic bag as she passed by her.

"I'm just saying!" Truth said, holding up her arms to defend herself. "There's probably a reason you live off of sandwiches—"

Then, upon finding it buried in a bag beneath a number of house supplies, Natasha threw the tabby plushy at her.

"Hey!" Truth exclaimed, picking the poor cat off the floor. "That's not nice to Cheese."

"Read. Now."

"Wait a minute! How about we compromise?"