Written for the 2019 be_compromised Secret Santa Exchange. The different-call and Natasha-joins-SHIELD scenarios have been done a bazillion times (including by me, oops). But what better time than Christmas for hauling out the Golden Oldies, especially when bettybackintheday had a hankering for the Classics? So, Vintage 2012 Origin Story it is. Any resemblance to a certain Victorian novel is purely coincidental.

A Christmas Story

By Alpha Flyer

Vladimir Ilyitch Sorodkin was dead, to begin with.

There is no doubt whatever about that - Clint Barton's powers of perception are as good as they get in this good old world. The man in question is lying half-buried in a snowdrift outside a dilapidated post-Stalinist warehouse, eyes unblinking despite the snowflakes now falling into them.

He didn't die a natural death, either, judging by the red ice crystals that are beginning to form around his chest in an odd star-shaped pattern and the bodies of the three henchmen draped inelegantly on the ground around him, their chests bearing similar marks.

"Dead as a doornail," Clint announces through the comm. "Someone else got here first. Not that long ago, by the looks of it. How long does it take fresh blood to freeze at minus thirty-five?"

Coulson's sigh is audible even over the static.

"Depends on the size of the droplets," he says, "and whether you have arterial spray or catastrophic hemorrhaging. Anywhere from seconds to minutes. Does it matter? Fury is not going to be happy we didn't get this done ourselves. I hope the Council doesn't scrap our Christmas bonus."

"Why would they? He's out of the game, isn't he?"

Clint takes a quick snapshot of the corpse. Records will want to see proof of the guy's demise, plus that star pattern is intriguing. What kind of weapon would cause that…?

"I know we were supposed to bring him in for a Q&A, but the way I figure, the Russian takeover of the Senate has been at least fifteen minutes worth of disrupted. That should count as a win even for Pierce. Although with that stuffed shirt, you never know."

Seconds to minutes, huh.

There's only one road to that warehouse, and Clint hadn't met anyone on the way. Whoever offed Sorodkin is still around somewhere. He carefully lowers his bow into a posture that looks relaxed but is anything but; his internal alarm is on maximum vibrate.

"It's not that." Coulson is oblivious to his asset's return to operational readiness. "It's the failure of intelligence. Why didn't SHIELD know that there was someone else after Sorodkin, and who? We really need to have another chat with the CIA about information-sharing."

Clint scans the perimeter without moving his head, thanking his lucky stars for their gift of excessive peripheral vision, while Coulson babbles on in his ear. He nudges the earpiece loose with a shrug of his shoulder, to let Coulson's voice out into the chilly air. If the assassin is still here, he doesn't need to know that Hawkeye is looking for him. Chances are, whoever it is won't want to complicate their job with an American corpse, especially not one who's got evident backup on the comm.

"Yeah," he responds to Coulson's indignant tirade. "Guess the spooks haven't forgiven Fury getting that new toy of his approved by Congress. I hear the dough had been earmarked for Langley. Funny how that shit backfires, huh."

Lure set. Nothing like the promise of bonus intel to keep covert operatives riveted. Clint had learned that one in Vienna; his ribs still smart occasionally from the consequences of sticking around that extra minute, however many pinch-lipped kudos the info had got him from Hill. Coulson tut-tuts in his ear about OpSec and washing SHIELD's dirty laundry in public, but Clint just ignores him.

There's little to be said for the kind of weather they're having in Moscow this time of year, even wearing thermal underwear and a balaclava; that whole freezing-finger-tips-in-open-gloves-so-you-can-use-your-bow shtick sucks serious balls, as far as Clint is concerned. But there is one thing you can say about these conditions: even the cleverest hiding artist has got to breathe, and at minus 35 you might as well be sending out smoke signals.

Sure enough, there's a thin puffy breath cloud rising from behind a pallet stack, barely visible against the backdrop of the warehouse. Its owner must be trying to keep it to a minimum but, you know, life will find a way.

Clint quickly calculates the angle his arrow would need to take through the spaces in the pallets and where the assassin's center mass might be, based on the diffusion of the guy's breath. He lets fly without lifting his bow.

The arrow slips cleanly between the hollow spaces; the result is a satisfying thud, followed by a Russian expletive. A woman's voice. A nanosecond later, the pallet stack explodes as a small figure hurls itself in his direction, moonlight and snow reflecting in the matte metal sheen of her Glock. But the tranquilizer works as advertised and the woman collapses in mid-air; the single shot she gets off grazes Clint's left calf as she goes down.

The fact that his latest target is a woman – and a tiny one at that - makes no more difference to Clint than it had to the late Comrade Sorodkin; a killer is a killer, and this one looks to have been a pro. But here's the thing: the tranquilizer dose in his arrow had been calculated for a 240-pound mafia dude, not a hundred-pound female. She'll be out for at least ten hours. Oh, well.

Clint does a perfunctory check-up on his calf: the leg of his tac suit is ripped and blood is running into his boot. Fuck, that's impossible to get out and will give the dragon lady in charge of supplies another excuse to ream him out. Also, probably not a good idea to let it freeze, like that red star that's now solidified on Sorodkin's chest. But curiosity prevails.

He approaches the scattered pallets with his bow still drawn; there's still only the one exhalation plume. Even that is pretty faint now that its originator lies unconscious on the snowy ground. He could of course just leave her there, to assume ground temperature alongside her mark, one less witness to notify media relations about. But something is nagging at the back of Clint's mind, about the long-standing assignment given to him by the Director himself, courtesy of the Council - one that he has so far failed to execute.

The target who had slipped through his fingers time and again, in Rome, Valetta, Tunis; she'd moved around the world with the grace of a dancer, leaving dead bodies in her wake as she went, always one step ahead of SHIELD intel and his arrow.

The pattern sure fits: Of late, she'd been getting picky - targeting oligarchs, underworld bosses, mafia types. People the planet could do without. Like he was doing, except this one killed on commission, rather than for a pensionable salary and the Greater Good. Now, Clint has no problem with freelance assassination in principle; it's how he'd come to the attention of SHIELD in the first place. All that makes the two of them colleagues, two peas in a pod really. But the Council seems to think she should be stopped before she starts on the wrong kind of goon, and so here they are.

The small figure before Clint is dressed in some kind of hi-tech thermal kit; nothing that tight could possibly be warm enough otherwise. A crown of bright red hair spills out from under a pair of ear warmers and pools around her head. Asleep, she looks almost innocent. So yeah, it's definitely her - the Black Widow, in the soon-to-be-frozen flesh.

Explains the starburst pattern on Sorodkin's chest, too. Merry fucking Christmas, Hawkeye.

"Hey, Coulson," he says smugly, shifting his weight onto the uninjured leg. "Maybe we'll get that bonus after all."

Clint lifts his bow again. His standing orders are to kill her on sight and here she is, served practically on a platter and already on ice. He nocks a fresh arrow and draws the string taut – a hundred pounds of silent death, waiting to be unleashed.

Except…

Later, during hours of interrogation by The Powers That Be - to the effect of what the Dickens were you thinking, who the hell do you think you are, and why on Earth should SHIELD pick up after your latest lunacy - Clint will try his best to explain why he'd done what he'd done. Or, more precisely, had not done.

"You remember the Dread Pirate Roberts, and what he says to Inigo Montoya on top of the Cliffs of Insanity?"

Sitwell sighs heavily.

"Prepare to die? That's what you should have said, Barton."

Clint rolls his eyes and puts his injured leg on the table. It's only a flesh wound, but the Doc said to keep it elevated and if that pisses off Sitwell in the process, well that's a bonus.

"No, that's what Inigo says to the Six-fingered man, you Philistine. What Westley says is, I would sooner destroy a stained glass window, than an artist like yourself."

He looks at Sitwell expectantly, waiting for the dawn of understanding to rise in the man's eyes.

"Don't you see?"

...

Natasha wakes up, her head pounding. The noise of the plane is a steady drone in her ears. She tries to shield her eyes against the relentlessly bright overhead light but to no avail; her hands are zip-tied to the seat she's strapped into, as are her feet.

There's a dark presence across from her, face carefully silhouetted against the brightest of the lights so she can't make out its features. Oldest trick in the book, if you don't want your facial tells to twitch out the true story.

Natasha's tongue tastes like onion, like it does the moment before you go under a general anesthetic. What did she get hit with?

"What happens if I need to go to the bathroom?" she says, hoping her voice won't betray the dryness of her mouth.

"Depends," says the shadow.

Damn.

"Walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Yep. You sure did," he says. He sounds pleased with himself.

She recognizes the voice; it belongs to the man who'd shown up right after she'd dispatched Sorodkin. Apparently he had been seconds away from doing what she had - bad timing all around. Five minutes later, she could have let him have her mark and claimed the fee for nothing. Her client would never know.

"Let me know if you want me to slide something underneath you to keep you dry and dignified," he adds. "'Coz Coulson won't let me untie you. Didn't even want me to bring you onboard; keeps trying to get me to toss you out the cargo door."

"Never mind. It was a rhetorical question," she says. She carefully modulates her voice so it won't come out like a moan; her head is still throbbing with the after-effects of whatever she's been hit with, and the bandaged arm where it hit smarts something fierce. She forces herself to open her eyes wide and take in her surroundings.

The plane she's in is unlike anything she's ever seen, stuffed to the rafters with unfamiliar tech. Natasha finds herself idly wondering whether anyone in Russia is aware they lost the arms race decades ago, not that they'd admit it.

"Don't get any ideas," a flat voice behind her disrupts her musings. "If I find out you have one of those spy cam implants in your eyeballs, I'll rip them out with my bare hands."

The man – Coulson? - sniffs in indignation. But seriously. Spy cams in eyeballs? That's a thing? Interesting...

"So why don't you look out of the window instead of trying to memorize your surroundings, Miss Romanoff. Maybe you'll see the ghosts of the 347 people you killed in the last three years, and consider your wicked ways. Barton - you are in so much shit."

So they know who she is, and are in disagreement about what to do with her. But she's still alive, thanks apparently to the good graces and questionable judgment of the one called Barton.

She looks at her original captor. He's still mostly a silhouette against the lights, but she can see his hands now; the calluses on them are nothing she's seen before, at least not on an operative. He seems to be the more amenable of the two, even setting aside the fact that so far he is winning the tug-of-war that could end her.

Searching her mind she's not actually sure she wants him to succeed. It's been a long road, and Natasha is tired from far more than the tranquilizer dart he must have shot her with. Still, it never hurts to play along, see where things might go.

"Is your friend always like that?" she asks him.

"Yep. Behind that suit and tie and the bland smile hides a full-blooded psychopath," Barton replies cheerfully. "You should see what he does to me when I file my expense reports. Hey, with any luck, you may yet."

"And why would I care about how your Mr. Coulson deals with expense reports?" she asks, not unreasonably.

Barton gives her what is likely intended to be a disarming grin; she can see his teeth flashing in the dark oval of his face.

"See, I have this idea that our boss should offer you a job. And then expenses will become your life, especially since we're not allowed to carry around receipts in our line of work. I mean, can you imagine? Being found with a cab receipt from the Triskelion to Dulles and a boarding pass to Rome, right after you off some cardinal? Awkward."

He could have have stopped after offer you a job, because that's when she'd stopped listening. They are obviously on an official mission for SHIELD, judging by the jet's interior with the teutonic-looking eagle stenciled on almost every piece of equipment. A job? Working for SHIELD? Is he out of his mind?

No wonder Coulson is upset.

Coulson seems to outrank Barton, despite the latter's disparaging comments, but seems unable to make his underling do what he is supposed to, like killing her. As for Barton, he is clearly a high-caliber asset - how did he manage to shoot straight through that pile of wood? - but staggeringly lacking in discipline and obedience.

In the Red Room, upending a mission like that would get him flushed out of the plane or tied to its wings, not be the subject of a mild rebuke, like 'Barton, you are in so much shit'. What kind of a relationship do these people have with one another?

The questions pile up. Why isn't she dead yet, frozen to death in the Moscow snow? What do they really want from her, surely not actually offer her a job with SHIELD?

And who the hell is flying this plane?

Execution not being imminent, it is time to recalibrate and to allow the tranquilizers to work their way out of her system. Natasha closes her eyes and hopes the autopilot is on.

...

"So you're the young woman Agent Barton brought in?"

Natasha blinks, in a vain effort to get the lead out of her eyelids and the cobwebs out of her head. Her surroundings come into focus: she's lying on a narrow bed on a circular platform that's surrounded by metal bars, inside a well-lit open area. Her cell has no furniture except for the bed and a table that's bolted to the metal floor. Overhead, mounted just outside the bars, are four cameras, all pointed into her cell.

The temperature is pleasant, not too hot not too cold, and she finds herself covered with a light blanket. Not here to be tortured, then. Just … observed, like a monkey in a touches her shoulder; someone has even bandaged the spot where Barton's tranquilizer projectile had penetrated her skin.

The table is close enough to the cot to allow the latter to function as a bench. Natasha shucks the blanket on the floor, briefly mourning the loss of its warmth, and sits up.

Outside the cage stands a tiny old black woman in a kitchen staff outfit, carrying a tray with a cardboard cup and a plate with pastries. The name Doreen is embroidered on her chest pocket in turquoise thread. There are no guards with her, and it's a mystery how she got this close to a trained assassin without waking her up. Probably the residual fog of the tranquilizer.

But, first things first. A small, involuntary moan escapes Natasha as the scent of coffee wafts towards her. She has never smelled anything this beautiful.

"I figured you could use this," Doreen says as she drops the tray into the gizmo that allows people to feed dangerous criminals. "And something sweet. Agent Barton likes baklavas, so I thought you might too. You both being master assassins and all."

That is a ridiculous observation, of course, but Natasha is far too distracted by the thought of fresh coffee to challenge the old woman on it. She takes a long sip of the black gold and stuffs a baklava into her mouth, licking the honey and rosewater off her fingers while still chewing. Dignity, shmignity.

"Must be something about that job, that gives you folks a sweet tooth, hunh?" Doreen tut-tuts fondly. "All that time sitting around in the cold or heat, waiting for your marks to show up."

Natasha does not dispute this fairly simplistic view of her trade. She reaches for the coffee again with one hand, and a second pastry with the other. A cluster of pistachios, surrounded by what looks like strands of crispy hair, all dripping with sweet liquid. Heaven on a plate, soon to melt in her mouth.

"Truth is, I haven't eaten in thirty-six hours," she demurs reflexively. "You could be serving me salt herring right now and I'd wolf it down. Besides, I'm an indoor assassin. I charge extra for stakeouts, especially in winter."

Doreen looks at her thoughtfully, her eyes no longer wreathed in a smile.

"Yes, I'm told the Red Room was not generous with warmth or light," she says. "I can see how you would not be a friend of the cold."

Natasha's hand stops in mid-air, inches away from another baklava.

"How do you know of the Red Room?" she asks, frowning. If that woman is anything other than a cafeteria worker, she is a better actress than Natasha has ever been. Or maybe SHIELD spills its knowledge all the way down to the support staff?

There's a momentary hardness in Doreen's eyes now, one that suggests she has seen more than the inside of a kitchen. It falls away in seconds, though, to be replaced by … pity?

"We all have our past," she says. "And we all leave it behind in our own way. Maybe you can do that with yours, too. Agent Barton seems to think so. It's all over the building that he thinks Director Fury should offer you a job."

"He does, does he?" Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Is that why they sent you here? To get me to repent over pastry and soften me up for a proper confession?"

Doreen's smile broadens.

"No, not really. Agent Barton just thought you might be hungry when you wake up, and Jasper Sitwell refused to move detention meal times up just for you. But if you do wish to confess, I'm sure there are many in SHIELD who might be interested. You are the talk of the building, like I mentioned, and they're already betting on what will happen with you."

Of course they are. Some covert agency thisis. Natasha shakes her head in genuine disbelief.

"So Agent Barton thought you should come and bring me food. And you did. And the guards just let you in here? I could kill you with this blanket through the bars, you know."

Doreen is unfazed.

"Oh, I'm sure you could, dearie. But then you would never get another of my baklavas again and that would be a shame, wouldn't it? Besides, killing me wouldn't get you any farther ahead than you are, and I suspect you are much too…" she pauses for a split second, looking for the right word. "… too smart to kill for no reason."

She retrieves the empty plate from the portal and puts it back on the tray, but does not ask Natasha to return the mug with the unfinished coffee.

"But I'm afraid I can't stay. It's almost dinnertime and it's meatloaf night. My staff never get it quite right when I'm not there. I'll see that you get a portion when it's ready."

She nods at one of the cameras; the door slides open and she steps through into a corridor beyond. Natasha makes no move, a courtesy that Doreen acknowledges with a smile.

"Thank you for not trying to escape, dear. It would only … complicate things. But I doubt you'll be alone for long. I'm sure there'll be others who would like a word."

The door slides shut, and she is gone.

Natasha takes another sip of coffee, salutes the cameras with her mug and waits for whatever – or whoever - may turn up next.

...

Maria Hill spots her target in one of those cushy seating arrangements HR set up in a corner of the cafeteria, ostensibly in the name of team-building and networking. Except Barton is holed up there all on his own, with everyone else giving him a wide berth. It's a familiar pattern; the quarantine will last until it's obvious he's gotten away with whatever he's done, and there will be no guilt by association.

"What on Earth were you thinking, Barton?"

Maria puts her arms akimbo for extra emphasis, but Barton remains oblivious. He is slumped deep into the cushions, one leg on the couch and the bandaged one propped up on the back, boots and all. At least the boots seem to be clean, possibly even brand new. Eyes closed, he is using a cylindrical piece of baklava to conduct the chorus of Jingle Bells floating in from an overhead speaker – another one of those great morale boosters from HR - while a little storm of phyllo flakes float down to settle on his chest.

She tries again, a little more sharply.

"You were supposed to kill the Black Widow, not bring her home for Christmas. Agent."

He opens his eyes and fixes Maria with one of those wide-eyed stares that have reportedly brought half the Records Department to their knees, although why, she'll never understand.

"I was supposed to kill a dude named Sorodkin on that op. The Widow was a bonus. I thought she might make a nice Christmas present for Fury," he says. "Didn't Sitwell brief you?"

"And how do you figure that?" He knows damn well he had standing orders to kill Romanoff. "The paperwork alone is horrendous, especially if we have to eliminate her now, now that she's in our custody and on U.S. soil."

Barton shrugs into the cushion. Jurisdictional quandaries, Maria knows, have never held much interest for the man.

"Way I figure," he says, "there's a surplus of thugs in the world to be offed, and Fury's been complaining about my overtime for years. Romanoff's fully trained and judging by what I've seen, none too picky about what she gets asked to do. So. Happy Holidays, Saint Nick."

For an argument he's had the better part of thirty-six hours to concoct it's not without merit, even if it may not exactly phrased in a manner Alexander Pierce might appreciate. Maria almost gets it. But still, it has a fundamental flaw.

"She's a creature of the KGB, in case you forgot. Even before it morphed into the FSB. Damaged goods, Barton. And based on our intel, what remains of the Red Room has been after her ever since she ran from them. She's a liability every which way you look."

"Yup. Brainwashed since she was six. I assume she can be un-washed. Shit, we can launder money till it's clean. Why not people?"

Damn. The last thing Maria had wanted – or needed - was to get into a substantive argument with Barton, let alone making a lethal enemy assassin into a figure of sympathy. But here she is, sucked in against her better judgment to play on his turf.

He is far better at this than people give him credit for. And he's not yet done.

"KGB, FSB, GRU. Here today, gone tomorrow. SHIELD is at least stable. It pays better, has a pension plan and benefits, and if you're good, no one gives a shit where you got your training. I got mine in a circus. Never seemed to bother anyone."

Actually, it had bothered Maria a great deal, but…

"Fair point. But who's to say she won't still work for the Russians after we hire her?"

"Guess we'll have to wait and see. Doreen's and my money is on 'not'."

"And why would that be?"

Barton sits up and brushes the phyllo flakes off his shirt. At least he's noticed they were there.

"Why don't you go and talk to her yourself? Worst that can happen, you find she's a dyed-in-the-wool commie who wants to foist universal health care on the masses, and the Council orders Fury to make me kill her after all."

"And the best?"

It does not escape her notice that he didn't actually answer her question. It'd probably be something like I have a hunch, so it's probably just as well – but here Barton is again, maneuvering the conversation into his corner. He grins back at her.

"Best case scenario? You make her understand the true meaning of Christmas, Maria, and maybe she'll start killing for the good guys."

She turns without another word and stalks away, only to hear him holler after her, "Take her a latte. Doreen thinks she'll be ready for another one about now."

...

When she enters the detention level, Maria is gratified to see the guards parting like the Red Sea before her. The special cell area where the Black Widow is being held is at the end of corridor. Maria motions with her chin, her hands being occupied with two cups of coffee, and one of the guards obediently slides open the door. Being the Deputy Director has its advantages.

Romanov is stretched out on the bed inside the cage in the open area, doing what any operative worth their salt would do under like circumstances: Catch up on her sleep.

She looks tiny and harmless with the SHIELD-issue woolen blanket pulled up under her chin. Maria clears her throat and finds that the other woman had not, in fact, been asleep.

"Are you one of those 'others' whose coming was foretold to me?" Romanoff asks without getting up. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Maria Hill, Deputy Director of SHIELD. Barton suggested I talk to you," Maria says, hating herself instantly for the unnecessary addition.

It does, however, get Romanoff's attention. She sits up and opens her eyes.

"Does everybody here do what this Barton guy tells them to do?" Her eyes fall on Maria's hands. "I suppose he told you to bring me coffee, too?"

Maria refuses to dignify the question with an answer, but passes one of the cups through the bars and holds it there for Romanoff to pick up.

"Do you want this, or not?"

She does. The Black Widow gets up from her cot, takes a few steps and reaches for the cup. She's surprisingly short, downright tiny, but Maria has the uncomfortable feeling she could break her arm through the bars without effort. She quickly pulls back her hand, watching Romanoff's lips twist up in an appreciative smile.

"I do. Thank you. So now what shall we talk about?" she asks.

"Now you tell me about who you are currently working for, Miss Romanoff. You were trained by the KGB as a child, that much we know; we are not quite clear how the Red Room relates to current Russian government agencies." Maria takes a sip of her own coffee. "Sorodkin wasn't just any old oligarch. He had very deep connections into the Russian government and you took him out. On whose behalf?"

"I make it a policy never to divulge my clients, Miss Hill."

"Deputy Director Hill to you."

"Deputy Director, then. I'm strictly freelance these days. No affiliation."

Maria does a quick calculation, based on the files she has seen. As answers go, it could be the truth.

"You like it that way?"

"It pays the bills. I have a very specific skill set, and there are people who appreciate what I have to offer. Others, less so."

Of course. Killing Sorodkin would have consequences, especially for a former Russian government asset. And yes, she must have enemies; SHIELD would not be the only one.

"You have been busy, Miss Romanoff. Barton had standing orders to kill you, you know."

"So everyone keeps pointing out. I don't know whether to be flattered or annoyed. And yet he didn't – although I assume he still may."

For a moment, Maria is taken aback.

"Why would you say that?"

"He's your sin eater, isn't he? You're the one who talks policy; he's the guy who pulls the trigger. I do know how this works, Deputy Director Hill."

Maria contemplates Romanoff's words for a moment; their bitterness is palpable. She doesn't owe the woman an explanation, but feels the need to provide one anyway.

"Maybe you don't understand this as well as you think. Unlike in the Red Room, in SHIELD our field agents get to make the final call, based on their own last-minute assessment of the situation. 'No' is always an option. Which, for better or worse, brings us to your present circumstances. Barton decided you're like a stained glass window, not a target. And so here we are."

Romanoff takes a sip of her coffee. Maria is pretty sure the move masks what might otherwise have been a touch of surprise at hearing Barton's idea of a job offer actually being mentioned by senior management. The woman is a pro.

"Did he say which window?" Romanoff asks, having recovered nicely, and eyes wide with feigned interest. "Myself, I've always been fond of the Rose Window in Notre Dame."

"It was a pop culture reference, I believe, without any religious undertones. I'm sure Barton hasn't seen the inside of a church since he was baptized. The man is a heathen."

Maria will not be led down the garden path again – not for the second time this evening, and certainly not by another trained assassin. Time to change the topic.

"Tell me, how you would assess your present situation, Miss Romanoff?"

Romanoff waves the cardboard cup at the bars and cameras surrounding her.

"Looking around, not promising. Surrounded by titanium bars and six armed guards, which change every two hours, with my only available weapons a cardboard cup and a blanket." She sounds less feisty when she continues. "And my ledger is far too deep in the red for anyone to ever consider letting me out."

"You'd be surprised. You haven't met Nick Fury, the King of Ignoring Inconvenient Details."

Now where did that come from? Is she, Maria Hill, Deputy Director of SHIELD, actually encouraging Barton's fantasy out loud? Alternatively, just how good is this woman at manipulating people?

Romanoff gives her a pensive look from under unfairly long lashes.

"Well, once thing I do have to admit, the coffee here is surprisingly good. And it's better in a mug than a cardboard cup."

She sits down on her cot, stretches her legs out and takes a long, deliberate sip, leaving Maria with the distinct feeling that the conversation is over.

For now.

...

The third visitor appears outside Natasha's cage around midnight. She can tell it's night, because the lights in the corridors have been dimmed. Where the Red Room would have opted for sleep deprivation, SHIELD seems to respect its prisoners' circadian rhythms.

Her latest company is a man of impressive size, dressed all in black; the coat billowing around him seems designed to invoke Count Dracula, come to feed on the innocent. In the semi-darkness, his face looks as black as his clothes and there's a void where the whites of one of his eyes should be. Eye patch?

He looms in silence outside the cage for a minute. When he speaks, his voice has a rough edge, like serrated steel.

"Fury, Nicholas J. Hope I didn't wake you up. Doreen says I should 'wait at least until the morning before bugging the poor thing'. Her words, not mine. But since you're supposed to be dead anyway, I figure it won't matter if I wake you up."

Natasha can't keep her lips from twitching.

"What's so funny?"

"You, Mr. Fury. Your Deputy, Ms Hill. Coulson. Agent Barton. The coffee lady. Everybody tells everybody else what to do, no matter who they are, but then nobody actually does what they're told. In the Red Room you'd all be executed for insubordination, probably by circular firing squad."

He purses his lips.

"This ain't the Red Room, Miss Romanoff. I happen to like original thinking. Take Barton. He crashes every system you try and stick him into, but delivers better results than a thousand bow-tied bureaucrats." He looks at her, unblinking, with his single eye. "Usually, anyway."

"Except this time."

"Still trying to figure that out. You're definitely not the result I expected. And yes, if Barton had done as he was told, you'd be dead. World Security Council standing orders."

Natasha gives a soundless whistle.

"Standing orders? Should I be flattered?"

"Don't be. Standing orders are just a box for people to think in. Don't take into account change in circumstance. And Barton, he's a walking change in circumstance. He saw something the Council ain't seeing, and has me wondering whether I should see it too."

She raises an eyebrow.

"So you are telling me that SHIELD is holding off on killing me, because I reminded your personal Agent of Chaos of a line in an old movie?"

"Don't confuse the trigger with the gun, Miss Romanoff. I'm the gun, and that trigger can still be pulled, whether by Barton or someone else. Based on your record, you are crying out for elimination. Fifty-six corpses in over thirty countries in the last year, not counting hangers on. And a number of those stiffs the Council thought of as allies. So I'm here to figure out just why I shouldn't ask Barton to come and finish the job he was supposed to."

It's an invitation to her to plead her case, she knows. But Natasha is not the pleading sort and in any event, her ledger is so far out of balance she is no longer sure she wants to. So instead, she quirks her lips in a mocking smile and throws out a distraction.

"You think he would? Pull that trigger?"

"He would now. But you know what? I know a rogue soldier when I see one, Miss Romanoff, and based on the pattern of your kills you haven't been Red Room for at least eighteen months. Ever since that hospital you sent up in smoke. Every last one of the jobs you've done since were people the world can objectively do without – no matter what the Council says. And Barton is right, I can use someone with your skill set."

He pulls a piece of cloth bearing the SHIELD logo out of his pocket and slaps it down on the table.

"If you want to, you can walk through that door wearing this badge. There'd be a thorough debriefing first, of course, a few tests and a probationary period. Alternatively, you can let us carry you out feet first. Your call."

"How has that particular recruitment pitch worked out for you?" Natasha cannot help but ask. "I mean, does it get you those loyal and trusting employees every agency wants?"

Fury snorts.

"Worked well enough with Barton, so far anyway. Besides, loyalty and trust is something you earn, not something you demand. I plan on earning yours, like I'd expect you to try and earn mine."

His face splits into an enormous, oddly gap-toothed grin that takes a decade or more off him. For a moment, she finds herself almost liking the man.

And suddenly, somehow, the future promises to hold something beyond certain death. An open door, through which a light is almost within reach. The decision is unexpectedly easy.

"Fair enough," she says. "And while we both work on that, tell me about the SHIELD pension plan."

...

Maria Hill steps off the elevator and is almost inside the cafeteria when she runs into Coulson, standing like a statue as he observes the coffee line-up. She follows his gaze.

There, underneath a garish garland of red-and-green tinsel, stands Hawkeye, all insouciance and lethal grace as he grins down at the woman beside him. His leg looks to be fully healed; he moves down the line without a noticeable limp. Whispering something obviously intended for Barton's ears only is Fury's latest vanity project, the Black Widow. He throws back his head and laughs, and for all Maria can tell they've been best buddies for years, not hours.

The two assassins are similarly dressed in jeans and leather jackets, but she knows that underneath the relaxed exterior are two coiled springs, ready to explode into violence at a moment's notice. They could be discussing plans for the holidays or world domination, or both. The people in the queue are instinctively giving them more space than you would expect, especially given that the menu is Doreen's Christmas Turkey Special, complete with her homemade cranberry sauce.

"They do make quite the pair, don't they," Coulson observes blandly. "Fury has assigned them to work with each other. Call sign is to be 'Strike Team Delta', I believe. Merry fucking Christmas."

Maria shudders.

"God help us, everyone."