Nat’s lips quirked into a knowing smile when he spoke of Laura’s enthusiastic support in kicking Clint’s ass out to the field. Laura was—Laura was sunlight and such incredible [i]faith[/i] in people. If she’d ever worried that Clint wasn’t safe with Natasha, she’d never said anything to her face. Laura simply looked at her with trust, as if there weren’t a thousand words in her ledger arguing that Natasha was the last person to believe in. Natasha would have liked to be the person that Laura saw.

[color=#cc0000] “True on both counts,”[/color] she agreed. She’d spent years working with Clint, and his chronic inability to not get himself beat to shit and his stupid quips had once perplexed her. He’d been her handler once; he was the only one who really seemed to think she could be deprogrammed, could be something resembling human again. So Fury had dropped her leash in his hands and wished the poor bastard luck. Natasha often wondered how often he’d regretted it—lowering his bow. How many times had she taken a blade, a garrote to his throat over the years? Coming down off red in the helicarrier, Ivan and whispered words that dragged her back like a chain around her throat, [i]Budapest[/i], nightmares when the world still blurred at edges? 

Thirteen. Thirteen times she’d nearly killed him. She’d burned every blade and broken bone into her memory, as if knowing what she had done would ensure it would never happen again. As if there were promises she could truly keep.

Clint spoke of Nathaniel. She didn’t soften, not quite, but there was something like warmth in her eyes at the thought. Nathaniel, who deserved more than her legacy, and a world where things like her didn’t exist. She’d douse her ledger a thousand times over to keep his world safe and happy. He dropped into the chair next to her gracelessly, delighting in his truly awful coffee. Natasha shot him a flat look. All these years and she’d never understand his pathological need for coffee and his complete disregard for its quality. 

He claimed the headset wordlessly, taking up her restless watch. He knew. He usually did; if anyone could read her, it was Clint. She could lie to him, could craft a myth around herself, but it made her skin crawl. She saved those falsehoods for the things that he didn’t need to know, the things that could only lead to hurt and arrows and lead. But when she simply [i]was[/i], he had an unerring sense for when she was off. It had saved his life too many times before.

[color=#cc0000] “Only his security detail,”[/color] she remarked, leaning back in her chair, toes tucked beneath her thighs. She curled into Sam’s sweater, crimson hair spilling down its front. He would have been just as good backup. Any of them would have been, really. The new team was finally learning how to work together (and Steve was undoubtedly annoyed that she had vanished and left him with all the heavy lifting), finding their rhythm. 

[color=#cc0000] “They’re Kurdish, for the most part. There’s a Ukranian. A Canadian, too. They’re methodical. Quiet enough to mean that they didn’t come cheap. I’ve mapped out their patrols, but if they’re half as good as I think they are, they’ll change them nightly.”[/color] The mission was steadying, simple facts and familiar ground. She knew how to slip through shadows. She knew the bite of copper in her mouth and the rush of combat. This was what she was made for.

She nodded over to one of four monitors, satellite imagery and LIDAR on display of the mansion and its surrounding terrain. [color=#cc0000] “He’s got some patrols in the surrounding area as well, but they’re stretched thin. We can work that if we have to.”[/color]

Ideally, they’d get more information about his deals with Ten Rings [i]before[/i] storming the gates—which meant for who knew how many more long hours staking out in this cold room.