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Pairing: rescuer!Natasha x RedRoom!escapee!fem!reader
Summary: A mission from Fury where Natasha has to eliminate a dangerous asset. When she finally finds you, she has the same change of heart that Clint did almost 20 years ago.
Word count: ≈4600
Warnings: none really. mentions of Red Room/weaponised children
Reading time: ≈20 mins
Type: Oneshot
“We've got a situation.” Fury's voice came through over the hologram, tight and stern. “There's been sights of a rouge asset around Brooklyn. You're the only one who can do this cleanly.”
Natasha nods in response, mentally prepping a plan. “I'll be wheels up in ten.”
Natasha spends her time holstering guns, knives, other weapons, preparing for a seriously power-enhanced asset like Wanda had been. Each gun was loaded, each knife sharpened.
She wasn't taking any chances with another rouge asset.
True to her word, the redhead was in the Quinjet, ready to fly after ten minutes. JARVIS was already marking the last known location on the jets mapping system, giving her extra details that Fury hadn't had time to explain over the hologram.
“Some reports mention incredible agility and strength for a smaller size. It is clear that she has been trained by someone, and skilled with weaponry.” JARVIS said in his usual half-robotic way.
Natasha only nodded again.
________________________________________
She checked her weaponry once more after she landed the Quinjet. Ensuring each gun worked, each knife sharp enough for any eventuality.
She wasn't too far from the girls last known location, and she decided she may as well start her search there.
Natasha moved quietly through the streets, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. Brooklyn was loud in the daytime, cars, voices, life, but here, tucked between narrow buildings and dim alleyways, it dulled into something quieter. Easier to track.
Her eyes flicked over everything. Firs escapes, open windows, blind corners. Anywhere someone small and fast could disappear.
JARVIS' words rang in her head. 'Small. Agile. Trained.'
Trained meant dangerous. Not sloppy, not easy. Disciplined.
A faint clatter echoed somewhere in front of her. Natasha stilled instantly, her eyes moving over the area. There - to the right. In the alley. She moved closer without hesitation, one hand resting on her holster.
The alley narrowed the further she went, shadows stretching longer where the light couldn’t quite reach. A fire escape ladder hung low overhead, swaying just slightly. Recently used. Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “…I know you’re here,” she said, voice calm, even. Not loud. Not threatening.
Silence answered her.
Then, finally, movement. A shadowy figure pulled itself up onto a low roof with ease, gliding across it with little sound, before the figure jumped down into a new alley.
Natasha rounded the corner instantly, her eyes searching in the darkness. Empty. Not untouched, but empty.
And stood at the back, perched on top of a chain link fence, was the small figure.
Too small for what she'd been expecting.
“JARVIS,” she murmured as she pressed herself against the wall.
“Yes, Miss Romanoff?”
“Define 'smaller'.”
“The reports were unspecific, Miss Romanoff.”
Natasha's jaw tightened.
A streetlight flickered briefly near the figure, and Natasha saw exactly what she had been dreading. A girl, no more than 18, perched on that chain link fence.
A girl who, almost twenty years ago, was Natasha.
Her breath hitched. Too young. You didn't run, in fact you came closer, staring back at her.
“You're the asset?” she asked quietly, hand still hovering above her holster.
You dropped from the fence with surprising grace, a speed that snapped Natasha's instincts back in immediately. Her gun was up in an instant, aimed, steady.
You didn't flinch, stopping just out of reach. Close enough that for Natasha, there was no mistaking it. Not an adult. You were a child. Slightly too thin, eyes that said you were absolutely prepared to fight her.
Your eyes didn't waver from hers. No fear, Natasha noted. Just calculation.
Natasha didn’t lower the gun. But she didn’t fire either. “…They sent me to kill you,” she said, voice quieter now. Honest. Testing.
Your expression didn’t change. You shifted your stance. Prepared. Like you’d heard that before. And were ready for it. Something in Natasha’s chest twisted.
Natasha’s finger eases on the trigger. You move first. No warning,just motion. Fast enough that even she’s half a second behind.
You close the distance in a blur, hand snapping out—not wild, not desperate. Precise. Trained. A strike aimed straight for her throat.
Natasha twists sideways, your hand grazing her collar instead of her neck. She catches your wrist on instinct, grip firm and you flip with it. Using her hold against her.
Your body turns mid-air, legs kicking out toward her ribs. She blocks with her forearm, the impact sharp enough to sting even through her suit.
Not untrained. Not even close.
She releases you instead of countering, stepping back as you land lightly on your feet. Balanced. Ready.
“Hey—” she starts.
You don’t let her finish. Another attack lower this time. Faster. You sweep for her legs.
Natasha jumps back just in time, boots scraping against the pavement as she puts space between you. Her gun is still in her hand. She doesn’t fire.
Not when she has the shot. Not when you’re right there. Because now she sees it. The way you move. Not angry. Not reckless. Conditioned.
Your eyes never leave her. Not once. Watching for openings. Waiting for instruction that isn’t coming.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, breath steady despite the tightening in her chest.
You don’t respond. You advance. A knife flashes in your hand—small, hidden, pulled so smoothly she almost misses it. You strike again.
She blocks your wrist, redirecting the blade away from her side, her other hand catching your shoulder not to slam you, not to break you, just to stop you.
“Stop,” she says, sharper now.
You don’t. Your knee drives up toward her abdomen. She twists, taking the hit along her side instead of center mass. It still knocks the breath from her for half a second.
Enough for you to slip free. You don’t run. You circle. Always facing her.
Natasha straightens slowly, lowering the gun, not holstering it, but not aiming either. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she says.
It sounds wrong the second it leaves her mouth. Because you don’t hesitate. You come at her again faster now, more aggressive, like something’s pushing you to escalate.
Natasha reacts on instinct, catching your arm and turning with your momentum, guiding you past her instead of slamming you into the wall.
You twist mid-motion, trying to recover, but she’s already stepped back, creating distance again instead of pressing the advantage.
That’s when she notices it. Up close. Your breathing. Too controlled. Too even
Not adrenaline. Not fear. Just execution. Like you’re waiting for something. A command.
Her stomach drops. “Who told you to do this?” she asks, quieter now.
You don’t answer. You lunge. She intercepts you again, holding you against the wall by your shoulders. Not hurting. Never hurting, just holding.
“Who told you to do this?” she repeats, a little firmer now. Your eyes glare hard into hers. Silence. “Hey! I'm not going to hurt you, clear?”
Her eyes look between yours, searching for any sign that you're actually listening to her.
She knows now. She isn't going to kill you. That's not what you need. She knows that too. Just like Clint knew that wasn't what she needed way back when.
Clint had saved her. She could save you.
“I want to help you. I've been where you are.” she continues. “Tell me where you're from.”
Silence.
“Russia,” you tell her finally, reluctant, with that small accent that she remembers dearly from her sister.
“Thank you.” Natasha tells you. “You've been trained. Where?”
Your eyes harden a little, staring her down.
“The Red Room?” she guesses. The subtle way your jaw tightens tells her she's right. “You escaped?”
Your eyes dart around, searching, like there might be someone watching.
“Hey. Look at me.” she commands firmly. “I escaped too. I was there. I got out. They are going to be looking for you. We need to get you somewhere hidden, okay?”
Your gaze snaps back to hers at the word escaped. Not trust. Not relief. Recognition. t’s small. Barely there. But Natasha sees it.
She softens just slightly. Not enough to look weak. Just enough to not look like a threat. “They’ll be looking for you,” she repeats, quieter now. “You know that.”
Your shoulders tense. Not surprised. Just bracing. That tells her everything.
“How long?” she asks. A beat.
“…don’t know,” you mutter. Your voice is rough. Like you don’t use it much.
Natasha nods once. “Okay.”
No pressure. No pushing. She takes a slow step back. Then another. Space. You notice immediately. Your stance shifts but you don’t run. Not yet.
“I’m not going to grab you again,” she says, steady. “You don’t have to fight me.”
Silence stretches between you. Your grip on the knife doesn’t loosen but it doesn’t tighten either. Natasha exhales slowly, then she lowers her gun fully. Not just un-aimed. Down. Visible. Your eyes flick to it instantly.
“You’re either going to bolt,” she continues, “or you’re going to listen to me for ten seconds.” A pause. “…ten,” she adds.
Your jaw tightens. But you don’t move. Good.
“They sent me because I know how you fight,” she says. “How you think. What you’ve been taught to do when someone corners you.”
Another small shift in your expression. Not soft. But… listening.
“They’re not going to stop,” she continues. “Not until you’re either back under control… or gone.”
The words sit heavy between you. You know that already. Of course you do.
Your knife lowers just a fraction. Natasha catches it. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t comment. Just keeps going.
“I have a way to get you out of here,” she says. “Off their radar. Somewhere they won’t look right away.”
Your eyes narrow slightly. Suspicion. Calculation. “Why?” you ask.
It’s quiet. Sharp. Real.
Natasha doesn’t hesitate. “Because someone did it for me.”
That lands. Not loudly. But deeply. Your gaze flicks over her—really looking now. Not for weakness. For proof. For truth.
Natasha doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m not asking you to trust me,” she adds. “Not yet.” A beat. “I’m asking you not to run for five minutes.”
Silence. The city hums faintly around you. Distant. Irrelevant.
Your fingers flex slightly around the knife. Slowly, you lower it. Not dropping it. Not giving it up. Just not pointing it at her anymore.
Natasha nods once. Like that’s enough. “Okay,” she says quietly.
Another step back. Still giving you space Still not turning her back on you.
“There's a vent system in the station. Not officially mapped.” She tells you. “We hide there until it's safe to come out, understand?”
“…and if I don’t?” you ask.
Natasha’s expression doesn’t change. “Then I walk away,” she says simply. “And the next person they send won’t.”
That one hits harder. Because it’s true.
You know it is. Your shoulders tense again. But this time you don’t move away. Natasha watches you for a second longer.
Then, carefully, slow enough for you to react if you wanted to, she turns slightly. Not fully.
Just enough to gesture toward the street. “Your call,” she says.
And then she starts walking. Not fast. Not slow.Not looking back.
Three steps. Four. Five. Footsteps behind her. Light. Careful. But there.
Natasha doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react. She just keeps walking. Because she knows better than to make it a moment. Knows better than to scare you off.
But something in her chest settles anyway. Just slightly. Because you didn’t run. And that’s enough. For now.
________________________________________
She leads you down a side street, then another, movements deliberate but unhurried. You follow a few steps behind. not close, not far. Close enough to react if she turns. Far enough to run if she lies. She notices. Of course she does. But she doesn’t acknowledge it. Good.
At the corner of an older building, she slows, glancing once over her shoulder not at you, but past you. Checking.
Always checking. Then she moves to a maintenance door tucked just out of sight. Locked. You tense slightly.
Natasha raises her hands not toward you. Toward the panel. “Stay there,” she says quietly. Not a command. Not sharp. Just instruction. You don’t move.
She works quickly. A small tool, a shift in the lock, a soft click. The door opens. Dark inside. She steps in first.
Not turning her back fully, just enough to keep you in her peripheral. “Come on,” she says, softer now.
You hesitate. It’s small. Barely there. But she waits. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t look back. After a second You follow.
The air inside is different. Cooler. Still. Quiet in a way that feels contained.
Your steps echo faintly against metal as you move deeper in. Natasha closes the door behind you, the sound dull, final. You tense again. She notices that too.
“Easy,” she murmurs, already moving ahead, not toward you. “You’ve got exits down here.”
Your eyes flick around instinctively. She’s right. Multiple. Good. She stands on her tiptoes, reaching up for the grate in the vent system above. “Up there.”
She tells you. And strangely, you listen. She kneels down a little, hands locked at her knees like she was ready to help you up there, just for you to pull yourself up into the shaft with the strength of your training alone.
“That works too,” she mutters, pulling herself up after you, sliding the grate back in the hole afterwards. The vent is tighter than it looks from below.
Metal presses in on both sides, the air thinner, warmer. Your movements are quieter here controlled, instinctive. You don’t hesitate, already shifting further down the shaft, putting distance between you and the opening.
Natasha follows, slower. Not because she can’t keep up. Because she won’t chase you in here.
The grate settles back into place behind her with a soft click. Then it’s just the two of you. No city noise. No voices.
Just the faint hum of the building around you. You stop a few feet ahead, crouched low, watching her. Always watching. Natasha doesn’t move closer.
She braces one hand against the metal wall, adjusting slightly so she’s not blocking the only exit. You notice that immediately. Of course you do.
“Good spot,” she says quietly.
No response. She doesn’t expect one.
Instead, she shifts, reaching slowly into one of the compartments on her belt. Your posture tightens instantly, shoulders drawing in, ready. She pauses.
“…food,” she clarifies, before moving again. Slow enough for you to track every second of it.
A small wrapped bar. Nothing complicated. Nothing that could be mistaken for something else.
She sets it down between you. Not too close. Not too far. Neutral ground. Then she leans back slightly, giving you space again.
“You don’t have to take it,” she says. Silence stretches.
Your gaze flicks from the food, back to her then away again. Calculating. Weighing. You don’t move. Natasha nods once, like that’s expected.
“Water’s in my bag too,” she adds, quieter. “Same deal.”
Still nothing. That’s fine.
She settles back against the side of the vent, one knee bent slightly, making herself smaller in the space. Less imposing. Less threat.
Minutes pass. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t push. Just stays. Eventually—barely a shift—you move. Slow. Careful. Not toward her. Toward the food.
You don’t pick it up straight away. Just hover there, like it might disappear. Or like this is some kind of test.
Natasha doesn’t look directly at you when you do it. Gives you that illusion of privacy. Control.
Your fingers close around it. Quick. You pull it back immediately, retreating a fraction further down the vent.
Only then do you open it. Only then do you eat. Fast at first. Then slower when you realize she’s not moving. Not watching. Not reacting.
Natasha exhales quietly through her nose. Not relief. Just acknowledgment. “Okay,” she murmurs.
You freeze slightly at the sound. Then continue. Another few minutes pass. The tension shifts. Not gone. Just… different. Less immediate.
“...ever play hangman?” Natasha asks after a moment.
You stay silent for a beat, “...I have hung men?”
Natasha stills for half a second. Not visibly. Not enough that someone untrained would catch it. But you would. Because you’re watching everything.
Her expression doesn’t change but something behind it does. Something tightens. “…not that one,” she says quietly.
There’s no judgment in her tone. No shock. Just a careful correction, like she’s stepping around something fragile instead of confronting it head-on.
You don’t respond. Your grip tightens slightly around the wrapper in your hands. Of course that’s what you thought she meant. Of course it is.
Natasha exhales softly through her nose, shifting just slightly against the metal wall. Not closer. Never closer without reason.
“It’s a game,” she adds after a second. “Word game.” You stay silent. “...forget it. We'll try something else.”
You look briefly at the vent floor before your eyes snap back to hers, watching her hands as she reaches into her pocket. “Hey. Just a pen.”
Natasha draws a grid on the floor in black pen, placing an X in the middle square. “Your turn. Just put a nought somewhere.”
She slides you the pen. You ignore it, and after a moment she took it back, drawing a O in a corner square, playing now for both of you.
It might have been three by-herself games of Noughts and Crosses when you finally did reach for the pen she slid to you, marking a wobbly O in the bottom middle.
Natasha went easy on you. Not obviously easy, but she made sure to let you win. Made sure that she "accidentally" missed your two Os lined up on the bottom, instead placing her third cross in the top row.
She watched your face as it turned into an almost-smile after realising you'd won. “Good job.”
Your face almost softened at the praise, like you so desperately wanted to cling onto it but didn't trust it. She'd been there before.
She knew what it was like to be starved of praise, clinging onto any whisper of it from anyone, but never doing it because she'd been used and betrayed before. ________________________________________
Days seemed to pass slowly, time stretching in the dark of the vent without windows or any real access to the outside world.
“Hey,” she murmurs as she climbs back up into the vent again, returning from the local store. “Here, picked up some chocolate.”
“...chocolate?”
“Its sweet. You'll like it.”
“You...eat it first,” you reply.
Natasha nodded. She understood. To check if it was poisoned, laced with anything potentially deadly.
Natasha peeled the wrapper off, snapping a corner of the bar and popping it in her mouth, chewing carefully to prove it was safe, before holding the rest of the bar out to you.
You waited a moment, before reaching forwards with both hands to snap a piece off.
“You should be safe to come out today. If you wanted to, you could come to the Tower with me.”
“Huh?”
Natasha watches your reaction carefully. Not your words those come second. Your body comes first.
The way you still. The way your fingers stop halfway to your mouth. The way your shoulders tense like she just said something dangerous instead of offering you a way out. “…Tower?” you repeat, quieter this time.
She nods once, slow. Non-threatening. “Stark Tower,” she clarifies. “Secure. Private. No one gets in without permission.”
Your jaw tightens slightly. “People.”
It’s not a question. Natasha doesn’t lie. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
Your grip on the chocolate shifts, tightens, then loosens. Thinking. Calculating. Always calculating. “They’ll look for me there,” you say after a moment.
“They won’t find you,” she replies evenly. “Not if I say you’re under my protection.”
That lands, but not the way it would for most people. Protection isn’t comforting to you.
It’s… ownership. Control. Risk.
Natasha sees it immediately. “…not like that,” she adds, quieter now. “Not control. Not orders.” A beat. “Choice.”
Your eyes flick back to hers at that. Sharp. Searching.
She doesn’t look away.
“You don’t have to stay,” she continues. “You don’t have to listen to anyone. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Another pause. “…but you won’t have to hide in vents anymore.”
That’s the part that hits. Because she didn’t say safe She said not hiding. Your gaze drops, just for a second, to the narrow metal space around you. Then back to her.
“…why?” you ask again. Same question. Different weight this time. Natasha exhales softly. Not tired. Just honest.
“Because I know what happens if you stay like this,” she says. No dramatics. No exaggeration. “Alone. Running. Waiting for the next person they send.”
Her voice lowers slightly. “They don’t send people who hesitate.”
Your throat tightens. You know that. You are that.
Natasha shifts slightly, not closer,never forcing proximity but grounding herself more firmly in the space. “I’m not asking you to trust them,” she says. “Just… trust me enough to try.”
Silence again. The hum of the building fills it. Your fingers pick slightly at the edge of the chocolate, breaking off a smaller piece this time. Slower. Distracted. “…and if I don’t like it?” you ask.
Natasha answers immediately. “Then we leave.”
No hesitation. No conditions. Your eyes snap back to hers. Searching hard now. “…we?”
She nods once. “We.”
That’s new. Not you stay Not you go back.Not you figure it out. We.
Something in your expression shifts. Small. Almost invisible. But it’s there. You look away first. “…too many people,” you mutter.
“That’s fair,” Natasha says easily. “We don’t have to start with everyone.” A beat. “You stick with me. That’s it.”
You consider that. Your shoulders are still tense—but not as tight as before. “…and no one touches me,” you add, quieter. Firmer.
“Done.”
“No grabbing.”
“Done.”
“No orders.”
Natasha pauses for half a second at that one. “…I’ll try,” she says honestly.
You notice that. The honesty. It matters more than if she’d just agreed. Another long pause. “…okay.”
It’s quiet. Barely there. But it’s a yes. Natasha doesn’t smile. Doesn’t make it a moment. She just nods once, like this is normal. Expected.
“Okay,” she echoes.
She shifts back toward the grate, moving first not waiting, not hovering.
Giving you the choice to follow. Same as before. Your gaze lingers on her for a second.
Then you move. Light. Careful. Controlled. Following her out of the vent for the first time.
“...I like it, by the way,” you tell her suddenly. “The chocolate.”
“Yeah?”
“...yeah.”
________________________________________
The Avengers Tower doesn’t sound like you expected it to. Not at first.
You’d thought it would be louder. Busier. People everywhere. But the moment you step inside, guided carefully at Natasha’s side, the noise shifts into something controlled, muted footsteps, distant voices, the faint hum of systems running through the walls.
Your grip on her sleeve tightens slightly. Not enough to stop walking. Just enough to anchor yourself.
“I’ve got you,” Natasha murmurs under her breath, low enough that it’s just for you.
She doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t drag you forward like she could. Every step is matched to yours deliberate, steady.
But the second the elevator doors open..
“Romanoff.”
The voice is sharp. Controlled. Waiting. Natasha stills. You feel it instantly. Not fear. Not hesitation. Tension.
She exhales once, quiet, before guiding you forward anyway. “Stay with me,” she says, softer now. You nod faintly.
The room you step into feels bigger. Open. The air different. You can feel the attention shift toward you multiple people, different positions. Watching.
“You were given a direct order,” Nick Fury continues, voice even but edged. “Neutralize the asset.”
Natasha doesn’t let go of you. Not even slightly. Instead, she answers just as evenly. “I didn’t.”
Silence. Heavy. Immediate.
“You disappeared for four days,” Fury adds. “No comms. No updates. And now you walk in here with—” he pauses, like he’s reassessing in real time. “—a civilian.”
You tense slightly at that word. Natasha’s hand shifts—just a fraction tighter around your arm. Grounding.
“Not a civilian,” she corrects.
There’s a beat.
“…a child,” Fury says instead. Not softer. Just more precise.
Another silence. You can feel it pressing in now. “She was the asset,” Natasha says.
That changes something. You can hear it, the subtle shift of movement in the room. Someone straightening. Someone stepping closer.
“And you didn’t complete the mission,” Fury states.
“No,” Natasha replies.
No excuse. No hesitation. Just that. The air tightens.
“Care to explain why?”
There’s a pause.
You feel Natasha glance at you not long, not obvious. Just enough to check you’re still there. “Because she’s me.”
The words land differently. Not defensive. Not dramatic. Certain. Silence follows. Longer this time.
“…yeah,” another voice cuts in quietly.
You don’t recognize it immediately. But Natasha does. You feel it in the way her posture shifts not guarded, not tense. Something else. Familiar. Clint Barton.
He’s leaning somewhere off to the side you can hear it in the casual weight of his voice, the lack of urgency. But there’s something under it. Something that knows. “That’s about right,” he adds.
Fury doesn’t respond straight away.
“And you’re basing that on?” Fury asks, tone sharp again.
Clint exhales softly, like this isn’t a conversation he hasn’t had before.
“Because I’ve seen that look,” he says. “Same one she had.” A pause. “You remember how that went.”
Another silence. He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. The implication sits there, heavy and undeniable.
You don’t fully understand it but you feel it. The shift. The weight of something old being dragged into the room. Natasha doesn’t speak during it. She just stands there. With you.
Fury exhales slowly through his nose. You can hear him move now, closer. Not rushed. Measured.
“You’re asking me to ignore protocol,” he says.
“I’m telling you protocol doesn’t apply here,” Natasha replies.
Sharp. Controlled. Protective. Another beat.
“She’s trained,” Fury says. “Unstable. A liability.”
Your shoulders tense immediately. Natasha feels it. Her grip tightens againsubtle, but firm.
“She’s a kid,” she counters. “Conditioned. Not unstable.”
“Semantics.”
“No,” Natasha says, quieter now. “Experience.”
That lands harder. Because it’s not an argument. It’s fact. Silence stretches again. Longer this time.
Then, “…what’s your name?”
The question isn’t directed at Natasha. It’s directed at you. You hesitate. Just for a second.
Your fingers curl slightly into Natasha’s sleeve again before you answer, voice quieter than you mean it to be.
You tell him. There’s a pause. Not judgment. Not dismissal. Just consideration. Fury exhales again, slower this time.
“…and you’re telling me,” he says, directing it back at Natasha now, “that bringing her here is the best option.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt. Another beat
“…you’re responsible for her,” Fury says.
It’s not approval. But it’s not refusal either. Natasha nods once. “I know.”
A pause. “Anything she does—”
“She won’t,” Natasha cuts in.
Firm. Certain. Fury doesn’t argue that. Not directly. Instead, he shifts.
“Medical evaluation,” he says. “Full debrief later.” Then, after a second, “…and Romanoff?”
Natasha’s attention sharpens slightly. “Yeah.”
A pause. “You don’t disappear again.”
There’s weight behind it. Not just authority. Something else.
Natasha nods once. “Noted.”
Silence settles again. Then movement. The tension in the room starts to ease not gone, but no longer suffocating.
Clint steps a little closer now, you can hear it in the shift of his boots against the floor. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t reach out. Just… stops nearby.
“Hey, kid,” he says, quieter than before.
You don’t respond straight away. But you don’t pull away either.
He huffs a faint breath something almost like a half-laugh. “…you picked a good one,” he adds, nodding slightly toward Natasha.
There’s something in his voice. Not light. Not joking. Certain. Natasha doesn’t respond to that. But her hand shifts slightly against your arm. Steadier.
And for the first time since stepping inside the Tower the space doesn’t feel quite as hostile.
