✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠
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 and let 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.
✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠