𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

»»» 𝔳𝔦𝔦.𝔦

trigger warnings: mentions of self-harm

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧

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"Guard your core."

An irritated huff was the only response. The critique only pushed him more, advancing with a flurry of punches to build momentum before throwing in a surprise flying kick to the head.

Only, none of his hits landed. Each punch was parried, and he almost lost his balance as his foot came into contact with a forearm.

Then he doubled over with a sharp intake of air as his sister's foot struck his abdomen once more.

"Fuck," Michael Castello cursed, crouching as he wrapped his arms around his torso, waiting for the pain to subside.

Using the moment to catch her breath, Truth spared no remorse as she took a swig of her thermos.

"I'm gonna have a fucking bruise if you keep this up," her brother complained. 

Truth remained impassive.

"I told you to guard your core."

Slowly, Michael straightened, his face contorted as he took a couple of short breaths.

"Not with the expectation to block the force of a semi-truck."

Truth rolled her eyes, screwing the lid onto her thermos and dropping it onto the floor with a thud.

"You're about to go on an undercover assignment in Serbia without any backup. If you can't grasp basic defense, I don't think you'll stand much of a chance."

After a quick count to three, Michael stood fully straight, the slight, uncomfortable ache in his lower torso more manageable now. With one last sigh, he wiped the sweat off his brow.

"I think your definition of 'basic' is concerning. I don't see you putting Clint through any military training."

Truth raised a questioning brow at him.

"Weren't you the one who asked me to train with you?"

"Not for you to beat the shit out of me," he answered. "I thought, maybe, we could squeeze in some sibling-bonding before I'm thrown in the trenches for God knows how long, but, really, this is the most you've said to me since we walked in here an hour ago."

Disliking his insinuation, Truth leveled a frown at him.

"Maybe I'll start talking when you start actually improving. You're making the same mistakes I've been drilling into your head for years. That's what I mean by basic. So, no, I'm not going to make conversation or whatever it is you want until you stop fucking around."

"Maybe if you quit being such a fucking hardass I could—"

Without warning, Truth struck out with a roundhouse kick, her foot on course to hit Michael's temple only to be thrown back onto the mat by the strength of her own force as a warped, bluish field projected itself in front of him.

Truth huffed in annoyance, hands flat on the mat as she lifted herself up with a wince.

"I thought we agreed no powers," she rasped.

"A fucking bruise is one thing, but you're out of your mind if you think I'm just going to sit and look pretty for a concussion," he retorted, stepping around her to speak directly to her face. His next words were a little softer as he crouched before her. "I get I'm a little rusty and everything, and maybe I'm not making it easy for either of us, but I'm not about to fight ten of you out in Serbia and it's not going to help much if I'm injured before I even get out in the field."

Gritting her teeth, Truth sat up, avoiding eye contact with her brother as she raised a hand, a clean towel flying into her palm.

She hated it when Michael was right. In the moment, it only made her that much more pissed off, but she acquiesced his point by beginning to unwrap her right hand.

Taking that as a sign that their spar was finished, Michael sat down nearby, legs crossed as he tried to get a read on her.

"Why don't we talk about it like normal people?" he suggested.

Truth snorted.

"We're not exactly considered 'normal people,' are we?"

There was something stemming behind those words, but Michael saw through her too easily to ignore the more pressing issue.

"When's the last time you talked to her?"

The last time Truth Castello had talked to Natasha Romanoff had been the day after Valentine's Day.

Natasha had been reeling from the day's events, fully ready to stumble into her apartment and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Truth had disappeared a while ago, refusing to leave Anfisa out of her sights after the injuries she'd caused. Natasha had been left with her brother and, after a very terse conversation with Agent Clarke, they had been dismissed from the case altogether.

The two had talked a little bit once it had all died down. Natasha hadn't had a clue of what was going on, but Michael had assured her that whatever was to happen from that point on was out of their hands. He'd also gone out of his way to mention that Truth's behavior likely had more to do with the circumstances than it did with her, but...Natasha just couldn't shake this feeling that something wasn't right between them again.



Whether that was any fault on Natasha's part or whether Truth simply wasn't in the mood was the mystery.

And, granted, it was completely reasonable for Truth to be upset. Not only had the interrogation done a number on her, but coupled with the sight of Coulson held at gunpoint...

Natasha couldn't quite explain her reaction when she'd ran down the hall after Truth, her registered handgun already in hand as they rushed to the commotion. She'd watched as Truth stepped up to the doorway just before the gunshot sounded, and before Natasha could react, she was pushed back, falling against Michael and Agent Clarke.

For that split moment, her only thought was: Truth was shot.

Natasha had scrambled to her feet, her heart beating rapidly.

Then she'd heard her voice and this weight on her chest had dissipated when she'd seen Truth get up across from her, her own gun pointed at Anfisa as she attempted to talk her down.

What happened next had been a blur. Two more gunshots had been fired almost simultaneously. Suddenly, Anfisa had been disarmed, her head bleeding as Truth rushed to catch her before she fell, tearing off the sleeve of Anfisa's rugged shirt to try to slow the bloodflow while Michael went to Coulson's aid. It had only been when Clarke had pushed past her to check on a downed agent that Natasha had managed to move, assigning herself to the last injured left unattended until help arrived.

Then, before she could even say a thank you, Truth was gone.

But, Natasha didn't know what to do about it. She didn't know where the other assassin was, or whether or not she was busy or if she even wanted company.



It was almost like the last few days had never happened, and they were back to when Natasha had been lucky to spend time with Truth. Back to when they didn't make dinner or eat takeout in each other's apartments or go on trips to the grocery store. Like this, alone in the dark hall as she walked to her apartment, she'd wondered if it had all simply been a dream far too good to be true.

But then she had turned the corner to find someone sitting in front of her door.

Upon seeing Natasha, Truth Castello had stood, holding out two large tote bags to the other assassin.

"You left this in the car."

For a moment, Natasha hadn't known what to say. Instead of taking it from her, she had simply stared, trying to get a read on Truth's state.



"Are you—"

Then Natasha had stopped herself abruptly, startled by the sight of Truth tensing at her words, as though prepared to bolt at the slightest trigger. Quickly, she had changed tactics, reaching around Truth to activate the scanner on her door.

"Why don't you come inside with me?"

Truth had hardly glanced at the open door.

"Clint will be here soon," was her only answer.

Natasha had drawn in a breath. If she was being honest, she'd almost forgotten about him during the chaos of the past few days.

"That's good to hear," she'd managed. "Do you want to—"

"Natasha. Take your bags."

"No," she had replied smoothly. If Truth could've without losing control of herself, she would have made a noise of frustration. When Natasha didn't explain further, she had forced herself to ask.



"Why?"

"Because if I do...you're going to disappear, aren't you? Like Michael said you would."

"So, you're just going to let Keil go?" he'd asked. "And, don't give me that crap saying we're dropping this when we both know that the second you walk out that door you're going to disappear and fix the problem yourself."

Truth looked away from her, dropping her arm and letting the bags dangle from her hand as she debated her next words.

"I don't...I don't like having unanswered questions, Natasha."

Natasha made a face.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Truth glanced back, her brows furrowed as she tried to gauge Natasha's reaction, an uneasy feeling settling within her. It didn't help that her headache still hadn't dissipated, leaving her unable to accurately get a read on Natasha's emotions.

"I don't think either of us are ready to have this conversation right now."

It didn't take much to know that maybe Truth was right. Natasha had been defensive, and it likely had a lot more to do with her own overthinking than with Truth's intentions.



She had many questions, and she sensed that Truth had the same.



Yet, at the moment, they couldn't seem to broach it without accidentally setting the other off.



"Then, what are we going to do about it?" Natasha had asked.

Truth had stared at her.

"I think," she'd said, her voice in a whisper, "that we should take some time to think about things."

Then her eyes had focused on something over Natasha's shoulder and her features had shifted, hiding away the distress with a small, amused smile.

"Nice shiner."

Natasha had turned to find Clint standing behind her looking worn out and unamused at Truth's comment.

"Shut up," he retorted.

Truth had only shrugged.

"Okay."

Then she'd squeezed herself out from the corner Natasha had boxed her in, handing the bags to a confused Clint as she disappeared down the hall.

Clint had turned back to Natasha, hoping to find an answer to what had just happened, only to find her glaring.

"Well, don't you have great timing?"

Then she had marched into her apartment, leaving the door open for Clint to follow.

In the present, Michael scoffed.

"So, as a result, neither of you have seen or spoken to each other in about a week. Because, instead of talking to her, you've decided to drown yourself in work."

Irritated, Truth rolled her eyes, moving to stand as she checked the notifications on her phone.

"Speaking of work," she replied, "I have things to do. Do you still want to train, or was that enough talk for you?"

"Hey," he exclaimed, also jumping to his feet to follow after her. "I did want to train, but you haven't exactly made it easy considering my only sister will only give me the time of day if I ask her for a favor."

Truth glanced up from her phone, not quite happy with his choice of words. She knew he wasn't actually upset at her lack of attention, similar to his comment last week about her spending so much time with Natasha. It was more to rile her up and break her composure than anything, and she hated that it worked almost one hundred percent of the time.



Michael liked to play dirty.

"Talk to me," he continued, not letting up his stare. "Seriously. Every time you get like this, you have too much going on up here," he tapped his head with a finger, "and nowhere to let it out."

Truth clenched her teeth and turned away, fighting the choking feeling that had been growing and fighting to consume her since Valentine's Day.

When she made no move to answer, Michael moved closer.

"Is it because of Natasha, or..."

Reaching up to free her hair from its braid, she made a noise of complaint.



"It's not...." She took a moment before she started again. "The situation with Natasha isn't helping," she admitted, "but I just can't shake this...larger feeling that something just...isn't right, Michael. No matter what I do, I just feel like something's happening that I can't stop. It makes me sick, because I'm worried that when I turn around it'll be you or Clarke or someone else who-who's hurt and I couldn't save despite everything."

Truth's anxiety, her sudden pacing around the room, was what kept Michael from moving any closer.

The case had shaken her a lot more than she'd claimed. Not only had their mother been mentioned, but Coulson and many others had almost died because Truth hadn't been paying attention.

Natasha could've died. That last moment when Anfisa had turned her gun on her? Truth had fallen for it so easily. She'd been bracing herself to stop the bullet from hurtling toward Natasha, only to miss the moment when Anfisa had turned the gun on herself. It was only Truth's last-minute telekinetic reflexes that had kept the girl from shooting directly into her brain, while Michael had blocked the shot aimed for Coulson with a force field.

And, while she had prevented Anfisa's death in that moment, head injuries were serious in every aspect. If Truth had stayed ahead of the game, something could've been different.



At least, that was how she saw it. Michael knew that if they were dealing out blame, he would be a close runner up. He hadn't been very helpful that night, what with him losing his composure and riling his sister up.



But, Truth knew that blame wasn't the answer—she knew that sometimes you can't save everyone. They got lucky this time but, as much as they were lucky, there were still the tough cases where that luck would eventually run out.

But, knowing didn't stop the fear or the worry or the anxiety. Instead, she was stuck watching her every move, left wondering if one action could circumvent another, or how she could plan ahead in tandem with every possibility.



Nothing would stop her from at least fighting to make sure it wouldn't happen again.

Keeping the distance between them, Michael replied to her in a calming tone.

"Do you need help with it?"

'It' being the entire issue with Borba combined with the aftermath of Anfisa's interrogation, and the circumstances surrounding it, which had fallen solely on Truth's authority.



"No, I prefer that you stay out of it," she answered honestly, dragging a hand across her face tiredly. "It isn't the workload that's getting to me really."

Then, Michael finally understood.

"It's happening again, isn't it?"

Truth didn't say anything again, which was more often than not a sign that he was right. She didn't look at him, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor as she fought for composure, her fingers pinching the material of her leggings.

Natasha wasn't the only one who was haunted by her past.

And there was no way Michael could leave his sister standing there without giving her some form of comfort.



He had crossed the room in five seconds, telegraphing his movements to ensure Truth had the room to back out if she wanted to.

Yet, his hug only ruined Truth's every effort to keep her emotions at bay. Because, like this, safe in her brother's arms, it just made her feel everything tenfold, and she closed her eyes because, if she opened them, she worried that she'd finally break.



"Do you want to talk about it?" Michael asked. When Truth said nothing, only burrowing her face into his shoulder, he spoke again. "Is it...is it Mom?"

A shudder ran through Truth.

"Do you know...how Anfisa knew about her?" Truth asked carefully, her voice portraying a fragileness she only shared with a handful of people. "Did you think about it at all?"

HYDRA was Michael's first thought, though he knew that Truth had already ruled them out.

  

The only other place their mom was affiliated with was...

Michael squeezed her tighter, and she knew that he understood with no more explanation.

"Do you want to stay with me tonight?" he asked.

Truth pulled back slightly, confusion written across her face.

"Don't you have debriefs? And—"

"Fuck that," he scoffed. "I'm staying."

"You're not staying," she argued. "And, you're not going to let Clint go alone."

"They can find him a different partner."

"You know he's going to be pissed if you drop out on him. You two work well together."

"He and Romanoff work well together too."

Truth gave him a deadpan look.

"Natasha is still on probation—I doubt she'll be getting an undercover job anytime soon."

"Well, she's missing out."

Truth scoffed.

"Well, she's not missing out on an undercover operation with you."

"You know, despite what you say, I am good at my job."

"I can assure you that Natasha will probably not think the same."

Michael only gave her a silly grin of a smile in response.

Truth tilted her head back to look at him.

"What's that look for?"

"Nothing."

Truth narrowed her eyes. Only Michael would have the gall to lie to her.

"Don't make me ask you again."

Somehow, Michael's smile grew bigger. He waited for a bit, during which Truth only began to grow visibly impatient.

"It is nothing," he repeated. "I'm just...glad you made a friend. It suits you."

At that, Truth turned away sheepishly.

Because, even despite all the tip-toeing, the anxiety and unsureness, the walking around each other, afraid to make a mistake, and this new, scary feeling of being unable to communicate, unable to reach out...

Truth still liked being friends with Natasha Romanoff.

Similar to how Natasha, too, still liked being friends with Truth Castello.

Enough so that that night outside Natasha's door played like a broken record inside her head as she studied every nuanced tone, every gesture, trying to understand what it all meant and why.

Because, just as Truth remained hesitant, Natasha faced a great internal debate.

Because, Natasha was still getting used to the idea of friends as a whole. Just Clint was enough to make her view her new life with a sense of awe, and to know that she'd managed to befriend a woman like Truth on her own was even more unbelievable.

Well. Technically, the achievement wouldn't mean much if she couldn't keep her as a friend. It seemed as if all Natasha was good for was messing things up, and she never knew how to fix it.

Her last idea had been an attempt at a gift to show her appreciation, only they had been slightly distracted by the Red Room assassin who had tried to kill both her and Truth and several other agents who got lucky. And then, of course, Truth had waited by her door, uninterested in talking about anything that had happened in the last however many hours, and Natasha hadn't seen her since.

And, though the gift wasn't meant to be a Valentine's Day gift specifically, she didn't know whether it was odd to give it to Truth several days after the fact, let alone how she was going to do it.

Or, even if she should.

Because, with this newfound tension between them, it may not even be appropriate. Truth didn't look quite happy with her the last they'd spoken, not that Natasha knew exactly why.

It was possible that Truth had completely rethought their friendship. Maybe that was what she'd meant when she'd said that they both needed time to think things over.

Maybe it was her way of putting an end to something that had barely started—

"Ow!" Natasha exclaimed when something struck her forehead. Looking down, she identified the item, and looked up at Clint with an astonished expression. "Did you just hit me with a paper weight?" she whisper-shouted across the table.

"I called your name like ten times already," he replied in the same voice and tone.

"Now you're exaggerating."

"How would you know? You weren't listening!"

Natasha gestured to her stack of paperwork with irritation.

"Well, I'm working, so what is it?"

"You've been staring at the same page for the last five minutes."

Glancing down, she realized he was right. Not only had she been staring at it, but she hadn't even attempted any of the evaluation responses yet. With a huff, she slide the packet across the table to Clint and began stonily staring off somewhere to her right.

"You know, the point of these is for you to do the evaluations, right?" he pointed out. Despite this, he still picked up her pen and began answering them for her.



It was only a basic consult on one of their old cases, anyway. Another agent had simply wanted their opinion on how to best handle his interrogation, and Clint had given the task to Natasha to make her own suggestions and accounts mostly to keep her busy while he wrapped up his last assignment.

Natasha didn't answer. Clint glanced up briefly before finishing off another question.

A few minutes passed before something else was said.

It was something Clint had been trying to figure out how to tell her all day.

"Maria gave me another assignment."

Natasha glanced at him. Clint, being her superior until she was off probation, was always the recipient of their missions. It was a bit earlier than she had expected, but she wouldn't mind the distraction.

"When are we leaving?"

But then Clint gave her a look and it clicked. With furrowed brows, Natasha sat up.

He was leaving.

"Again?" she questioned. "By yourself?"

"Castello is assigned as my partner."

Somehow, Natasha grew even more confused.

"Truth?"

"Michael," Clint corrected. "Truth doesn't usually do partners."

She had noticed that. There were times when Truth worked with a STRIKE team, but, from what Natasha had seen, she mostly worked alone.

"Have you ever worked with her?" she asked curiously.

Clint sat back in his chair as he thought, dropping his pen onto the table. An agent passed by, who nodded to Clint in greeting.

"A few times, yeah. She's known for consulting a lot of cases, and I've had her lead a few of my interrogations for me if Michael wasn't available. We did a couple of STRIKE missions together, and then there was that one time Fury sent us out to recruit an astrophysicist for whatever reason."

Natasha nodded thoughtfully, her eyes once again growing unfocused as she leaned back in her seat. Clint watched her, and this time he broached the other question that he had been pushing aside for a week.

"Is this about her?"

"About who?" she replied, seemingly uninterested.

"Truth."

Natasha looked back at him.

"Is what about her?"

Clint didn't even give her little game a time of day.

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two while I was gone?"

"Nothing happened," she replied tersely.

"Would you give Truth that same answer? Because, I'm sure if you did, she wouldn't be quite happy."

"She already isn't happy," Natasha argued. "I don't see how it'd get worse."

Clint leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"Come on, Nat," Clint said. "You'll feel better if you at least talk about it. You'll drive yourself insane if you don't."

Natasha didn't really have a reason not to tell Clint. And, she did want to talk to someone about it, to get some advice as to how to proceed or what she might have done wrong.

Clint was obviously more experienced in this matter than herself.

And, he was her partner.

So, she told him everything.

Okay, maybe not everything. She didn't tell him about her initial struggle when he had left—though she fully intended to find out what had had him worried that day—or about how Truth had pushed Natasha around in a shopping cart, or how Natasha secretly enjoyed holding Truth's hand, or Truth's insistence that she deserved all the good in the world, or how they had danced with Heidi on Valentine's Day. Those moments felt fragile, almost as if the second they were spoken into existence they would disappear.

But she did tell him about the shopping, the museums, Borba and the events following at the Castello apartment, and everything that had transpired on Valentine's Day. It was enough to take up a good hour or so, their paperwork left forgotten as Clint grew invested.

"Wait, I'm sorry," Clint said, "there was a Red Room assassin here? And she was here, not for you, but for Truth?"

Natasha glared at him, glancing around to make sure no one was listening to their conversation. The library wasn't the most populous place, but there were eyes and ears everywhere.

"Try saying it louder next time."

"And, wait, she told you not to tell anyone?"

"Yes. I don't know if that still stands, but I'm pretty sure I'm obligated to tell you."

"Technically you're obligated to report your findings to your superior, which would've been Agent Clarke in that situation, and any failure to do so is not exactly what Truth should be aiming for."

Natasha's brows furrowed as Clint began to stand up.

"What are you doing?" she aggressively whispered to him, grabbing his arm before he could walk off.

"I'm going to go talk to her—"

"What?! Absolutely not. Sit down!"

"Nat, seriously—"

"Clint," she said. "Sit down before I make you. You're causing a scene."

With a huff, Clint dropped back down into his seat, uncaring about the other agents looking at them weirdly.

"She should've never told you to do that," he said. "This could put your probation at risk."

"Okay," Natasha replied. "Why do you care so much?"

Clint sighed.

"It's fine. I'm just...we're getting very off topic. Red Room assassin, Truth asked you to stay quiet, the girl almost killed you, Truth, herself, and Coulson. And, beyond all that, you bought Truth a gift you haven't given to her yet, slept at her apartment, escaped an assassination attempt and you stabbed some guy's dick, argued over your Lord of the Rings shit—"

"It's not shit—"

"—somehow visited every Smithsonian museum in one day, and went shopping? Am I missing anything?"

"I also had roughly two panic attacks," Natasha admitted despite her pride, "and assaulted both twins with a knife on separate occasions."

"Honestly...." Clint shrugged. "That sounds like progress."

Natasha shook her head, fiddling with one of their yellow pencils.

"Don't piss me off, Barton."

"We'll come back to that," Clint assured, "because you obviously still blame yourself when I can tell you with full confidence that Truth couldn't care less about the knife thing. She's taken more than a stray blade during training before and never makes a big deal about it. She's also the last person who would judge anyone for trauma, so you don't have to worry about that."

"Then why hasn't she talked to me?"

"Same reason you haven't talked to her, probably. She's waiting on your move, which you do have because, again, you still haven't given her the gift."

"You don't think it's weird to just...give it to her randomly? I don't even know where to find her and, well, she's probably busy."

"Well...you do know where she lives now, don't you?"

Oh. That was different.

"Alright," Natasha accepted. "Say I drop it off in front of her door and just leave it there—"

"With a little note, of course."

"...Of course," Natasha allowed, albeit a little skeptical. "And then what? Is that just supposed to magically solve all of our problems?"

Clint shrugged.

"It's something."

Natasha rolled her eyes, leaning back in her seat as she thought about the situation again.

If she wanted to be honest, she wasn't so sure about the gift anymore. The longer it sat in her apartment, the more she doubted Truth would even like it. It was probably a dumb idea—it's not like Natasha knew what she was doing anyway. And, if Truth didn't like it, it could just make everything worse somehow.

She might get annoyed at the gift—like, what if she suddenly decided that she hated books? Or, what if she'd already read the book before and it was just useless? It wasn't the only thing Natasha had bought for her, but even those other items she was unsure of.

Maybe she would like it.

But, what if she didn't?

And, if she didn't...

What if she just didn't like Natasha?

"Yeah, okay," Clint said standing up as he began to pack away their things. "We're leaving."

"What?" Natasha questioned, brought out of her depressing thoughts. "Why?"

"Because you and Truth need to talk to each other instead of just assuming that she's mad at you for whatever reason. And, also, I'm interested in getting a solid explanation as to why she's making you break protocol."

"I can't...I can't just talk to her!" Natasha stood too, grabbing whatever Clint couldn't manage to carry. "I don't even—"

"You don't necessarily have to talk. Like I said earlier, you could give her the gift. Or, you could just write her a note, or draw her a picture of what you feel or something."

"Clint—"

"It doesn't even have to be today!" he added as he backed out of the library, Natasha no longer bothering to follow. "Think about it, and ask yourself, what language do you both understand well enough to communicate through?"

Watching as Clint walked out of the library, Natasha stood there, wondering and debating, yet not quite back to where she started.



Because, instead of being at a complete loss, a new question made itself apparent.

How the hell were two trained assassins supposed to communicate?

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