Chapter Text
“What’s this?”
Natasha eyes the package suspiciously. It looks as if someone had taken an old shoebox, sat on it, and then wrapped most of a roll of toilet paper around it to keep the sides from splitting open.
“It’s a present,” Barton says. “Well, not exactly. But I wrapped it myself.”
“I would never have guessed,” she says. “What is it?”
She is still fathoming the man’s capacity for obstinacy, but this answer is something she should have expected: “Why don’t you open it and find out?”
Natasha holds the thing up against her ear and shakes it a little. It doesn’t tick, or rattle; no, it sounds … fluffy, like there’s something soft inside, barely moving.
“Don’t tell me you actually bought that black velvet wall hanging you saw in the market in Lisbon?” she demands. Their first mission together had almost ended in tragedy, when she had found that his tastes ran to cheap bars and tacky souvenirs.
“Please,” Barton is offended. “Give me some credit. Those can only be truly awesome when they involve Elvis in his fat period.”
She gives him a measuring look and weighs the parcel carefully in her hand. It’s actually pretty light, and once you subtract the packaging, there isn’t much left for anything except …
“Anthrax powder?” she asks, frowning.
“You spend entirely too much time thinking about death, Romanoff,” Barton informs her. Before she can even interject a Yes, so? That’s my job, he continues, “… and not enough time considering the other side of the coin. Birth. Or rebirth, for that matter. Beginnings. Turning over a new leaf, that sort of thing.”
“Birth?”
Natasha ignores the last bits; Barton getting metaphorical is not an appealing concept, especially after what he just said about Elvis Presley and black velvet. She dials her glare up to Medusa, without noticeable impact. Instead, he rolls his eyes and huffs impatiently.
“As in birthday.”
Natasha suddenly feels as if someone was sitting on her chest. There had been records within the Red Room, of course, but any data in them was only as reliable as the motives of those who had entered them. In an agency that specialized in inventing identities, planting memories and concealing tracks, reliable was a death sentence.
“It’s not my birthday,” she says, extending the hand with the parcel in his direction as if to hand it back to him.
Barton won’t take no for an answer.
“It is now,” he says, and there’s a slight edge to his voice. “Open the damn thing. I’ll stay close, so if it’s booby-trapped we go down together.”
“Fine.”
She rips into the parcel easily, given the improvised nature of its wrapping. Lifting the slightly dented lid, she finds …
“More toilet paper? Taken off the roll, too, and all balled up, ready for use? Oh, Hawkeye, you shouldn’t have.”
“Hey!” Barton takes a step towards her. “Careful. You don’t want to tear it. Some day, this will have sentimental value to you. Like Scrooge McDuck’s first self-earned dime.”
Natasha snorts, even as she is beginning to suspect that maybe there is actually something vaguely important in the box. She fishes gingerly around in the wads of tissue (three-ply -- he went all out, or else he snagged a roll from Fury’s private bathroom), only to find more paper at the bottom.She takes it out and unfolds it, trying to ignore Barton whose expression has suddenly gone unreadable.
It's an envelope, addressed to her, with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the back. She rips it open and takes out the single half-sheet. The paper is covered in numbers and incomprehensible acronyms, with her name at the top.
And yes, it bears today’s date.
“What is this?” she says, and doesn’t bother to hide her confusion. “It looks like a ledger of some sort.”
“It is,” Clint says, and the oddest smile crosses his face. “Of sorts. But it isn’t red. It’s your first official pay slip. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Romanoff.”