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Natasha had been trained to lie from an early age. Before she was granted the title of Black Widow, she had to lie to survive the other 27 girls that were in the Red Room ( the Bolshoi whispered a voice in the back of her head) competing for the same position. As she grew older, she was trained how to lie and use her age to her (no, their) advantage, and then to use her body. Natasha didn't really recognize what the truth was anymore.
Still, the man with the bow seemed to believe her when she said she wanted out. Granted, she'd been at the business end of an arrow (making the voice hiss in anger and disgust) but there was a feeling in her chest that she would have called hope if she knew the word. The agents who performed the extraction hadn't looked pleased, but a glare from Barton (call me Clint) kept them silent. They had strapped themselves into the back of the jet, the man alternating between giving her information about what was to come and taking bites of various snack foods. As it was announced that they were beginning their descent, he grew serious and stared at her the way he had in the alley. “Don't. Lie.” Natasha quirked an eyebrow in an almost involuntary response, making him grin for a second. “It'll be easier if you don't lie,” Barton/Clint explained. “But I've been in your shoes and I know that's asking a lot. So, we'll start with don't lie to me and work our way up from there. Can you do that?”
The automatic lie turned to ash in her mouth, and all Natasha could do was nod. The blue eyes squinted at her from across the jet, and something in them flickered, but he took her action at face value. They didn't speak again.
Natasha had been hauled off in cuffs, as she'd been warned. She did not remove them herself, as she had also been warned. She was a model prisoner, quietly answering questions, though few were answered honestly. She had dealt too long in secrets and shadows to be upfront with these strangers.
She calculated it had been three days when Barton showed up again, visiting her in the cell she currently called home. “So,” he said easily, “how's it going?” Natasha shrugged, still unwilling to verbalize a lie to him but unable to tell the truth. He leaned back against the wall. “I've been watching your interviews. Not the psych ones,” he hastily added. “But I'm hoping you could answer me a question.”
She frowned at the odd phrasing, but slowly nodded her head in assent.
“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘the glory of the Soviet supremacy’?”
Just like that, Natasha was gone and replaced by Natalia; the Black Widow didn't appreciate the weakness of her other identity or being relegated to a corner of their mind, but she knew exactly what she needed to do to make the best of the situation. She would need to gather enough intel to make the defection look like a trap. Obviously, the archer would have to die so that he couldn't become a problem later. It would be necessary to maintain the deception a little longer. She kept her shoulders hunched and looked down at her lap. She counted two breaths and answered. “No. Seems extravagant.”
Barton gave a soft huff of laughter. Natalia practically felt him move closer - the man made no sound as he walked. “I think so. One of the handlers here called it the dying gasp of an insignificant band of thugs.” The insult to her and her handlers almost had her leaping to her feet with a snarl and carrying out her attack. Too far away. Get him closer. One breath to make sure her face was ready.
Voice and eyes soft, Natalia looked up at him. “Where did they even hear it?”
Clint carelessly shrugged as he moved ever closer. “Who knows. Doesn't really matter, I guess. You settling in okay?” Natalia smiled and waved a hand around the cell as an answer. “You won't be here forever.” Just one more step . Quicker than she expected, he was right in front of her, and she reacted almost instinctually. She used her legs to push him back, hard, before she jumped to a standing position on the cot. She then leapt off to try and get a punch to the head, but he dived out of the way in a forward roll, coming up and balanced on his feet. Natalia had only a moment to decide whether she should keep up the charade or not. Three breaths where neither of them moved. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Barton nodded and straightened. “It's fine.” He flicked his eyes from her to the cot, so Natalia went to sit while trying not to audibly grind her teeth. “Like I said, I've been watching your interviews.” He waited for her to pass him, turning as she did. He carefully moved closer, waiting for her hesitant nod before he sat on the cot next to her.
“And?”
“You’re not that great of a liar.” Faster than she knew he could move, he had a needle out and jammed into her arm. The plunger was depressed even as she tried to attack him again. He got her locked into a hold that she should have been able to break, but he knew how to counter all of her attempts. The sedative kicked in as he held her, holding on long past the time she went limp.
Natasha woke shackled to what appeared to be a hospital bed and with Barton watching TV from a chair strategically placed to see her and the entrance while still being between the two. He also had a chocolate pudding cup. “What happened?”
“Try again,” he responded without looking at her.
Natasha sighed. “How did the psychs know?”
“They didn't,” he said before taking a bite of pudding. She didn't respond as he scraped the container clean. “I did. Well,” he amended, “I knew when you were lying. A former agent was the one who clued us in about the possible trigger.”
“How is that even possible?”
“I told you, you're not that good of a liar.”
Natasha would have given him a rude gesture, but the shackles stopped her. She settled for rolling her eyes. “How is it possible that you even knew about the triggers? Much less an actual phrase?”
He dropped the container and spoon on her tray. “Guess you weren't the first class that these people had, and we've run into them before. One of 'em turned or something, gave that agent a whole list way back when. Russians ain’t known for change.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
“I'm an excellent liar,” she informed him instead.
Clint shrugged at that. “Maybe to most people, but I see things other people don't, and I never miss.” It was then that Natasha realized the scoff that escaped her was not accompanied by a cutting remark from the voice in her head.
“How did you get her out?”
Clint didn't pretend he didn't know what she was asking. “Cocktail treatment of some kind.” He nodded to the IV. “You'll be hooked up for a while, so I'm here to make sure you don't make a break for it or die from boredom. We're also going to continue the interviews.”
Natasha leaned back against the pillows. “Fine.”
“No lying?”
This time, no lie tried to spring from her lips; she didn't choke on a half truth that reduced her to gestures. Natasha reveled in the freedom she felt, even if she was stuck in a room with a pudding thief.
“Not to you.”