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Natasha stares at the number on her bank account — well, one of them — in stunned silence, too numb to feel the happiness, joy, ecstatic shock that is probably appropriate for a moment such as this.
As a grifter — a damn good one at that, Natasha strives for nothing less than perfection in her chosen craft — Natasha is used to being surrounded by wealth and money, extravagance and shameless posturing. It’s basically her job description.
But there’s a lot of zeros and then there’s a hell of a lot of zeros. It’s too much, the amount far too high to feel real. The kind of money that goes beyond wealthy, beyond filthy, stinking rich. Tony’s rich, Natasha knows that. Everyone knows that. Or, well, he used to be. Back before he sold his properties and put all his money into saving Stark Industries, only to turn around and retire from his position, sell his stock to his successor and disappear out of the public eye.
[Everyone in the industry knows there’s more to it than that. Everyone knows there’s something shady about the way Tony Stark left his own company — some say of his own volition, some say his hand was forced. No one is stupid enough to believe that the murder of his assistant preceding those changes is in any way or shape a coincidence.
But Natasha is one of the few who has run into Tony Stark since then — or rather the ruin of what used to be Tony Stark. He goes by Anton, these days, and that he smiles a hell of a lot less is the least of the changes. As such Natasha isn’t forced to rely on unconfirmed rumors and gossip. She knows damn well that Stane did something unforgivable. And didn’t have the smarts — or the guts — to put Tony Stark down when he could.
He’ll regret that weakness one day, of that Natasha has no doubt. If there is a man out there, that will one day turn Tony Stark into a killer, it is Obadiah Stane.]
The point is, even for the old Tony Stark this would amount to an indecent fuck-ton of money. For your usual mortal — which Natasha in spite of all her talents is — it’s the kind of sum you vaguely dream about because you can’t even picture what it might look like. What it might mean.
Now here they are.
“We’re gonna be set for life when this is all over,” Natasha mutters. Tries to work through the confusing mixture of disbelief, shock, relief, exhilaration and amusement this seemingly innocuous number evokes in her. To understand how she feels about this, not just the situation itself but its implications.
She’ll never have to work again. She’ll never have to do anything she doesn’t want to again. And — far more important — she’ll be able to do anything she wants.
This? This is what Natasha’s been working towards, been dreaming of all her life. It’s what every grifter wants, really. Every criminal even. This is the mythical big score. The one everyone always talks about and most never, ever achieve.
[It should feel more satisfying, shouldn’t?]
And yet, despite all that Natasha isn’t sure what to do with it. She’d assumed it would take her several more years yet to reach this moment. [And even then, the payoff she would’ve considered acceptable would’ve been much, much lower.] It feels almost too easy.
Natasha forces herself to tear her gaze away from the screen. The number won’t change and it’s not wrong, she’s already run those checks a dozen times. While her temporary colleagues have remained quiet — perhaps caught up in their own shock, though considering their identity, that doesn’t seem likely.
Anton isn’t smiling.
It’s such an odd, little thing to stick out to her, and yet it’s the first thing Natasha notices. After all, people usually smile when they’re holding a payout of more millions than they knows what to do with. Not that it surprises Natasha.
[She hasn’t seen Anthony Stark smile since the day Pepper Pott bled out in his arms.]
Anton’s staring at her now, not avoiding eye contact for once. An unvoiced challenge. [Natasha’s never been good of letting those go unanswered. And it irks her, just a bit, that he knows her well enough to know this already, even though she’s already decided she doesn’t mind playing along. For a bit.]
"There’s no way Hammer put this much aside," Natasha states the obvious. "Even if we’d taken his company for everything it got, no way would we have made this much money off one job."
"Or maybe you’ve been working the wrong jobs." Anton smirks when she rolls her eyes in response. "Come on, I’m a motherfucking Stark. You can’t seriously think I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve. Playing with the stock market? I’ve been doing that shit since I was fourteen and contrary to what my esteemed former board members like to think, I’ve learned a lot over the past decade."
And the thing is, Anton wears casual arrogance like second skin and just like his infernal goatee and those ridiculously fancy suits he’s so fond of, he makes it look good.
As if to underline Natasha’s point, Anton continues with a simple "All of this?" accompanied by a careless wave of his hand. "There was no way I was gonna let us walk out of this job with anything less. It’s the least of what we’re owed."
There’s something in Anton’s eyes that sends a by now familiar thrill down her back – because Natasha knows that cold edge. Knows Anton’s brilliant mind that constantly works on fifteen problems at once. Knows even now, with this little game of theirs finished [a stunning victory, as though it could’ve been anything else] he is already setting up the next move. [The next target.]
Natasha has met men on a warpath before and Anthony Edward Stark meets every single criteria. She doesn’t need to understand how he thinks exactly — doubts anyone could, the man’s been called many things, but his unofficial title as a genius has been hard-earned — to know that somewhere in that pretty, pretty head of his, Anton’s keeping book of every offense committed against him and his. Is slowly but surely working through a list only he knows the full extend of.
[Stane was a fool. Part of Natasha — the part that has watched Anton break himself apart over the last fourteen days — hopes she’ll be there when Anton finally, inevitably turns his attention to him.]
But now is not the time for these things. With that in mind, Natasha forces a teasing grin on her lips, keeps her eyes shadowed but her words light. "Yes, yes, we all know you’re amazing."
Even Barnes snorts at the dryness of her tone, though Anton, at least, is unbothered.
"And don’t you forget it."
"Well, then." Natasha catches herself before she involuntary glances down at her phone’s screen again, still not convinced that this money is real. Is hers. "I suppose this is it."
Catches the eyes of Barnes, then Anton because they deserve that much. Working with competent partners is always a pleasure. And though Barnes prefers too much brute force for her taste and there’s a ruthlessness to Anton’s machinations that goes far beyond Natasha’s own cool practicality, she’s enjoyed this job. [More than she thought she would.]
"It could be."
To her genuine surprise, it’s Anton who says those words. [The same Anton whose first words to Natasha were 'I don’t do teams’ with casual derision.] But there’s no doubt he means them — means what they imply — else Anton wouldn’t have spoken up at all.
A quick glance towards Barnes confirms what Natasha has assumed: He’ll let her take the lead on this conversation, if only because it means he won’t have to talk himself. Barnes is a man of very few words indeed.
"What else is there to do?" Natasha obligingly asks. "The job is done. We’re done. It’s over."
[She knows those words are a lie, of course. Knows that big score or not, it was never just about the money. You don’t become a world-class grifter wanted in seven countries and counting just because you need money. Maybe that’s how it started — and sure, the riches are nice to have — but Natasha loves it. Loves the rush. Loves reading the mark, enticing it, blinding it. Loves pulling off a job and getting away with it against all odds.
It’s been less than ten minutes, but Natasha doesn’t need time. She already knows that, millions or not, she won’t stop now. Wouldn’t know where to start, even if she wanted to.]
“It’s never gonna be over.” Anton says it absently, matter-of-fact. "Not for me."
A simple acknowledgement of a truth Natasha already knows. [Men like Anton, they don’t stop half-way through. They don’t stop at all. And perhaps she should know better than to get involved with someone so hell-bent on revenge, but. Hell was always gonna be her ultimate destination anyway. Why not enjoy the ride?]
The way Anton looks at her, at Barnes, there’s no missing the implication. The unspoken offer. The warning.
You can walk away now if you want. [Get out while you still can.]
A sensible person would’ve taken him up on that offer. A sensible person would walk away.
“Good.” Barnes hums. “I’d be bored to death if I didn’t have to pull your ass out of a fire.” Light and easy, everything he shouldn’t be and usually isn’t. [Like he isn’t committing to a cause without a take-back option.]
Natasha thinks she hates Barnes for that, a little. For the light in his eyes that never dims, no matter how much blood he spills. For how easy he makes it seem, like he really just makes that decision in the spur of the moment, because he likes Anton well enough and doesn’t mind sticking around some more.
[Like he doesn’t care at all about all the ways in which this can and will blow up in his face.]
Anton raises a questioning eyebrow at Natasha. She licks her lips. Thinks of the life she can afford now, somewhere far, far away, without an extradition agreement to any of the countries she wouldn’t like to revisit. The comfortable, even extravagant life she could lead. [Thinks of the bloodied smile on Barnes lips, the way Anton’s eyes lit up when Hammer broke.] Shrugs.
“You’re not completely incompetent. Sure. What’s one more job?”
*
The thing is, just because Natasha is the best, Barnes is a professional and Anton is terrifyingly competent doesn’t mean working together is easy. Or painless. Or free of friction.
There’s a reason Natasha usually works alone. Part of it is that multiple people complicate the con, make it easier for the lies to unravel before she’s ready. Part of it is the simple fact that she doesn’t trust others to have her back— to not leave her hanging as soon as it is in their best interest. Most of it though is because Natasha doesn’t like people.
At least on that point they all agree.
Well, Barnes likes to murder people, but Natasha is 87 percent sure that doesn’t count. Besides the man is impossible to deal with on an empty stomach, but if he wants to kill you, you know it. Anton isn’t as courteous. [It’s not that Anton is terribly hard to read, no. He’s got some of the most expressive eyes Natasha knows — and uses them to their full, devastating effect. It’s that you never know where his mind is at. His expressions are only useful when you know what they refer to, after all. And Anton doesn’t think about just one or even three things at any given time.]
This makes working jobs together challenging sometimes.
["We had a perfectly reasonable plan that we all agreed on," Natasha spits right into Anton’s face, hand on his throat tightening in her fury. "Why is it that you cannot manage to stick to it for the five fucking minutes it would’ve taken me to close the deal?!"
Anton shoots her a supremely unimpressed look that manages to convey his dismissive annoyance just fine, although his voice is getting thinner.
"I saw a better way."
"Put him down, Romanoff." Barnes brushes past her hard, purposefully jostling her shoulder.
"I don’t know why you defend him!" Natasha lets Anton go with a low growl. "You got shot because of his crackpot idea!"
Barnes shrugs. "I don’t take getting shot personally." Pulls the fridge open, uncaring of the way his sharp movements dislodge the bandage on his right arm. "Now stop strangling the genius before I make you stop. We need him if we want to turn Bain around."
"You’re just sore your plan didn’t work," Anton rasps and reaches for the glass of water Barnes hands him.
Natasha half hopes they’ll start fucking soon — this weird mating dance they’ve got going is annoying as hell — but she’s fairly sure she’s gonna kill one or both of them before they figure their shit out.]
Sometimes it’s almost nice though. There’s certain things that get easier with practice. The longer they work together, the better they are able to understand and predict how each of them will react to new situations.
Also, Anton gets better at communicating changes to his plan, which eases the constant tension between them substantially. And fine, maybe Natasha takes a more flexible approach on her marks these days, admits — if only to herself — that sticking to the first plan all the time isn’t always the best, most successful option — but that’s neither here nor there.
[They start out sharing a meal after a particularly exhausting — exhilarating — job because none of them can be bothered to return to their various hide-away homes. Sometimes Barnes cooks when Anton gets stuck in one of his research manias and doesn’t resurface for at least thirty-two hours unless Natasha or Barnes force him to eat.
For some inexplicable reason Natasha still hasn’t figured out, this leads to communal meals twice or three times a week. Maybe Barnes has some unresolved family issues because he always cooks for them, not that Natasha’s gonna ask. She likes her limbs right where they are, thank you very much.
Still, it becomes tradition at some point, which Natasha only realizes when she ends up buying lemons and fresh lettuce on her way to The Office because Barnes mentioned he wants to try a new recipe the other day. By then it is already far too late.]
*
Natasha has known Barnes and Anton before she’s worked with them professionally for the first time.
Barnes moves in the same — if the more violent — circles as she does. They’ve run into each other at times, at auctions, by coincidence, even on a job or two. [They’ve slept together a few times as well, but it was never personal, never meaningful, and neither one of them pretended otherwise.]
Anton is more complicated. Natasha’s gone after Tony Stark once, though he himself wasn’t the target. That’s probably the reason Anton contacted her in the first place. That mission was a disaster from start to finish, but these days Natasha knows Anton well enough to realize that he probably considers that embarrassment a weird but enthusiastic job application. The man’s insane like that.
[She’s run into Tony Stark, later Anton, a few more times over the following two years. They haven’t acknowledged each other, but Natasha’s been keeping an eye on him. Purely out of a healthy sense of self-preservation, not because she cares what happens to him, of course.]
And it is because Natasha has known them for years — if in a rather round-about way — that she feels qualified to make the following observation: James Barnes and Anthony Edward Stark are ridiculously gone over each other.
[The other day, Anton disassembled Barnes’ favorite gun. His gun. And Barnes didn’t kill him for it. He didn’t even hit him. Just yelled for like twenty minutes, then stormed off to water his tomato plants.
And Anton’s even more ridiculous. He’s started a fanpage for Barnes’ Murder Strut™, for heaven’s sake. Natasha can’t even. That she follows it is entirely besides the point.]
Naturally neither Barnes nor Anton have taken the most reasonable step to resolve the sexual tension between them. Of course they haven’t. That would make things too easy.
Instead, every disinterested onlooker and Natasha is forced to watch their painful, painfully obvious version of threats-slash-flirting-slash-genuine-offers. Like the fifty-two times Barnes has offered Anton to kill Stane so far.
[It should be noted that the number increases steadily and that if anyone gets to kill Stane, it will be Natasha.]
Or all the programs and gadgets Anton develops to make Barnes’ — and by extension of course Natasha’s — life easier. One of these days Natasha is gonna lose her patience with the two of them and is going to lock them into an elevator. Or — more realistically because sticking Anton into anything with access to wires is a fool’s plan — lock them into their hidden cellar and throw away the key. It’s a viable option. Just as soon as their antics loose their entertainment value. Which is not likely to happen any time soon, if she’s honest.
[The way people look at them when they finish each other’s sentences, move like they’re one single unit? Yeah, Natasha is enjoying that very much. Also the show Barnes always puts on when he knows Anton’s watching. A hot man dressed in black leather, taking down the opposition without breaking — much of — a sweat? What’s not to like?]
*
Natasha stares at the flowers Anton’s proudly presenting her with in genuine confusion. Although flowers might be a bit of a stretch. It’s really just a very huge, very meaty looking flesh-eating plant that Anton swears has been genetically modified because quote "I wanted to get you something you didn’t have!" unquote.
"What am I supposed to do with a genetically modified, flesh-eating plant?" Natasha asks the empty air where an over-excited Anton used to stand seconds ago.
"Throw our enemies at it in hopes that it’ll eat them first when it inevitably turns against mankind?" Barnes suggests from where he’s looming in the kitchen entrance. "Put it in a place where you don’t keep anything valuable. Your cake’s almost ready."
"There’s cake?"
"Obviously." Anton peeks over Barnes’ broad shoulders, dark eyes sparkling. "You can’t have a birthday party without cake."
Huh.
*
It takes them two years and seven months. [Actually, it would’ve taken them four months, at most, but they’ve been busy handling other things.] It takes them countless arguments, Anton’s development of what is possibly a more terrifying, if also more polite version of SKYNET. Although that might just be the British accent. It takes Barnes and Anton finally admitting that they might, possibly, like like each other. [Which, of course, means Barnes eventually makes a move. Because no force on this earth would’ve convinced Anton to do the same. Believe Natasha, she’s tried. And she’s not a goddamn couples therapist, got it?] It takes satisfying and terrible jobs. It takes things going wrong far more often than they go right. It takes moving through an entire alphabet worth of back-up plans. But eventually.
Eventually. They move against Obadiah Stane.
[Really, the only reason it took so long is because a confident, secure mark is an easy mark. That and Barnes might have killed the slimy rat on the spot if Anton hadn’t slowly worn him down over the past year.]
It’s not easy because Stane is smart. Not brilliant — he wouldn’t have let Tony Stark walk away alive from his takeover if he was — but smart. He’s been keeping an eye out for Anton, been keeping up with their work, their team members [and who would’ve thought they would ever use that word to describe themselves, each other?], their modus operandi.
Stane is smart, but he isn’t smart enough. His hold on Stark Industries is as secure as it’ll ever get, but. Natasha needs just one read at the man to know that he’ll never see them coming. [He’ll never consider that Tony Stark would rather tear his own company down than leave it in his traitorous hands. He’ll never realize that when Tony Stark spoke of a grace period of two years during his last public appearance, he meant that literal.]
"SI was a relic from another time. The world’s better off without it," Anton says afterwards and downs another shot because that won’t make it hurt any less. Humans keep relics around for a reason.
"You could build it up again. Make it into something better," Natasha points out because Barnes won’t. Because if anyone could do it, it’s Tony Stark.
Anton smiles, slow and languid and so damn bitter. "No. I can’t."
[He’s not wrong. But.]
He shakes his head while Natasha’s still opening her mouth. "No," Anton repeats. Leans over the table to clasp a hand onto her shoulder, steady despite all the bourbon he’s been drinking for the past hour. Presses a quick kiss against her cheek.
"That’s not me anymore."
Then Anton gets up. Walks away. And Natasha doesn’t turn around, doesn’t watch him leave. Doesn’t bother to check whether he’s taken the bottle with him or left it here.
*
"Do you regret it sometimes?" Natasha asks from where she’s perched on the kitchen island. Observes the way the knife in Barnes’ hand stills for a moment, before he continues slicing the onions into ever smaller pieces.
"Regret what?"
"Not walking away when you had the chance."
Barnes tilts his head and Natasha is grateful for that. The way he really stops and thinks about it, instead of falling back on empty platitudes to fill the silence like Anton so often does, a habit he’ll probably never shake.
"No," Barnes says after a long moment.
[He doesn’t say I could walk away anytime I want and that’s perhaps what Natasha’s most thankful for. The reason she’s approached Barnes and not Anton with this. There’s no pretense with Barnes. He simply can’t be bothered with it.]
"I’ve worked a lot of jobs for a lot of people," Barnes continues after a long moment. "Some I regret, most I don’t. But I never liked any of the people I worked for. It’s different now." And then, barely audible over the oil sizzling in the frying pan, "Better."
"Yeah," Natasha says softly because everything else would be a lie. Because she can’t imagine what her life would be like without Barnes and Anton in it, and sometimes that scares her.
*
And—
["If we fuck this up, we’re done for. Over. Finite. You get that, right?" Anton waives his hands around wildly.
Natasha scoffs. Barnes doesn’t even look up from where he’s sharpening his knife.]
["Give it up, Mrs. Greene!" the poor, uninformed police officer shouts. "You’re surrounded, it’s over!“
Now, commands Anton in her earpiece and Natasha jumps.]
["D-on’t bother," Barnes chokes out between pained gasps and Natasha would tell him to shut up and save his strength, would hit him for being a fucking idiot, but she’s too busy getting them both the their extraction point alive.]
"Fucking watch it," Anton mutters half-asleep from where he’s sprawled out across both of their laps, one arm loosely twined around the popcorn bowl.
Natasha rolls her eyes and snaps a picture of him glaring at her like a grumpy cat, while Barnes smirks in the background. Until Anton throws the popcorn at his face for being unsupportive.
Natasha keeps a hand circled around Anton’s ankle — for the sole purpose of keeping him from kicking her, not because the contact is comforting — and watches the two of them have an argument involving glares, long stares and ridiculous facial expressions.
"Oh!" Anton sits up suddenly, topples the popcorn bowl over in the process. "I found us a new mark!"
"We’re on vacation."
"I know, I know, but I swear, Bucky, you’re gonna like this one. Tasha might even get to tase someone. He’s got ties to HYDRA, you know that syndicate we tangled with a few months ago? Well, I tracked some of their more relevant income sources. Turns out—"
[It’s never gonna be over, Anton told them almost three years ago. Natasha wouldn’t have it any other way.]