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"Brought you in from the cold, did they?"
Those are her first words to him, one supposed legend to another.
He turns and meets her eyes. "Apparently."
She smiles; he nods. They fight; they win; they lose. That's how it goes.
Then he's walking down the third level corridor, and she's turning the corner towards him. She smiles; he nods. They have lunch. Her steak leaks blood. He swallows the bite of sandwich and asks, "How long?"
"Years and years," she says.
Then he's fighting others, coworkers of a sort, and she and hers are whipping around the place bringing it all down on their heads.
He's running for the stairwell, next level up to do what he was recruited for, and she's in the hallway.
"John!" she calls out cheerfully, enemies down like dominos. "You hot or cold these days?"
"Never much of a fascist, myself," he says. There's that smile. Something inside him curls up fetal. She's always scared him.
"Come say hi to some friends then," she says, about-facing.
He goes. That's where he was heading anyway.
"Baba Yaga," she tells them later, her arm swinging out in flourish.
One frowns, the other scrutinizes. "Like the witch?" the former asks. "Like the assassin," the latter answers.
"It's John," he says. "Where to next?"
And Natasha just keeps on smiling. "Told ya," she preens.
"Yeah, welcome aboard, hotshot," the (former) SHIELD agent says. "Time to strap in."
Military guy shrugs. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"Yeah, whatever. Who am I to throw stones?"
"Thought it was arrows, not rocks."
Agent pulls a face. "Why limit oneself?"
"Still time to turn back," Natasha tells him, serious as he's ever seen. "Go to ground. Switch sides."
He takes a second. "No, thanks."