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The mornings when they all find themselves in the communal kitchen at the same time are rare, but they do happen, and Natasha secretly enjoys them. This morning they are missing only Bruce and Jane, who she knows are locked away together in the lab, pouring over endless measurements of what Jane had finally, impatiently described as 'invisible Bifrost waves.' Bruce had given Natasha an apologetic look but no better explanation, and Natasha had decided going in search of coffee was the better part of valor.
Coulson is reading the New York Times on a tablet, Thor is chugging an entire gallon of milk, Tony appears to be dissecting the coffeemaker – again, though thankfully she has him trained by this point to make a pot before he starts tinkering if it's any time before noon – and Steve has just turned off the stove and is placing a heaping plate full of omelet in front of Clint and taking an even more improbable portion to his own seat.
The omelet appears to consist primarily of bacon and cheddar cheese that a couple of eggs may, perhaps, have walked past. Quickly.
“Have I mentioned I love you?” Clint mumbles to Steve, around a mouthful.
“I am in need of your counsel,” Thor sighs, milk finished and jug discarded, as he drops heavily into a chair. “All of you.”
“With enough lube, anything is possible,” Tony throws out, not taking his eyes off the scattered bits coffee maker arrayed on the counter.
Clint snorts, Steve glares, and Coulson get a secretive little half-smile on his face that Natasha knows had absolutely nothing to do with sex and everything to do with Lagos and a crop duster – but Tony doesn't know that, looks over at just the right moment, sees Coulson's face, and suddenly looks incredibly disturbed.
She hides her grin in her coffee.
“What's the matter, Thor?” Steve asks, still glowering at Tony.
“Darcy has informed me that the anniversary of Jane's birth is approaching, and that it is customary to give gifts on this day.”
“Okay,” says Steve, as if he doesn't quite follow. “You . . don't know what to get her?”
Of course, Natasha thinks, to Steve, who had grown up poor, having the means to get someone anything and not knowing what was completely foreign – in the years in which he had people to give gifts, he must have spent a great deal of time staring into store windows, promising himself someday.
“I am uncertain of the proper . . magnitude . . of gift,” Thor says, clearly choosing his words carefully. “She was much offended at the idea that I would pay a great bride-price for her.”
Clint nearly chokes on his omelet.
Tony puts his pliers down with a clank. “Tell me there is video of this. Please, oh please, if there is any good left in the world -”
“I still do not understand how it is offensive to acknowledge her worth!” Thor objects.
“Judeo-Christian attitudes toward the distinction between physicality and spirituality, translated through modern feminism,” Coulson interjects blandly, scrolling with one finger, eyes not leaving the text. “You're facing unavoidable culture clash on multiple levels. I can suggest some reading materials if you'd like.”
Thor clearly doesn't want to offend Coulson by rejecting the offer, but just as clearly has absolutely no idea what he's talking about.
“I don't think there are any hard and fast rules,” Steve quickly interjects. “But it shouldn't be too big a gift. Normally I'd say something you have to save for just a bit, but . . we'll, I guess for you that'd make for something pretty darn big, and probably she wouldn't -”
“She is a great sage, to her people and my own,” Thor interrupts. “She is she who mended Yggdrasil's branches. The disparity in our wealth and the stations to which we were born should not trouble her so.”
Steve snaps his mouth shut. Clint is shoveling eggs. Tony seems to have decided this all sounds too much like it involves social conventions and is once more engrossed in the inner workings of the coffee machine.
“Get her jewelry,” Clint tosses out.
“Do not get her jewelry,” Coulson counters dryly.
“Jewelry with Asgardian cultural significance would be acceptable,” Natasha corrects. “But nothing that's just pretty.” Coulson nods his acknowledgment.
Thor looks like he's given up all hope.
“Hey, speaking of birthdays, I don't know any of yours,” Steve throws out – it's a fairly pitiful attempt to draw the attention away from Thor, and Thor himself probably won't even notice or appreciate it. Steve has never quite grasped the concept that his own shyness isn't contagious.
“Really?” Tony throws a confused glance over his shoulder. “You don't know my birthday?” As if the idea of anyone not knowing Tony Stark's birthday is completely bizarre – granted, his birthday parties do tend to end up on the news, but still.
“You're infinitely charming, Stark,” Natasha drawls.
“I was born in the spring,” Thor says, frowning. “We do not mark such things the way you do.”
“September 21st,” Coulson says. (The autumnal equinox, the day of equal light and dark on which all is balanced before the plunge into winter – Natasha is not a superstitious woman, but she still notices things.)
“March 8.” Clint polishes off his last bite of omelet. “Seriously, man, this stuff should be a controlled substance.”
“Natasha?” Steve asks, ignoring the compliment.
She'd sort of hoped someone would do something distractingly obnoxious before he got to her; the odds were in her favor. Oh well. She thinks a moment.
“December 29th,” she decides.
Coulson goes still for a fraction of a second, and when he resumes his reading, he looks pleased – it's nothing anyone else would see, but it's nice. Clint isn't that subtle; his eyes snap to her, brow raised.
She raises a brow back.
He nods his head, as somber as he gets – then snatches a wayward scrap of bacon off of Steve's plate (Steve has manners, and is eating at a more moderate rate), says, “I didn't get you a present. Here,” and throws it at her.
She catches it and pops it in her mouth, grinning wryly.
There's a touch of egg on it and the faintest hint of cheddar, and while American cooking is generally really not her thing, she has to admit it's not bad.
Steve watches all of this in confusion. “You didn't -” He frowns at Clint, then reaches what is, she supposes, not an unreasonable conclusion. Correct, even, if off-point. “Oh.” He looks at her. “You just made that up.”
She shrugs; she could be kinder, probably should be kinder, and feels guilty when he smiles awkwardly and says, “Don't worry about it, I know there're probably lots of things about you that are way too classified for me to know.” Then he pushes his plate toward Clint and says, “You appreciate it so much more, you should finish it up. I'm going to go get some training in.” And leaves.
Clint sighs, gives the plate of eggs a mournful look, and follows him.
“Natasha,” Coulson says reprovingly.
“Come on,” Natasha announces, shoving out of her seat and stalking past Thor, grabbing the back of his shirt as she goes. “We're going shopping.”
He stumbles a bit at being tugged from his chair, but follows her. As she rounds the corner going out the wide kitchen door, she sees Coulson pulling the plate of eggs toward himself.
***
“Hey! Captain Dumbass!”
Steve slows and allows Clint to catch up to him.
“Whatever you think just happened back there, it didn't,” Clint tells him. “Natasha's trust issues are many, varied, and entirely justified, but not with you. The birthday she just made up? That's the day I brought her in.”
Clint watches while that sinks in; it doesn't get far. “Oh,” Steve says. “That's . . . I didn't think she was a religious person.”
Right. Rebirth and all that, first thing that pops into Captain Alter Boy's head.
“She's not. She just had to pick a date, and that one was something she actually wants to remember.”
Steve is frowning and still not getting it.
“To have a birthday, you have to get born,” Clint says. “If that's an experience she ever had, she can't remember it.”
“I think most people don't remember it,” Steve argues. “If there's no record of the exact date, she could have just said so. Thor did.”
“Are you being deliberately retarded?” Clint snaps.
“That's offensive,” Steve scolds.
“This surprises you, from me?”
“I'd just appreciate if you wouldn't -” Steve stops himself. “Look, be as crude as you want, but no slurs and no taking the Lord's name in vain, is that really so hard?”
“Not when I'm not pissed, no,” Clint says. “You owe her an apology.”
“Because I asked what her birthday is?” Steve demands, incredulous. “I know you're not supposed to ask a lady's age, but -”
“Because you should have bothered to know better,” Clint retorts. “You haven't read her file?”
“It would be intrusive,” Steve objects. “She can tell me anything she wants me to know.”
“No,” Clint says flatly. “No, no, and no. You do not make her do that. You get Stark to hack the un-redacted version, and you read her file, and then you never fucking bring it up, but you know when to shut your Goddamn mouth. Got it?”
Steve looks momentarily like he's going to argue – but he's watching Clint's face closely, finally realizing just how serious Clint is being, and something he sees there changes his mind. “Okay,” Steve says. “Alright. I'll do that.”
“Good.”
***
“I like the idea of giving Jane jewels that have belonged to my family, and I will not find such in a Midgardian market,” Thor says – then, “But that is not why you dragged me from the room, is it?”
“You should play dumb less,” Natasha retorts; they're in the Tower's garage, at her car. “Get in.”
He gets in and, to her amusement, even buckles up. But then he says, “You do not wish the story of your birth to be known. It shames you somehow.”
“I take it back. You are dumb. Drop the subject.” They pull out into mid-morning Manhattan traffic.
Thor watches her consideringly for several minutes in which Natasha does not let him see how uncomfortable the scrutiny makes her – not because it is an unfamiliar sensation, but because she likes Thor, and doesn't want to deliberately manipulate him. It's strange and uncomfortable to be watched like this and not put on a show. Even with Bruce, there's generally a clear message she's trying to convey – mostly yes, I want you, really.
She knows a bit of go the fuck away is creeping into her posture toward Thor, which really isn't fair considering she's the one who dragged him out and shoved him into her car, but she's not going to blame herself overly much if he's going to be like this.
“You are brave,” Thor finally says.
“Thank you,” Natasha answers, clipped.
“And you are being a fool,” he concludes.
“Noted,” she snaps. “You should get Jane chocolates; good chocolates. They're something she'd never buy for herself but would enjoy.”
“Do you have any notion how rare it is, to become something other than what you were born to be?”
“It depends on the culture,” Natasha grates out. “In a feudal system such as the one you're inheriting, yes, it would be quite challenging. I know a shop that does hand-made, artisanal truffles in trendy flavors – some of them are unfortunate, but most of the combinations featuring sea salt are really very good, and Jane likes salty things. And bitter – you should get her some bitter chocolate.”
“Lady Natasha.”
“Yes?”
“Steve meant no offense, and you have made him believe you distrust him.”
“He's a big boy, he'll get over it.”
“He will,” Thor agrees, “but it is not like you to wound without intent.”
And that blow lands, because it's true.
“Coulson has the laboratory records related to my creation,” Natasha finds herself saying. “There were others, but I was the only success – the only survivor. I have perfect, flawless memories of growing up just outside Moscow, from toddler-hood on up. Completely normal life. They start to go a little weird around the time I'm nine or ten. Patchy. I think that's when they started me on missions, and they had to re-set the alternate memories each time I came back. I can remember bits of that – the missions, what I was really doing, but it's not clear. Coulson asked if I wanted to read the files. I asked if I had real parents somewhere. Siblings, maybe. He said no. I said no.”
Thor is silent as she weaves through the traffic.
“You are my shield-sister,” he says, as she tries to find parking on the same block as the chocolate shop. She almost clips a mini-van, and curses at herself.
“Why did you choose the day that you did, the day of which you spoke this morn? It did not seem random.”
“You start being a person under the law on the day you're born,” Natasha answers. “So – that's the day, for me. The closest thing I have.”
“The day you became a person,” Thor says slowly – he doesn't have enough of the facts to understand, but she doesn't really care. She will keep some things for herself.
“Yes.”
***
Natasha goes back to the lab, that evening, to read through the field reports Coulson has sent her – prep work for an upcoming mission. They've cultivated a variety of contacts for this one, and not all of them have been given the same story. She listens to the soft whirs and beeps of the equipment and the soothing sound of Bruce's voice, and Jane's. The content of their conversation is incomprehensible to her, but she can follow the push and pull and flow of it, the way their ideas and their words run together, create little eddies of thought and sound, then rush on.
This is where Steve finds her; when he opens his mouth to speak she makes a hasty hushing gesture, and then ushers him out into the hall.
“Look, probably I shouldn't tell you this, but -”
“Clint told you to read my file,” Natasha cuts him off.
“Yes,” he admits.
“And you did.”
“Yes.” He's standing nearly at attention, his spine is so straight.
“And?”
“And just so you know? I don't pity you. Not even a little bit. I admire the heck out of you for what you went through and the fact that you came out the other side of it, but pity . . . pity would mean that I thought those things had just happened to you, and you couldn't do anything about them. And that hasn't been true of you in a long, long time. Just so you know, Ma'am.”
He nods to her, stiffly, then just walks away.
***
Natasha has finished her reading, eaten dinner, showered and gone to bed hours ago by the time Bruce stumbles in. He shucks his clothes and tosses them in the hamper, visits the bathroom, then joins her under the covers.
“So did you fix the universe?” she asks drowsily, curling into him .
“We're not trying to fix it so much as just . . . listen to it, I guess,” Bruce corrects her. He drops a kiss into her hair and pulls her closer.
“Okay,” Natasha says. “Listening is good too.”