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"There's been underground chatter about a potential disturbance in the area," Maria Hill prompts at her door one night, long after the other agents on the floor have succumbed to deep sleep.
Natasha had been fully awake, freshly returned from a mission in Siberia and unable to shake off the dark echoes encroaching on the edges of her sanity.
"In the morning," says Hill, "we'll patrol the community undercover to assess the full nature of the threat and intervene if necessary."
A fully established cover forms in her mind before the words fully sink in. "'We?'"
"You and me," Hill clarifies, nonchalant, as if the Deputy Director of SHIELD makes a habit of indulging in spontaneous fieldwork personally. "Just us."
"Is that wise?"
"Are you questioning my methods, agent?" Despite Hill's challenging tone, there's a sparkle of something else behind her usually hardened gaze.
Amusement.
"Of course not," Natasha replies.
"Meet me in the lobby," she directs, turning on her heel. "0800."
The following morning, they depart the Triskelion exactly as the clock strikes eight, both of them dressed in warm casual clothes to blend in with the rest of the morning crowd.
As they travel along a bustling street, Natasha takes note of each car they pass, parked or otherwise, and keeps an eye on the tops of buildings for the flash of a sniper scope. Three months as an official SHIELD agent haven't been enough to shed her strict training or paranoia, no matter how hard Barton has tried to help her integrate in the meantime.
She’s hit by the aroma of freshly baked bread when they stop in front of a bakery.
"I'll just be a few minutes," says Hill, pushing through the doors.
Natasha goes through the motions, securing the perimeter and closely watching a small crowd gathered at the bus stop across the street, cataloguing and filing each of their faces in her mind. Once she's certain they're not being followed, she enters in time to hear the trail end of a conversation in Spanish.
"Gracias." Thank you. Hill accepts a pair of chocolate-covered croissants over the counter, stuffing a few other wrapped pastries into her coat pocket. "Que tengas buen día." Have a nice day.
"Igualmente." Likewise.
"I didn't know what to get you," says Hill once they've exited out onto the frost-covered streets. She hands over one of the croissants, still warm through the napkin. "Do you like chocolate?"
"I've had it before." It's a non-answer, only because she doesn't know a truthful one.
Hill just raises an eyebrow. "I have a few others you can try instead."
Natasha shakes her head, eyes still dissecting their surroundings. "Chocolate is fine."
"Suit yourself."
The croissant goes untouched.
Their next stop is an antique store a few blocks down, off the main road and a little more deserted. Despite this, the cashier is warm and welcoming, easily taking up conversation with Hill, whose focus has a tendency to drift toward Natasha instead of the potential dangers they're supposed to be on the lookout for.
The day continues similarly—with the Deputy Director of the most extensive spy network in the world carrying on with her errands, and Natasha feeling more and more like her skill set is just for show.
It's only when they enter a park, with the sun nearing the end of its journey and painting the sky in brilliant streaks of yellow and orange, that she calls it out. "I know what you're doing."
"And what am I doing?" Hill asks, turning in time to intercept a stray soccer ball, balancing it on the top of her foot before punting it back to a crowd of grateful kids.
"Handling me."
Natasha has been taught to notice anomalies within the ordinary clamor of everyday life because that's where dangerous people like her tend to lurk, and everything she's witnessed so far on this mission has been absent of the usual signs.
Except for the mission itself.
She should refrain from being so direct. Historically, arguing with a superior has never ended well.
Neither has calling out their bluff. "There was never a threat in the first place," Natasha finishes, inwardly bracing for impact.
Silence stretches almost to a painful degree, until they end up settling down on a bench out of the way of the main thoroughfare and situated along a trail of bricks outlining a rose garden.
A young couple passes by, hand in hand, before kneeling to admire the flowers in bloom.
The chocolate topping of Natasha’s still-uneaten pastry has melted into the napkin at this point, uncomfortably warm in her fingers.
"Tell me," Hill begins, nodding over to a father and daughter playing catch a few dozen yards away while a mother and son set up a picnic blanket at the base of a nearby tree. "If there had been a situation to stop, would you have given your life to save them?"
"I would have identified and neutralized the threat before it came down to that."
"Not what I asked."
Natasha lets that sink in, and after a moment (after the sting of failure has faded), she answers, "Yes," with the same conviction an older version of her would have given in the Red Room.
She's given that answer to countless handlers in the past, in the same tone and the same breath she's used before ending countless lives.
She once gave that answer to Barton when he had an arrow leveled at her heart. Except, that time, it led to an outcome that didn't hurt—and she'd protect that with every fiber of her being.
"So you've found something worth dying for," Hill notes. "Welcome to the team."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It isn't. Not exactly." She gestures toward the pastry clutched in Natasha's grip, nails digging sharp into the flakey covering. "But the next step is finding something worth living for."
Finally sinking her teeth in, Natasha’s senses flood with a sweetness she's never really indulged in before now, smooth and decadent on her taste buds. Once the entire thing is gone, she can't help but notice that it would've been better fresh from the oven.
Hill observes with a curious tilt of her head, unwrapping a fresh scone from her pocket.
"I think," Natasha considers in the aftermath, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips that's mirrored on the other woman's face. "I do like chocolate."