The jet shakes just slightly underneath us as we touch down. The breeze drifting in from the now-opened port makes my origami halo quiver, as if afraid. I stand, hoping that Barton won't notice the lack of precision in the newer creations. I'm not crying anymore, and I've checked my face multiple time to make sure that the typical blotchy residue is hidden by concealer, but there's no way to hide the salty watermarks on my origami.

Barton walks over lightly, reaching down and picking up a particularly deformed giraffe. He squints his nose at it, criticizing, and I bite the inside of my cheek to hide a cringe. Instead of confronting me like I expect, a smile lights his face. "This one is ridiculous. Where did you get the water for the spots?"

The spots? Oh, he thinks that the – oh. Huh. That's actually really convenient. "I spit on it." Completely deadpan tone. Okay, I can do this. I'm making it back to normal. This is no problem. I'm going to get this under control and then everything will be okay again. I'll show SHIELD what I can really do.

Barton laughs down at me, the pinkness of happiness staining his cheeks. "That's genius. Come on, are you ready? We're gonna knock this poor guy out of the water."

I let myself roll my eyes, heaving myself to my feet. "Yeah, let's go do this."

We walk out together, activating the hiding tech even though it's only in its early stages and it probably won't make a difference. Barton grins at me as he presses the button on his key and makes the jet make the beeping sound a car does when locked. "I had them make me a key because they won't let me have a car. This is my baby."

That makes more sense. I was wondering why he had a key. It just seems like a liability, but I've seen firsthand in the past weeks that Barton's puppy eyes are really convincing. He almost got me to make him coffee once.

It was one time, though. One time.

The map we've been given says that the hacker is in a coffee shop not far from here, holed up with free wifi, caffeine, and the need to demolish SHIELD.

I currently would also enjoy demolishing SHIELD, but unlike this guy, there would be really bad, probably deadly consequences.

Wait. This guy is facing really bad, possibly deadly consequences. Aside from the difference between probably and possibly, this guy and I are on the same page. I guess that's life for you.

As we walk, Barton tiptoeing ridiculously and me just strolling along, I mentally run over my inventory of weapons. The two pistols at my hips are pretty obvious, but the two longer blades along my back aren't, and I have a Swiss Army knife knotted up in my hair. I have a shotgun in my left boot, a dagger along the sole of the right, and a laser pen just underneath my cleavage. Awkward, I guess most people would think, but after the Red Room that being the worst place I'm keeping a weapon is a miracle.

Barton has his bow and a rifle somewhere, but I don't know specifically and I'm not going to check. There are a couple of hand grenades in his bag. I'd say that we're fully equipped for a full-on assault mission, and after seeing that message on the dashboard I'm questioning whether SHIELD would actually send a small army out to try to kill me. Barton definitely wouldn't know about it, but he's a good enough agent that they couldn't lose him, so I assume I'd be the only target. It's a good thing I'm carrying most of the weapons.

We reach the side of a dirt road. On the map, it's marked as a walking-only path, but clearly cars have been using it for a while. Barton and I stay at the edges, close enough to the shrubbery that we can leap into it if we need to. Wordlessly he takes the front and we walk in single file. I scan the road and the woods alike, searching for threats, but if there is anything it's doing a good job staying under the radar.

I stiffen suddenly. SHIELD didn't give us any different outfits, but what are we meant to go, waltz into a coffee shop and demand everyone with a laptop or phone to give it to us for inspection? We can't do that. We'll stand out so much that it'll be ridiculous.

"Barton," I hiss. "We don't have any other clothes."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Of course we don't, it's a get in and get out mission. Why would we need -" Realization clouds his features as he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine. "Oh. We're meant to be undercover, aren't we?"

I nod at him, huffing. SHIELD doesn't forget, so there's no way that they didn't know. They were sending us into a mission that we couldn't successfully complete. It makes total sense. Barton's sparkling record could withstand a single mission failure. Mine doesn't have anything on it yet, so this single mistake would give me a zero percent success rate. It's genius; they'll make me seem like a complete failure and Barton seem like some kind of god. That way they can keep him and get rid of me without even having to use force. I wonder if there's a hacker at all, or if they only sent us out here to make me look bad.

"Barton," I say again, trying not to let worry cloud my vision. "They've only sent us out here to make me look bad. You have completed enough missions to keep your success rate at almost a hundred, and mine will be zero."

He hisses in anger. "I cannot believe them. Come on, let's go prove them wrong and get some outfits somewhere."

We retreat into the forest, deep enough in that I don't think anyone on the street can see us. If I hadn't been so well-trained to not show any emotion, I might be a little bit embarrassed, but since I survived the Red Room my cheeks don't even color a little. I am actually surprised that SHIELD would do this, which is embarrassing in and of itself, but I don't let myself show it. Barton is the most embarrassing person I know, which is saying a lot, and there's no way he can judge me. If he did, I don't even think that I would care.

Okay, so I would definitely care. But I wouldn't want to care.

We slip through the underbrush, and Barton is surprisingly quiet, drifting along the ground in the same way I do. I don't think he's quite as graceful as I am, though – I have watched video after video of myself doing drill after drill, and I can confirm that I look nothing like a wrestler trying out ballet when I sneak around.

My focus slips from how ridiculous Barton looks to how on earth we're going to find clothes. There aren't that many people here, and even if there were, there is no way that they wouldn't notice our outfits. We can't just jump into a store and rob them. If I could find a long overcoat, I would still stick out because it's hot, but at least my outfit would look normal – my pants would look like leggings. Young people these days wear those all the time. Barton, however, would only look stupid. Not that he normally doesn't, just that he would more so. If that is even possible.

Would you look at that; I'm thinking about how stupid Barton looks again. My life now is a circle, an unending loop. Not that it wasn't before, it's just that now I'm thinking about a specific person instead of just killing in general.

Oh my god I think about Barton. Thinking about Barton is my new constant. This is ridiculous. I really do need to get it together, and I don't mean just with emotions. How on earth did I let myself think about Barton so often? How did I not even notice?

I guess that's how life is for regular people. Ugh, at times like this I definitely miss being emotionless.

Okay, I'm under control. I'm under control. This isn't a problem.

We slip around a corner, and Barton's already slow pace somehow gets slower, becoming a sumo wrestler waddle – this looks so ridiculous that I almost laugh out loud. In an undercover mission. This is pathetic. What on earth would the Red room think of me now? They definitely wouldn't see me as the threat that I'm sure they think I am right now.

I really don't want to interact with them any more. I don't want to have to kick all their butts. I certainly don't like them, but I don't want to kill them. I guess that's just how it works. To think, two months ago if I was told that I would run away from the Red room and end up waddling through the woods on a bullshit mission with an idiot, I probably would have killed them. If someone brought that up and if SHIELD wasn't watching me, I would kill someone now - but that's beside the point.

Barton turns to me, and I glimpse the street ahead of us. We must have come astride an intersection. With a ridiculously conspicuous hand movement to cup his mouth, he whispers at me: "I've got this. Just stay here - I'll be back soon, okay?"

Ha. He sounds so concerned, like I don't know what I'm doing. I'm pretty sure I do.

Well, maybe he's concerned for the people who I might slaughter, which is completely valid when I think about it. I guess he has a right to do that.

But, he did sign up to have me as his partner, which, while stupid, was one hundred percent him. This means that he has to put up with me doing what I want to do, and I, right now, definitely do not want to stay here in the woods, waiting for Barton to come back. No way I will do that, ever. Nice try, Barton.

"No."

Barton frowns in confusion. "What on earth do you mean, no? I'm pretty sure you can't do that. I'm the guy, I'll go do it."

My eyebrows actually shoot up. Did he just – he did. Oh my god, no way, Barton you sexist pig. "I'm sorry that the fact that I could actually be useful on this mission is damaging to your massive ego. Oh, no, a girl can hold her own? Oh, that must be a horrid blow to your testosterone-fueled I-am-king-of-everything ideals. I'm going with you and you can't stop me." I try my hardest to keep my tone level, and I think I do fairly well, but my entire body radiates a simmering anger. I expect Barton to pull back, at least a little, but he only sends me an infuriating little smirk.

He nods and looks me over, almost proud. "Correct answer."

With that, he turns back away from me and dives across the street in what must be the least graceful front roll I've ever seen. Talk about magnificent exit.

What's that? No, I am not. I am definitely not smiling because Barton was happy that I stood up for myself. No, why would I be happy about that?

I check both ways for cars (safety first, kids) and slink after him, into the trim bushes on the other side of the street. He lies on his stomach like the sniper he is, but I don't want to get down that low, so I just kind of kneel.

Kind of kneel. Look at what SHIELD is doing to me. Pathetic.

The buildings near us include the targeted coffee shop, a gym, a used bookstore, and a dollar store. The dollar store is obviously our best bet for clothing. We'll just have to hope that they stock something other than fleecy pajama pants and old lady shirts; either that or hope that everyone else here buys their clothes there, too.

"Why do you think there are dollar stores everywhere? It's like the first thing people build. 'Hey, look, here's a small town! You know what this needs?' No, not a Target or a Kroger. A dollar store. Every time! You would think that they would maybe mix it up a bit." Barton doesn't look at me as he speaks – he's scanning the surrounding area with surprising attentiveness – so he misses my perfectly executed eye roll. I guess he is right, there are dollar stores practically everywhere. Not that I would ever tell him that he's right about anything. Boosting his massive ego is not something on my agenda, thank you very much.

"Okay, so here's the plan."

"What, you're making the plans now?"

"I always make the plans."

"And where does that normally get you?"

"With a perfect record on ground missions. And flight missions. And close combat missions. Actually, I have a perfect record with all SHIELD missions. Last time I checked, you don't have a record."

I huff, but I nod at him to continue. It's not going to keep me in SHIELD, I guarantee it. I'll have to wing it as soon as his plan falls through.

I hate winging it.

"We're going to sneak into that dollar store. We're going to steal some clothes. We're going to get into that coffee shop and kick that hacker's butt. Mission complete, wham, we both have a perfect mission record." He beams at me, proud of himself. "Ready? Lets -"

"No!" I grab his wrist and drag him back to the ground. "What are you doing? Is that all you have for the plan? And this is supposed to be undercover! 'Kicking the hacker's butt' isn't exactly covert!" What is he thinking? That's a horrible plan! I should have stood my ground. This plan is not going to work.

He thinks for a minute, and I let out a pent-up breath. Finally, an actual plan. Okay, I can do this.

"Revision: we're going to get into that coffee shop and lowkey kick that hacker's butt. Come on!" Barton dives from the bushes and into the dollar store, catching it at an angle so that the customer bell doesn't ring. I sit in the bushes, somewhat frozen. Did he really just do that?

His hand waves at me in a beckoning motion, as if to say: Come on, Nat, they're going to see us soon! Get in here!

I leap out from behind the bushes and slip into the dollar store behind him. The bell doesn't ring and the cashier doesn't look up from her book. Old, tattered. Likely from the used book store next door. The title reads Pride and Prejudice.

Barton and I slip through the aisles, grabbing random clothes from the racks. Barton leaves a trail of random clothing items along the floor behind him, apparently incapable of carrying anything that doesn't involve caffeine, arrows, or me. I pick up the things he drops and put them in my own pile. Oh my god, I'm acting like such a housewife.

I don't stop picking up the things that he drops. I don't want a trail leading directly to us.

I definitely do not enjoy the housewife feeling.

No, really. I hate it.

We slip into the bathroom. I turn to step into a stall, but ah, crap – it's a single room, made for one person at a time. It's way too cramped and we both have to change and we can't risk going back out into the store.

Oh, who cares. After the Red Room – and all of those, ah, clients (who were all actually victims, thank you very much) – I don't really feel very nervous about this. Me before the Red Room? The little girl who danced in ballet class for fun?

She's dead. She doesn't matter anymore.

I slip my shirt off over my head and sift through the heap of clothes I brought in, finding a t-shirt that won't look incredibly awkward over my sports bra. I'm pulling it on when I hear an oh, shit from Barton and suddenly we are a mess on the floor.

"Nat, are you okay? I really didn't mean to do that. Don't tell Fury that happened." Nervousness colors his voice, and I smile a little. Poor little awkward Barton.

Unfortunately, somewhere in the middle of the fall I got all twisted up in my halfway-on t-shirt, and currently, I'm trapped. I twist my arms about and try to bend my back in a way that will let me out, but I don't want to tear it so I can't pull too hard. This stupid thing is worse than a straitjacket. I would know; I can get out of a straitjacket in one point eight two seconds, exactly. Even if I didn't have perfect memory, I don't think I could forget that; one of my teachers, Regret, wanted one point eight seconds. I can still feel the hot pokers burning into my skin.

I'm still stuck in the shirt. Barton is giggling now, and I want to smack him, but my arms are all knotted together. I writhe around on the floor for a little while before realizing I probably look like a complete idiot. I sigh. This is not how I expected this to go. I wanted quick-in, quick-out. Not get-stuck-in-a-t-shirt-and-laughed-at.

"Want a little help with that?" I resent the restrained laughter I can hear in Barton's voice. I can practically see his face turning red from trying not to laugh.

"I've got it," I say, but honestly I don't know if I do. I tug harder at my arms. Maybe this shirt is like chinese handcuffs, where you can only escape if you relax. I slump, letting my arms droop. Somehow, the stupid shirt only seems to get tighter.

"Here, here, I've got you." Barton's voice echoes around me, and his arms come up to my sides. I huff in defeat. There's no way I'm getting out of this shirt if he doesn't help me, so I might as well get it over with.

The t-shirt is caught just over my shoulders, but Barton runs his hands all the way up my bare sides before gently tugging the stupid thing up my arms. He unwraps me like it's obvious how I should escape, even though I just spent almost two minutes trying to do it and failed. How ridiculous. It must look obvious from his standpoint.

He pushes the collar of the shirt back from my face, and I can see again. His nose is closer to mine than I expected, and I suck in a quick breath. He looks me straight in the eyes, like he's trying to tell me something in a language that only we speak. I almost think that he's going to do something incredibly stupid and compromising and totally not something I'm hoping a little bit for before he pulls back and scrunches his nose with laughter. "I cannot believe that I just watched the legendary Black Widow get stuck in a dollar store t-shirt! What a time to be alive." He's practically cackling at me, his face turning pink like I knew it would.

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, tossing the shirt into the corner and picking up another one. This one slides on without a hitch, and I find myself wishing that I had never tried on the first one.

Okay, that's a lie. My head is pounding with images of Barton. Was he going to do anything? I shove the tiny hopeful voice into the back of my mind and feel my emotional barricades start to rise. I cannot compromise us. Neither can he.

I stop thinking about it.

I find a pair of khaki shorts that fit okay, even though they are quite possibly the ugliest things I've ever laid eyes on. They're better than everything else in the tiny bathroom. I shove all the rejects into a corner, deciding that it's best to leave them. I rip the tags off of the new clothes.

Barton has found a pair of jean shorts and a hawaiian shirt that both look terrible on him, but he seems pleased. He has me rip off the tags so that he doesn't make holes in the fabric: 'I wouldn't want to ruin such masterpieces. What, don't look at me like that! These are dollar store designer!'

We slip out into the store and I spot a cheap backpack on the top of a shelf. I jump for it, miss. Jump for it, miss. I don't want to do the backflip-and-kick that I would normally do, so not to attract attention. Barton is stopped halfway to the cash register, distracted by a bin of hula hoops. I can see in his eyes that he is contemplating whether or not I will let him get one.

With a sigh that is probably a little on the overdramatic side, I walk-jog over to him and tug at his sleeve (which is horribly embarrassing and will not happen again). He turns to me, and spotting the cashier looking at us out of the corner of her eye, wraps an arm around my shoulder. I stiffen, trying not to attack him. "Yeah, babe, what is it?"

"I can't reach the backpack in the next aisle over," I seethe at him, but I smile so that the cashier doesn't think anything is amiss. His smile back lets me know that he is fully aware of how much I hate this.

"Of course, sweetheart. Where is it?" I jab my finger in its direction, trying my hardest not to smack him where the cashier can see. I cannot believe that he is doing this. On an undercover mission! I don't remember hearing 'act like a gross american tourist couple' in the plan. I guess that explains why his plan was so vague; room for improv that I definitely do not agree with.

He herds me over to the aisle where the backpack is and stretches up to tug it down. I pretend that I don't notice the sliver of abs I can see between his hawaiian shirt and his shorts. I like to consider myself a pretty good pretender, along with, you know, the rest of the spy world. I'm pretty sure that he can't tell that I was paying attention.

With the backpack down, he drops his bundle of SHIELD uniform into it, making a point of taking mine and dropping it in too. A bin of colorful foam flip-flops stands at the end of the row, and I slip on some red ones while he opts for purple. Our field shoes go into the backpack. We wander a little bit more, and Barton drops some instant coffee into the bag. I grab some Dunkin' Donuts coffee grain, because there is no way that instant coffee is anywhere near healthy. I'm pretty sure that if I drank any of it, I would die.

We do a final lap, trying to make our way over to the side door without being conspicuous. With a final glance over my shoulder, I slip out of the dollar store, Barton close on my heels.

Speaking of heels, he's lucky I'm not wearing them today. Otherwise, he would get a stiletto to the family jewels for that performance he decided to put on in there.

"What the hell was that," I growl to him out of the corner of my mouth as we make our way over to the coffee shop.

"Oh, you mean those abs you saw when I tugged the backpack down? Those are three hours of hard workouts a day, babe. You like?"

I grit my teeth and try not to let the blood rush to my face. I will not blush. I will not blush.

I feel my face turn to the color of a tomato.

"Shut up," I hiss, and we walk together into the coffee shop.