The coffee shop is almost empty, with only five or six people occupying seats. One woman sits alone, her hair neatly piled atop her head, slowly sipping from the straw to a latte. Blind date. The other person hasn't shown up yet. From the look on her face, I don't think that they will. Regardless, there's no way she's our hacker. She doesn't even have a screen in front of her. Just staring gloomily out into space and tapping her painted fingernails along the aged wooden table.

            The next table over occupies a group of three – two guys and one girl. One of the men has a slim laptop out on the table and a croissant next to him, and is clicking away, completely focused on the screen. The other two talk casually, and I can see that their fingers are a little too close on the table to be "just friends." The girl has a smoothie and the guy has something with what must be a pound of whipped cream.

            At a single table by the back window, a younger girl, maybe fourteen, types on her phone. A muffin and mocha sit untouched on the table in front of her, and no steam rises from either. She's been here for a while. She smiles at something on the screen, pausing for a moment to read before typing again.

            A tall bar stool stands behind a high, circular table. An older man with round glasses sits there with a book and no food whatsoever. Regardless, the barista does nothing to try to get him to leave. Maybe they know each other. Her grandfather? I take a step to the left so that I can see both of their faces at the same time. Immediately, my theory is proved right – their faces are occupied by the same warm brown eyes and sharp noses. Maybe he just wanted to come see her, but she was at work. I don't think he's the hacker – the book is telling, obviously, but so is the fact that his relative is here.

            Barton makes his way to a table in the middle, square with two mismatched chairs. I follow, snapping myself out of my thoughts. I hope I didn't look like I was staring.

            I slide into one of the chairs, staring around at the people. I wonder which it is? Maybe there isn't even a real hacker and SHIELD just wanted to mess me up big-time, like with the clothes. Suddenly, Barton waves his hand in front of my face from across the table, laughing. I shake my head at him, trying to clear my mind. Did he say something? I'm so out of it, I wasn't even paying attention. "Hey, welcome back to earth." He chuckles again, and I roll my eyes at him. "I asked if you wanted to get the food or if you wanted me to?"

            Get food? I'm not hungry, why would we – oh, right, we have to buy things to look inconspicuous. I wave my hand at him, motioning him up to the front, and he laughs at me again. "Lazy." I take offense, but I don't react, both because I'm trying to keep my cool and because I'm not really paying attention to anything happening.

            He walks up to the front and begins to order, but I'm losing focus, scanning the room again. I don't know why I'm so out of it – normally I'm so on top of things. Am I nervous? No, I can't be. I scrap that idea as quickly as I made it. 

            Barton returns with just a regular coffee and a cup that says decaf in messy Sharpie. I reach out my hand to take the unmarked cup, but he yanks it out of reach and hands me the decaf. No. He did not get me decaf.

            I turn to look up at him, and he flashes me a cheeky smile, knowing that he's getting on my nerves. I fight to keep myself from beating him up.

            "Barton," I hiss out through clenched teeth. "This is decaf."

            "Isn't that what you like?" His smile widens, and I can see that he's fighting not to laugh. "I could swear that you said something about that one of the days back at the base. Didn't you?"

            Decaf is the most horrifying, purposeless coffee that there is. Why would anyone want coffee without caffeine? I give him my worst death glare, but he only smiles even wider. "I've had caffeinated every day that we've been at the base and you know it," I growl, trying to control my urge to break his fingers off one by one. He's your partner. He's your partner. He's your partner.

            Barton let out a giggle, losing control. His face gets pinker and pinker with mirth, and I want to smack him. He's just a mess. Getting me decaf coffee? Just awful. They call me the monster!

            I watch as Barton gets ahold of himself, slowly returning to regular color. "Sorry, but it was hilarious." I can tell that every word is a fight to contain himself, and I sigh, looking around. Crap! We were supposed to be looking for the hacker! If there is a hacker, that is. I quickly scan the room again. The girl with the blind date is gone, and I smack myself inwardly. How could I not notice her leaving? Luckily, the others are still here, and no one else has arrived for me to keep track of.

            The awkward third wheel at the group of three is still tapping away, but I can see that they are all getting ready to leave. I turn to Barton to point them out, but he is already looking. His eyes aren't narrowed on the third wheel, though; they're narrowed on the girl. What on earth is he doing looking at her? Checking her out?

            I shake away the emotion that comes along with that thought, trying not to think about what it could mean. Instead, I study the girl closer. Barton, albeit annoying, isn't actually as stupid as I like to think. Unless he's trying to sabotage me too, along with SHIELD, he's found something worth staring at on her person. And not that kind of thing.

            Her watch. I finally catch her movements, tapping away at a watch. It looks almost like she's just rubbing it, but under close inspection it's clear that she's actually typing something out. What kind of technology is in that watch? Could she hack from something so small?

            I swivel to scan the room again. The young girl is walking towards the door. From this angle, I can see her phone – nothing fancy on the screen, just a text message. I see more and more bubbles above the most recent one, and I can tell they're all from today from the lack of times separating them. It's not her.

            Watch girl. How are we going to get the watch from her? We aren't allowed to eliminate her. What on earth are we supposed to do now?

            Barton stands and walks over to their table. I feel myself beginning to panic. What is he doing? What if something awful happens?

            Oh, screw this. I know what I'm going to do.

            I march over, carrying Barton's empty coffee cup and my full decaf. I can see Barton talking her up, and I feel the same emotion as before – jealousy. Not because he's mine romantically, but because he's the only friend I've ever had. I don't want to lose him. That's what all of this panic really is from. I push that thought away to think about later.

            The woman is flirting back, and I bite my lip, thinking out the consequences. Oh, what the hell, I might as well.

            I put on my best possessive girlfriend tone on and lean in, closer to the woman, wedging myself between her and Barton. "Hey, babe, who's this?"

            Barton's eyebrows look like they might detach from his head. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a stream of unintelligible gibberish. I try to stop the smile that's rising onto my face.

            "Your boyfriend is a cheater," the woman mumbles awkwardly, leaning away from Barton. I roll my eyes at her, trying to keep up the possessive girlfriend act. I reach out and wrap my free hand around Barton's arm, pulling him close. I feel him tense up beside me.

            "No, my Clinty wouldn't do anything of the sort! I think it was just you being desperate. I hope I don't see you anywhere again." I reach out with my steaming hot cup of Decaf Blasphemy and slowly tip it towards the woman, sending it spilling all down her body. She screams and stands immediately. I watch closely as her watch fizzes, flashes white, and then goes black again.

            I spin on one heel and stalk off, tugging Barton along behind me by his arm. When we're outside, I finally come to a stop.

            Barton looks down at me, shock decorating his face. "You called me your babe and then you called me 'Clinty.' Is this an alternate universe? Where am I?" I scan his face for a hint of humor, but there isn't any. He's completely serious.

            I shrug, suddenly having to fight back a blush of embarrassment. How many times have I blushed in my life? Certainly more in the past hour than in the entire rest of my life combined. I open my mouth and force out an explanation. How is it that I feel like I have to explain myself? "Well, I had to get rid of her watch somehow, and I didn't want to just be the useless sidekick. Also, that decaf was awful, even by decaf standards. I didn't want it all to go to waste." My cheeks heat up, little by little, no matter how hard I try to stop them.

            Barton gives me another odd look. "How do you know that the decaf was awful? Did you even drink any of it?"

            Oh, shit. "Yes. I was thirsty, okay?" I do my best to sound convincing and to glare at him like I'm hurt. I think I'm doing pretty well, because of the Red Room and such.

            That is, until Barton starts to speak again. "No, you didn't. That wasn't actually decaf. I just had the girl write decaf on the cup to see if you would actually check." I can tell that he's struggling to keep a straight face, and I feel my own cheeks go red. There's no way it wasn't decaf, right? It was totally decaf.

            I think back. Did I even smell it? Did I take even a tiny sip? I just saw that it said decaf and then assumed that decaf was inside. It makes sense, at least, but I'm a spy! The Black Widow! I should have at least noticed! Now that partner-stealing hacker has all of that perfectly good coffee to herself. Not that she can drink it now, I guess, but still!

            Barton's composure crumbles and he begins to laugh, so hard that I'm almost afraid that he'll get the hiccups again. His face goes redder even than mine, and he drops to the ground, rolling on his back in the grass, his ridiculous tourist shirt getting covered in clumps of dirt. My face gets redder as I look away, trying to ignore him. How is it that he manages to get on my nerves without even trying? I'm the Black Widow, isn't it meant to be impossible to get on my nerves and survive?

            And yet, there he is, rolling around like a pig. Or a dog. Yeah, probably more like a dog.

            Oh my god, I did not just think that. This is ridiculous. SHIELD must put brainwashing powder in my coffee. Is that a thing? I'm sure that's a thing. Do I even smell my coffee before drinking it or do I just assume, like with the decaf cup?

            God, this stupid god-forsaken institution of idiots is ruining my life.

            I glance up from the ground, trying to center myself away from my thoughts. As it happens, I look up just in time to see the coffee-covered partner-stealer storm up to me and whip her hand forward to slap me in the face.

            Instinct is all that saves me from a handprint red enough to match my hair. My arm comes up, almost of its own accord, and bats her hand out of the way. My feet step me forward, closer and closer, until she steps back, never letting her fear show on her face. I can sense it there, though, like a wolf smells terror in its prey. I can see it in the set of her shoulders and the way her eyes glass over. I am a wolf, and I am lunging in for the kill. Her back slams against the brick wall of the coffee shop, and now it's all filtering out onto her face, terror and disbelief and regret.

            That regret will not earn her my forgiveness.

            This is what I was born for. This, not cozying up to SHIELD and bottling up my instincts and training with kid gloves on. This. The cry of the lamb before the slaughter.

            "Yeesh, Nat. Chill. She didn't even hit you." Barton's voice sounds behind me, dragging me violently into the present. This is life or death. Not for this awful woman, but for me. SHEILD would kill me for killing someone I was only sent to neutralize.

            It took me a disturbingly long time to realize that neutralize meant something different to SHIELD officials than it did to the ones in the Red Room. I could try to push the blame onto adapting to the completely different world that I had just been introduced to, but I won't, because it was me slipping up. How is it that one day you can be the most confident, efficient, fatal woman on the planet and the next you can be a sniveling bunny rabbit that drools over an idiot's abs and doesn't even smell the coffee before dumping it all over a hacker?

            That's a pretty specific example, in the grand scheme of things, I suppose, but that doesn't soften the edge of its meaning in any way. "Perfect" can slip through your fingers like sand and leave you confused and lost in a snap of your fingers.

            "I guess so," Barton muses beside me, and I feel my neck cracking violently as I turn to look at him. What is he talking about? "But, I mean, how would you snap your fingers if you were busy holding the sand of perfection? Makes no sense, when you think about it."

            My cheeks warm as I stare at him. I was speaking out loud. A completely senseless mind-ramble escaped into the world. I open my mouth to say something, anything to draw attention away from my failures, but am interrupted by a certain coffee-covered flirt. She wasn't even a good flirt! At least, not body-language wise, from what I could see. Having seen her all over Barton, I know that she couldn't have been, if not for her attitude then for the fact that good flirters (along with anyone with eyes) wouldn't flirt with Barton if their life depended on it. I mean, sure, he has nice gray eyes that maybe could look nice in a different face, and his jawline isn't awful, and don't get me started on those abs of his –

            "Am I just going to chill out here, or?" The woman (more like a rat, than anything, actually) shuffles uncomfortably, still pinned to the wall. My hands twitch with the urge to snap her neck, but I suppress it and instead glance over my shoulder. Barton is giving me puppy eyes and motioning dramatically with his hands. As I watch, he gets sidetracked by himself and begins to start what looks like a rain dance, but he kept his focus long enough for me to get the gist. Don't kill her. Well, fine. I'm not exactly one for animal abuse anyways.

            I turn to her, dragging in a breath in frustration. My breath hisses through my teeth. Beneath me, the rat quivers, shrinking away. I give her my best death glare, lean in close, and growl at her through clenched teeth. "Don't mess with SHIELD intel again. Don't mess with my partner again. And certainly do not mess with me again. If I were you, I wouldn't contact whoever gave you that watch again anytime soon. Just keep to yourself or so help me I will rip your spine from your neck with my teeth. Do you understand me?"

            In her eyes I see a fight happening – to submit or to fight? It is one that I don't face, but that I have seen in victim after victim. Which is more important, their safety or what they've worked so hard for?

            They always choose the first. This rat is no different. She's nothing but an everyday nuisance. Not special, not even attractive. What was it that made Barton decide that flirting was the best course of action? I don't know exactly how much Barton actually thinks through his actions and how much he acts on instinct. He could have just been working on the fly. I don't know if that makes it better or worse.

            I do know that the figure of speech "on the fly" is just flat out awful.

            The rat shrinks even farther away from me, if that's possible. "Um, uh, y-yes. Pl – uh, please?"

            I let my lips pull away from my lips in a feral smile. "You better keep your nose out of business that isn't yours." I step back, at a speed that isn't so slow that I look like a snail, but not so fast that I let her feel like she has the control. I do. And that's where I belong.

            If I can't be killing, I might as well be in control.

            The rat disappears, back into the coffee shop, and I spin to face Barton. My confidence makes a comeback, flooding my veins with pride and adrenaline. I have to consciously keep my heartbeat steady, but that doesn't dull the moment. I'm back in the game. I haven't lost it all yet. SHIELD thinks they can give us dumb, impossible missions. Well, SHIELD. Take a look at us now.

            God, I'm thinking about Barton and me as if we're a team. We aren't. We're just stuck together until I can get myself into a different position.

            At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

            "Squad." Barton stops his interpretive rain dance – which, honestly, wasn't all that bad – and holds his fist up towards me. His form is awful. I'm going to have to carry him and his mess from mission to mission, aren't I? I stare down at his fist, tensing myself to roll out of the way if he does try to punch me. Why would he do that? What meaning does "squad" have in this context? I raise my eyes to his. He's expectant, proud, and I can't help the feeling that I'm missing something important. What on earth does he want me to do?

            "Uh, Barton? Your form is awful." I decide to point out something indisputable, if only to avoid saying something wrong and completely out of context. I guess that wasn't the right thing to say anyways, though, since Barton erupts into giggles. How much laughter can one person hold? He always seems to be doing it. What could possibly be so funny all the time?

            "I was waiting for a fist bump. You know, you punch my fist and I punch yours? But not, like, to break each other's hands. Just as a sign of collective squad success." Barton is out of breath, and even after he's recovered from his fit of laughter he struggles to get all of the words out cohesively. I frown and try to properly process what he's said. We must be the squad, even though as far as I understand squadrons are meant to include more people.

            I open my mouth and let out the first line that comes to mind. "Well, I guess half-drowning that rat in fake decaf was just as successful as that rain dance." The moment the words are through my lips I wish I hadn't let them out, but Barton's smile makes me think I must have done something right. He's beaming at me, proud of both me and him.

            "Yeah, that rain dance was pretty great. That hacker I might feel bad for if it wasn't so funny – but, I mean, it was, so she gets the boot. She could never survive the legendary Clint and Nat squad, even if she had a whole army, don't you think?" He says it all so thoughtfully, as if he's actually considering it, and I can't stop the grin that splits my face. What a loser.

            "I guess so." Barton nods in approval and raises his fist in the same motion as before. I'm meant to punch it, but not hard enough to break his hand? Those instructions leave far too much room for error, but I pull back and punch his fist, our knuckles knocking together. I pull my hand back and inspect it. My skin didn't quite split. Is that good or bad?

            Barton is wincing slightly, but he's smiling, too, so I guess I didn't fail completely. "We'll work on that part," he hisses out, and he turns towards the woods behind the coffee shop. When I don't follow, he turns to stare at me. "Why aren't you following? We need to get back to the jet."

            I frown at him. "Barton, the jet is that way." I point back behind us, to the trees near the dollar store. I watch as his cheeks turn to the lightest shade of pink.

            "Uh, yeah! Duh! I knew that! I was just testing you, rookie." He laughs awkwardly as he swings an arm around my shoulder, and even though I know that he's just trying to recover from his self-humiliation, I swat at his chest. He recoils and tugs his arm away from my shoulders, I roll them backwards and forwards, trying to forget the feel of his arm around them.

            "You're more of a rookie than I am, you dipstick." His lips turn up in the tiniest smile, and he whips his hand up to his forehead in a salute, his back perfectly straight.

            "Ma'am, yes ma'am!"

            I roll my eyes at him and try my best to stop the laugh that's brewing from escaping my lungs. A tiny snort sounds, and I see Barton's smile widen, but I ignore it and start walking. He follows, just next to me, and for a moment I can forget that I'm on the run from the Reds and that SHIELD wants to kill me. It's just Barton and me, wandering through the woods. That's all. I like the detachment, but more than anything, it scares me. There is a world out there that I need to draw from to make decisions.

            Why do I feel like Barton is a world in and of himself?

            We retrace our footsteps, creeping back to the clearing where we left the jet. Barton pulls out his key, presses the button to unlock it. I don't know what's missing until Barton speaks. "Where's my beep beep?"

            I frown and up a couple of gears into a brisk jog. Barton keeps my pace, but shockingly, he runs silently. He's normally so loud. I guess the forest floor is cushioning his footsteps?

            There's no time to worry about that. The jet could have easily fallen into unknown hands, and I don't want my first mission to flip the switch back to completely, devastatingly awful. Barton and I slip through the outer ring of trees, breaking into the field. Barton's shoulders are tense and his jaw is clenched tight. I fight the urge to touch his arm comfortingly. I push it deep into the back of my mind. It seems like I'll have a lot to worry about later – but it seems that later won't come for a while longer. Instead of the black jet in the center of the clearing, a single, aqua blue bicycle with a wicker basket leans on the kickstand. Barton sprints towards it, muttering under his breath, and I scan the clearing as I jog to catch up. No sign of anyone other than us. How on earth could an entire jet just disappear? And where did the bicycle come from?

            "Coulson," Barton growls, and I step towards him. He's grabbed a pristine envelope from the basket, one that matches the bike exactly. On the back, dearest Clintasha is printed in extravagant calligraphy. Clintasha? Is that – is that Clint and me?

            Barton tears the envelope open and pulls out a letter written on matching stationary. I lean over his shoulder to read what it says.

            Dearest Clintasha (I do hope you don't oppose me calling you that, since I am not going to stop):

            I have brought you a bicycle. Fury wants to strand you two, but I put my foot down since we kind of need Barton and also this will be hilarious. I've left you Beatrice (the bicycle). Please don't ruin her – she's vintage. I just got the paint redone.

            Anyways, you two will have to make it to the jet, which is... well, I would tell you if I knew. Fury hid it somewhere. I made him promise that it's on Haiti still, so at least you don't have to cross the ocean, yeah?

            Seriously, BE CAREFUL WITH BEATRICE. If she comes back with even a tiny dent so help me I will behead both of you. And I will enjoy it.

            The best of luck to you both,

                        Phil Coulson.

            P.S. BE CAREFUL WITH BEATRICE. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH.

            Barton and I finish at the same moment, and we turn to meet each other's eyes. I can see the rage burning in his, and while I hope it's not the case, I'm sure that he can see the rage in mine. He growls, rips the letter and envelope in half, and faceplants into the grass. After a moment of stillness, I mimic his growl, grab the ruined paper from the ground to shred it even more, and faceplant beside him.

            The mouthful of dirt is almost worth seeing Barton's grin.

            Almost.

(A/N)

Hey! It's been a while. Sorry about that. I swear that I've had around 2,000 words done since two or three weeks ago! I swear it!

Opinions on Beatrice? The rat? Other recent developments? Seriously, I wanna know. TELL ME. PLEASE I WANT TO KNOW YOUR OPINIONS

Also might be important to take note of three important facts - one, Fury says that the jet is still on Haiti; two, Fury is a lying buttface; and three, Beatrice is a one-person bike.

Stay tuned for more trash! Love y'all.